Title: Rook Castling Kingside
Author: WhiteCotton
Team: Snitch
Genre(s): Alive and Kicking
Prompt(s): Playing the Game and Last Hope
Rating: NC-17
Warning/Kinks: underage kissing, overage sexing
Word Count: 35,500
Summary: Severus knows he is going to die in the war and is more than happy to oblige. Too long he has been the rook to Dumbledore’s queen, protector of Harry Potter – the king. Now he yearns only for peace. As the war with the Dark Lord intensifies, he makes his plans and indulges in recollection.
A/N: A huge thank you to atypicalsnowman for not sighing or yelling each time I said, “Guess what, I’ve deleted my fic and started again!” Instead she just listened and encouraged me, and also pushed Harry into the scene when it looked as though Lucius was making himself at home. Thanks also to my betas, rakina and jadzialove for making this resemble more a story and less like a legal paper.
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs, in all rights, to JK Rowling.
‘Castling is an important goal in...[a] game of chess, because it serves two valuable purposes: it moves the king into a safer position away from the centre of the board, and it moves the rook to a more active [and defensive] position in the centre...’
FIDE Laws of Chess, E.I.10A, 3: 3.8
Severus remembered the clouds more than anything else; more than the sheen of sweat on Harry’s face, more than the scent of musk lingering between them. More than anything, it was the clouds.
From them was born hope.
“Do you have it?”
Harry turned his head to the side to look at Severus. “The locket? No, Hermione has it. Why?”
“Purely curiosity,” Severus said, and added silently, ‘Because I don’t want it touching you.’ But this he couldn’t say. Their roles had been written for them a year or more ago: Harry’s was to collect and destroy the Horcruxes, Severus’ was to ensure the Dark Lord’s attention was directed elsewhere.
Not that Severus had been successful. The Dark Lord was becoming obsessively focussed on where Harry could be, what he was doing. No matter from which direction he attacked, Severus had been unable to hold the Dark Lord’s attention on anything else for long. He had tried engaging him in school business, asking for hands-on direction on various issues, such as revoking Muggle-centric subjects and indoctrinating with wizarding lore and the ancient ways. To some extent, each had worked... for a time. But whatever the distraction, the Dark Lord's attention soon wandered back to the subject of Harry Potter.
It seemed that Severus would need to resort to drastic measures, something that would take the Dark Lord away for a while. He had a few ideas, but according to Albus, they were closely related to what Harry was doing. When he had pushed for more information on what, exactly, that was, Albus had feigned not to hear. That made Severus suspicious, because if it were not about the Horcruxes, then...
It mattered not! He would hold his ideas in reserve for when it became essential to give Harry time and opportunity.
“You will be cautious and watch for any ill-effects, won’t you?” Severus said instead.
“Yeah,” Harry said, paying more attention to looking up at the sky than to Severus.
Severus rolled on his side and onto an elbow, and then winced when pain shot up his arm. He lifted up again and removed the offending stone, accompanied by several choice words. With his position as comfortable as it was likely to get, he checked on Harry.
Stretched out flat, legs crossed at the ankles, his hands linked behind and cupping his head, Harry looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world. To anyone who didn’t know better, he gave the impression of being just like any other young man enjoying the peace and quiet of a late-autumn day. Severus smiled at the anomaly. Surely Harry ought to be tense, morose, driven. Instead, he was the picture of indolence.
But as one who for many years had danced attendance on Albus Dumbledore, Severus knew very well how appearances could be deceiving.
“What are you looking at?” Severus asked.
Harry smiled. “Do you ever make pictures out of the clouds?”
Severus rolled his eyes. One thought about Albus and his spirit had been conjured.
“Not since I was five, I expect. If then.”
He reached over and brushed away a strand of hair caught in Harry’s eyelashes – did it just because he could.
They had met again at the abandoned long house Severus had found. It was an ideal location for them, nestled deep in woods to one side with overgrown hedgerows and a copse on the other. There was also the advantage that, being in Cumbria it was just west of the midpoint between London and Hogwarts, and could be reached by Apparation in clear, easy stages. Even if you were as inexperienced as Harry.
Looking over the top of the tall grass and weeds, Severus could just see the rear of the house. In the stark November sun its dirty walls appeared almost their original white. If he squinted, the top hatch of the dilapidated stable door seemed simply to be swinging open, rather than hanging off one hinge. It was perfect. Oh, not to a casual observer, perhaps, but Harry and he were anything but casual when it came to their long house. Foxield Yeat had come to mean so much to them, and to Severus in particular. He couldn’t have chosen a place that was such a polar opposite to Spinner’s End and yet remain in Britain.
And he loved it not least because of that.
No hint of a Muggle chemical smell, exhaust fumes or bright neon signs. There were no neighbours to entertain him with arguments through paper-thin walls or the screams of children playing on the rubble of past generations. Instead, if he listened, he could hear only the sounds of nature: birdsong and the wind playing through the sieve of the leafless trees.
Yes, the long house was paradise compared to how Severus had lived as a child. More a paradise when it accorded him time away from his role as headmaster in the Dark Lord’s game of Rule the World.
“Why are we here, Harry?”
“Well, apart from the fact that I just wanted to see you... no reason,” Harry said with an engaging smile turned Severus’ way.
“Hm. I actually meant why are we lying outside in the cold when I’ve spent all morning cleaning up the bedroom and parlour.”
Harry ignored him. “Didn’t you want to see me, Severus?” he said, attempting to sound coy but smiling too much to pull it off.
Instead of answering, Severus leant over and pressed his lips to Harry’s. He would have pulled away then, but hands fisted in his shirt and, rather than ruin one of the best items of clothing he owned, he stayed.
“Really, Severus, don’t you ever look at the clouds and let your mind drift with them, or make up pictures sometimes?” He grasped Severus' hand and took it with him when he rolled flat onto his back again. “Here, look at...” he paused, scanning the sky, “that.” Harry worked Severus’ fingers so they were pointing at one of the clouds, with Harry’s cheek resting against Severus’ shoulder and one eye closed. “Can you see... erm... a sceptre! A sceptre and a... a crown.”
Hesitating only long enough to calculate the insult to his pride should he play this silly game, Severus moved to lie alongside Harry, tilted his head, and looked along the length of his arm.
“Where?”
“Just to the right and above Spes. Can you see it?”
Severus focussed on the figure of Spes, the goddess of hope, who was etched into his signet ring, and then moved his eyes as Harry directed. The cloud in question was a rounded, fluffy thing, bearing not even the vaguest resemblance to a long, thin, jewelled rod.
“I see something that looks remarkably like a cloud. In fact, it’s the perfect image of one.”
“Play properly, Severus.” Chuckling, Harry waggled Severus’ forefinger. “You have to look at the contours within them. Now, see... Oh, it’s moved, changed.”
“So it has. Now it looks like a cloud.”
Harry laughed aloud then, a great rumbling laugh with no self-consciousness about it. Severus wished he could laugh like that; it would be a freeing thing to do.
“Okay, let’s try another one.” He searched the sky for a short while, hummed a bit, and then tightened his grip on Severus’ arm. “Right, now look at this one. See it? It looks like a happy face, one of those yellow badge things.”
To say Harry was barking mad would probably spoil the mood, so Severus tried really hard to join him in the asylum instead. First closing one eye to peer at it, and then squinting with both, he tried to picture the happy face. Then suddenly he saw it. Or rather, he saw what Harry meant. But it wasn’t a face at all.
“It’s dice; the five dots on a die,” he said. However, if he thought Harry would be pleased with this assessment, he was proved wrong.
Turning to peer at him, Harry looked unhappy about something, and it made Severus wish he’d said he’d seen the face. Neither of them said anything though, and soon Harry was searching for another shape in the sky.
“What about this one? I see one of those old-fashioned music stands that Flitwick uses.” Again he took Severus’ forefinger and moved it slowly, using it to draw the image of the music stand. “There’s the upright and this... and this... is the ornate bit where the sheets rest.”
Again Severus couldn’t see what Harry saw, but he did see something. More reluctant than before, he said, “I see it as a castle tower. Your ornate bit is the crenellated top. If you look... there... you can even see a single window.”
Harry didn’t say anything to that, just moved Severus’ finger slightly to the right and said, “This one. I see a – a window, a window with a fabulous view. See?”
Severus looked at the cloud for a moment and then closed his eyes. He didn’t want to humour Harry anymore. Judging by Harry’s tone, he was upset, but Severus didn’t understand why. Also, his arm was starting to hurt from having to keep it extended. Perhaps he should just acquiesce and say he could see the damned window and the wonderful fucking view, but he didn’t see it. Once more he saw something different.
“I see a door; a stable door just as the one behind us ought to look like... Or, I also see it as a big, scrollwork gate, arched at the top.” As soon as he had finished, he pulled his fingers out of Harry’s hand and crossed his arms over his chest. For some reason, possibly because of the silence from his right, he knew he'd disappointed Harry somehow.
They were quiet for a minute or two and then Harry raised himself up and rested on an elbow, looking down at Severus.
“You meant it when you said you’re planning to die, didn’t you?”
With a sigh, Severus nodded. He’d known when explaining it earlier that Harry hadn’t quite believed him, had in fact taken it too well.
“Is there any possible scenario that would change your mind?”
This time Severus shook his head and added a very firm, “No.”
“Oh... I thought... What if Vol-he doesn’t try to kill you? What will you do then, arrange your suicide?”
With his body feeling like lead the more Harry talked, Severus felt as though he was sinking into a bog. A clenching, suffocating bog.
“Harry, the Dark Lord will kill me – I’ll make certain of it. Even if I have to stick my tongue out at him and call him names. Trust me, that bit is assured.”
Harry flopped back down again and flung an arm over his eyes.
For the last year and a half of being relatively close to one another, first as friends and then – very recently – as lovers, Severus had listened as Harry told him of how alone he felt, how he felt disconnected from the rest of the world, and how he feared a future as a spectacle and choice celebrity. While much of what he said could have a buff label tied to it, bearing the words ‘Teenage Angst’, most was too disconcertingly similar to how Severus felt to be dismissed.
Severus had thought, as they'd become closer, that dying with Severus would bring Harry peace, a peace Severus hankered after more and more each day. However, he'd not meant to pressure him.
“Harry, when I suggested you could choose to die too, I did not mean you should decide now. We have time for that. I merely thought it would solve both our problems.”
Harry didn’t reply, or if he did, it was so muffled by his coat sleeve that Severus didn’t hear it. Anyway, Severus had had quite enough of the cold ground, his cold nose, and the chill between him and Harry. With a few huffs and puffs, he stood up.
“Come on, I brought provisions. We can have some cake and tea and still leave enough to last the three of you a week or so.” He held out his hand, not moving an inch until Harry finally removed his arm from his face. “Come, Harry,” he said softly when he saw the pain in Harry’s expression, his eyes red at the rims. “Let us go inside.”
Severus helped Harry up and then walked closely by his side across the overgrown garden and towards the mangled back door.
“There would have been lavender here once,” he said, aiming for a tone that suggested they had not just talked about one of them dying... while the other lived.
“I hate gardening. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always made me do the gardening,” Harry replied, but without any sign of petulance so Severus knew the subject was over for now.
“I know, Harry. I know.” He hooked his fingers and brushed them up Harry’s arm, and then thrust his hand back into his pocket.
They walked closely together then, only separating enough for them to wriggle through the door and into the large kitchen.
This room Severus had hardly touched, viewing it as unnecessary when they had so few chances to remain long. All he had done was clean the old, mismatched and scarred counter-tops and the floor. Piled up on one of the counters was a large, cloth bag full of things he’d asked Fidey, the house-elf he had many years ago taken as his own, to assemble from the Hogwarts’ stores.
While Harry investigated the now-clean adjoining parlour, Severus busied himself with removing slices of Dundee cake and a pottery bottle of tea.
“Shit!”
“What is it?” Harry said, coming up behind and wrapping his arms around Severus’ waist.
“I remembered parchment, flannels, penknife and even cotton buds, but forgot to bring candles!” Severus had been determined to make Harry’s life in the tent easier, more comfortable, but had forgotten one of the fundamental items on his list. He swore again at his ineptitude.
“We have enough to be going on with. Next time,” Harry said, worming his hands into the front of Severus’ robes – still-cold hands, making Severus’ stomach draw in to escape them. “Mm, you’re warm.”
“Well, I won’t be much longer if you keep – ah!” Severus curled forwards, hands braced on the counter as Harry wheedled past the waistband of his trousers. “Fuck! Don’t – it’s crawling inside itself just at the thought.”
“Well, let me entice him back out.”
Then, like all Gryffindors with shiny objects and quests, he undid the trouser buttons and pulled out Severus’ very reluctant prick. Severus didn’t need to open his eyes to know he made a poor showing, as he could still feel the November chill deep in his balls.
“Aw, how sweet.”
Severus growled and tried to take his prick out of Harry’s hands.
Harry slapped his hand away. “No, no. I made the little bugger cold, so it’s my responsibility to warm him up again. I insist.”
Yes, just as Severus had thought: Gryffindors and quests.
Still, the friction from Harry’s fingers working his foreskin felt good, and very soon he forgot about the cold. His prick hardened, admittedly more slowly than usual, but before long it filled Harry’s hand.
“That’s it,” Harry crooned, as though to a small child.
Again Severus growled, although it matured into a moan at the end when Harry gave the shaft a twist-pull. He could feel Harry hard and eager behind him, his prick pressing deep into the cleft of Severus' backside.
As was their habit, neither talked when things got down and dirty between them. All effort was absorbed in extracting and deriving pleasure from the skin-on-skin play of their hands and mouths. This was one of the things Severus liked so much about Harry; that and the way he would pump his shaft with a thumb pressed into his slit on every other up stroke.
Severus tucked his head between his elbows, still curled over and using the counter for support. Behind him, he heard Harry drop his zip and then felt the more distinct outline of a very hard prick rutting against his arse.
There was no music in the soft grunts and jagged breaths, no poetry in their movements or beauty in their jerking hips. What there was, was a simplicity that made such baroque descriptions embarrassingly banal. This was heated release between two men who cared, perhaps even loved one another; two men who most certainly trusted each other enough to be able to expose themselves and their needs, and not find them wanting.
With quickening hips, Severus spurted come into Harry’s hand and onto the counter-top. A minute or two later, Harry reared forcefully against Severus, halting on an up-thrust, and came all over Severus’ back.
“Severus,” Harry whispered when they’d had chance to catch their breath. “I want to die too. I want to die with you.”
Hope.
A sigh. And then Severus turned to capture Harry’s face in his hands. In one breath, he wanted to tie Harry, bind him to his word, but another part of him spoke in the voice of his more honourable, less selfish self. “There is time to think about it some more. Please, think hard. Tell me when it matters.”
Harry looked as though he would argue, but then he nodded and turned away.
A knock on his office door pulled Severus from that last memory and he released it with great reluctance. It had been a wonderful interlude amid otherwise painful recollections, and he regretted leaving before he had fully savoured it.
He took a deep breath, forced his muscles to relax and summoned the most aloof expression from his repertoire. Satisfied he would betray no emotion, no sense of the despair he was feeling, he flicked his wand and allowed Minerva to enter.
Long gone were the days when he and she would cast outrageous aspersions on each other for their, and the staff’s, entertainment. They no longer sat and relieved their spleens over a glass of firewhisky or laid down a Galleon on whether Albus would wear purple or pink.
His constructed perfidy had erased all her tolerance, her sympathy for the pathetic little boy he had been, and obliterated their easy if confrontational friendship. The confrontation was still present, but the other half, the friendship, had died along with the purple-wearing Albus.
“Headmaster,” Minerva said icily.
“Minerva,” he responded. Trying to ignore the curl of her lip – and how his gut clenched in reaction to it – when he again used her first name. He indicated she should take a seat in front of the desk, however, she pointedly ignored the chair and straightened her already long spine.
“I thought you might like to be informed, Headmaster, that another of my students – Mr Macmillan – has been admitted into Madam Pomfrey’s care.”
Since Severus knew very well that Macmillan was neither a Gryffindor nor taking NEWT Transfiguration, Minerva’s use of ‘my’ was a calculated barb. While the insult both saddened and hurt him, Severus was too thankful that she, and those others brave enough, had brought down many house walls under Severus’ reign and the Carrows’ persecution.
This was the worst about his current position. Instinct urged Severus to protect the children, but by the necessity of appearing to be a good little Death Eater, he was prohibited from doing so openly. To confirm his loyalty to the Dark Lord, he could show no leniency, nor openly criticise the Carrows’ predilection for severe forms of punishment. All he could do was curb the Carrows in private, impressing upon them the need for restraint. After all, he had explained on numerous occasions, while the majority of students might be too scared to act, there were enough who weren’t to make Alecto and Amycus nervous of wandering Hogwarts’ darker corridors.
“I gather from your demeanour that Mr Macmillan’s injuries were not the result of an accident or illness,” Severus said, bland in both tone and expression, “but rather of having felt the harsh tongue of Amycus’ whip – figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Leaving aside that the ‘figurative’ is arguable, you gather correctly, Headmaster.” She laid her hands on the back of the chair and leant over it towards him. “You have to intervene. The boy has been subjected to Cruciatus twice this week and Carrow demands he finish his punishment tomorrow by taking a third assault.”
“And if he does, is the boy in danger of expiring or can a recovery be expected?” he asked, and then waited while she regarded him, her expression cutting him deeply but no less deservedly.
“For Circe’s sake, Severus! Sitting here with as cold a personality as any statue in this place, is this really the man I know?” she cried, obviously distressed. Her hands tightened their grip on the back of the chair, her fingers white and pressing sharp indents into the burgundy jacquard. “Is this really you, or is someone forcing you to take on this role?”
The note of pleading went straight to Severus’ heart – he felt so very much alone. However, he could not risk telling Minerva what was happening and who had written his part for him. As though divining Severus’ thoughts, he heard Albus’ painted robes rustle behind him, the apparently still-sleeping occupant very much awake.
No, although he and Albus trusted Minerva above all others, she was too honest, too much a Gryffindor to be able to carry off the deception. It was imperative that no hint of what he was doing should be carried to the ears of the Dark Lord from the mouths of the Carrows or Death Eaters’ children. And so she could not know.
He scoffed at her, his chest clenching painfully. “Much as I like to entertain you, Minerva, do not assign me your petty values.”
“’Petty values’?” she repeated. “What... Are you suggesting that you feel nothing when you see the children in your care abused – by their fellows and by professors?”
He looked her squarely in the eyes, raised an eyebrow mockingly, and said, “The exemplar from my own time here has perhaps shaped my attitude; that time when you were my professor, Minerva.”
“Pardon? I did not do anything!”
His eyes hardened. “Exactly,” he said with precision. “My role model,” he sneered.
For a moment, she looked confused, then momentarily guilty, before anger returned. “Severus, you disgust me!” With which parting shot, she spun around and left the office.
As soon as the door slammed behind her, Severus dropped his head into his hands.
“I promised you I would protect them, Albus.”
“And you have, my boy... You will.”
Severus wished he could be so certain. He was not.
He leant back in his chair and summoned Fidey. As expected, the house-elf appeared instantly.
“I have another task for you.” He then waited for the elf to nod his acceptance, even though it was assured. “It is similar to the previous one, in that you are to keep close to the infirmary and watch a patient there, a Mr Macmillan. As soon as he is discharged, you are to take him immediately to the Room of Requirement and place him into the care of Mr Longbottom.”
The house-elf executed a smart bow, spoke a quiet “Yes, Headmaster” and then left.
Severus sat there for a while, staring at the door, his eyes starting at a point where Minerva’s head would be if she were still here and standing in front of it, dropping to the inch-high gap at the bottom when his thoughts wandered.
He blinked. “Yes, I will at least try to protect them,” he murmured, sure that behind him Albus was trying hard to smile for him.
Severus then allowed his thoughts to ponder the meeting with Minerva, now sans his overriding fear for the Macmillan boy. Minerva was a good indicator of the mood of the staff as a whole and he often used her to gauge how they fared under his regime. He tried to picture how she had looked, how she had stood and held herself, the tone of her voice. However, when he closed his eyes, all he saw this time was the loathing in her eyes when she looked at him.
He missed Minerva, missed her friendship. There had been a time when Severus had entertained the notion that she would mourn him. Now he knew she would not – unless guilt drove her.
All things being unequal, only Harry would mourn the death of Severus Snape, Master of Potions, murderer, lover, Death Eater, hated professor, spy, and erstwhile friend. Harry would stand alone to watch as his name was carved into a headstone. Severus wished he could spare Harry that, but couldn’t conceive any other way of winning. No matter how hard he had tried, every way he looked at it had the same result: Severus had to die.
Severus didn’t mind that, he just hoped he wasn’t being selfish in wishing Harry would die with him.
This was a happy thought; the happiest Severus had had in many weeks.
He pulled a sheet of parchment from his desk drawer, hesitated, and then took a few more.
Writing with quick, sharp scrapes of his quill, he wrote long letters of goodbye first to Minerva, then Lucius, Poppy, and finally to Harry. This last, just in case Harry Potter lived to receive it, was the hardest of them all.
Once he had finished, he laid down his quill, sat back in the much-coveted chair he nevertheless found no comfort in, and indulged once more in memory.
“He hasn’t even given me a hint of what he is planning!” Severus said, pacing a six-foot stripe across Albus’ sitting room floor. “Honestly, I could wring his neck...” He trailed off when they both caught the sound of a knock on the office door.
“If you will excuse me,” said Albus.
Severus gave him a distracted nod and continued to pace up and down, his thoughts entangled on the problem that was Draco Malfoy.
After perhaps a minute or two, he came to an abrupt halt when his ears caught a resonance of his thoughts in the form of Draco’s name. He crept closer to the door and listened. It was Potter, blathering on about that damned necklace and Draco.
“... but Professor McGonagall didn’t listen... really is acting strange... on the train... I know he was showing them his...”
Although he couldn’t hear all that Potter was saying, the gist made it clear Draco had been both careless and obvious to at least one person. If more were to suspect, it would make Severus’ job in protecting the whelp that much harder. This, since Christmas, was already verging on the impossible, what with Draco’s determination to refuse all assistance. Now that Draco avoided Severus when outside the classroom, ensuring they had no opportunity for private talk, Severus was at his wit’s end.
That Potter was suspicious was worrying for other reasons, however, such as who else he had gone to with his suspicions. While usually not the most loquacious when it came to confiding in persons of authority, where Draco was concerned Severus was certain Potter would make an exception. Albus would do well to nip that little idea in the bud, otherwise Severus would be unable to salvage anything of the boy’s reputation. Just the thought of what Minerva would do if she discovered the Dark Mark made Severus twitch.
“Sit down, Harry. I think it is about time we had a long talk,” Albus said then, and there followed the sound of a bag hitting the floor and the creak of a chair. Severus pressed closer still, hidden in the lee of the door.
For some reason, the hairs on the back of Severus’ neck prickled and cold travelled the length of his spine.
He stood there and listened while Albus explained about Lucius’ disgrace, the Dark Lord’s revenge via Lucius’ son, and about Albus’ own fateful mistake.
There followed an agonizing silence as the boy digested the news.
“Is...” he coughed to clear his throat. “Is there nothing they can do, sir?”
“No, my boy,” Albus spoke quietly, gently, “there is nothing that can be done. Except, that is, to turn this to our advantage.”
In the next room, Severus tensed, his eyes closing and his mouth muttering silent pleas.
“I have enforced a promise from Professor Snape to kill me...”
Severus didn’t hear the rest of what was said for the roaring in his ears. His wretched task laid bare for the mockery of Golden Boy Potter. The dirty truth of Albus’ most grievous directive and what was already the second most of Severus’ greatest regrets was being bandied as though teatime fare to a mere child; a child who had neither the grace nor the intuitive understanding of what was being asked of Severus.
Loath to stand there, impotent, while the boy meted out his condemnation, Severus chose to face it instead. Hitching up his pride, Severus walked up the short flight of steps on legs of cast metal and into the office.
At first, Potter didn’t see him. Wide, horrified eyes were fixed on Albus, his mouth still open in an echo of his last words.
Severus moved to stand beside Albus, feeling the need for the comfort both of the man and the solidness his desk provided. As if in slow motion, Potter’s brain caught up with his senses and his head turned towards Severus.
Back erect and his mask in place, Severus returned Potter’s gaze with faux-impassivity. He felt a hand touch his arm – just a light pressure, gentle and reassuring – and knew Albus was aware of Severus’ anger and exposure. In return, he slowly raised his own hand and rested it on Albus’ shoulder, his signet ring catching the light from the candelabra. He then prepared himself to stamp on any criticism from the front.
However, the look of disgust he expected to mar the pretty-boy face did not materialize. Instead, the boy seemed only stunned for a long while. Then the eyes widened even more – impossibly so – and Potter jerked back in his seat. He looked as though he had never seen Severus before; never so much as an inkling of who Severus Snape was.
Potter’s head tilted to the side and continued to look at him, eyes darting to where he and Albus touched each other. From the corner of his eye, Severus saw Albus shift in his seat and knew him to be gauging whether the moment called for intervention or silence. Silence won out, and the next few moments passed by with barely a nod from the occupants of the office.
And still Potter continued to regard Severus with that strange, shocked look on his face as though he were assessing Severus anew.
Finally, Albus decided enough time had elapsed and cleared his throat. “Harry, are you all right?”
Slowly, as though mesmerized, Potter switched to look at Albus, then again flicked to where Severus’ hand rested on his shoulder. His face, still wearing the fragments of whatever his thoughts of Severus were, first crumpled in distress and then anger.
“You... you’re going to make him kill you?”
If Severus had laid a Galleon on all the possible words that might be first out of Potter’s mouth, he would not have made much of a profit; if he had laid money on the next, his purse would be empty.
“I can’t believe you would do something so cruel to him – to anyone... You can’t do that to him!”
That was so unexpected that it took Severus several replays before he grasped the meaning and the criticism behind it. There was no censure of Severus in them. Instead, the words and the rancour behind them were all directed at Albus. That stunned Severus into new thoughts. While he’d often been puzzled by this Potter, he had never before been as thoroughly confounded as he was now.
With Potter senior, Severus would have merited no consideration at all. All angst would be in sympathy for his favourite teacher, the one who was dying. There would be nothing at all for Severus. In fact, James Potter would probably expect Severus if not to relish such a task, certainly to view it with cold equanimity.
This was like being back in the presence of Lily; a Lily with a square jaw, round glasses and messy hair, all dressed up in schoolboy’s robes.
In turning the situation on its head, this Potter had created a puzzle for Severus, one that likewise merited scrutiny from a different angle than before.
“Harry, you have to understand. If Professor Snape kills me Voldemort will be assured of his loyalty, thus giving him, and ergo us, unprecedented access to Voldemort’s inner circle.”
“Unprecedented access?” Harry said in a whisper, his voice breathy and weak. He seemed to mull this over for a while. "You would have him kill you and... and everyone would believe it was murder."
Severus watched the boy closely, who seemed to be trying to imagine what would be the consequence of that. He wondered whether he was realising that Severus' life would be over the moment Albus' body hit the floor. It seemed he was.
“He'll be hunted! He'll never be able to show his face in the world again. And then...” Potter broke off, raking a hand through his hair and pulling at it agitatedly. Severus wondered whether Potter’s brains would come out with the roots, as he had never seen him work so hard at thinking. “And he could never come back," Potter continued." They would think he was just as bad as scum like Bellatrix Lestrange.” He darted another look at Severus and now there was more than a hint of sympathy there.
Albus leant forwards very slightly in his chair, his hands clasped tensely in front of him. “Harry. This is a time for sacrifices; sacrifices we all might have to make. Removing the threat Voldemort and his Death Eaters pose must be our absolute priority. It’s more important than any one of us – anyone, even me and Professor Snape—”
“And me?” Potter interjected.
Albus hesitated, his face melting in sorrow. “Perhaps, my boy. Perhaps.” He closed his eyes briefly, almost a snap as though to blink away some unbidden thought. “Do not think this was an easy decision to make, for either me or Professor Snape. We are well aware of what we are doing. We have planned our strategy carefully, almost, if you will, like a game of chess. In killing me – when I am dying in any case – we are placing our chess pieces into positions of strength while our opponent thinks he has us at a disadvantage.” He paused again, looking intently at the boy. “Do you understand, Harry?”
“Yes, but... this isn’t a game, is it? This is about our lives – the Professor’s life. Even if we win this game of yours and Voldemort’s, he still loses everything... even his soul!” Horror twisted Harry's features and he again looked between the two men before saying, “I always thought you liked him. You defended him every single time anyone's said a word against him.”
“Harry!” Albus admonished in a hard tone. “Do not think I have done this lightly, or that I do not regret the consequences. It is the right thing to do and my and Severus’ friendship has nothing to do with it. You have to understand that.”
“It has everything to do with it! You can't make him do this!”
Severus eyed the boy closely. Had he some level of perception Severus had not seen before? Again he was reminded of Lily, how she had always seemed to decipher Severus’ feelings even before he had done so. That, however, had been a long time ago and while she’d had the benefit of earning Severus’ confidences, Potter certainly did not.
Perhaps, then, Potter was projecting how he would himself feel if put in Severus’ position. He certainly seemed to be fond of Albus, despite the latter having played him like a queen plays with the pawns. Yet that was the only explanation of why he was so vociferous in defending Severus. If that was indeed so, then he had wronged the boy yet again. It would seem Potter’s feelings for Albus mirrored Severus’ own – and that was a leveller.
“There has to be something, some other way. You can't have exhausted every possibility,” Potter said now, clutching at straws.
Severus sneered and then, for the first time since he had entered the office, spoke. “You presume to believe you can think of a solution, a happily ever after, when we cannot? Well, Potter, let us hear this wisdom.”
“Now, now, Severus,” Albus chided. “This has obviously been a shock to Harry and he hasn’t had time to come to terms with it, as we have. He’s bound to want to investigate another resolution. It is also possible he may think of something we have not.”
Severus snorted and went to cross his arms, but stopped before his hand could leave the comfort of Albus’ shoulder. He preferred to keep it there, where the love and trust between them could flow freely, rather than establish his defences. However, with a mocking lift of his eyebrows he did invite Potter to illustrate his grand solution.
Thus enjoined to speak, the boy naturally hesitated. His eyes wandered to one of the office’s artefacts only to move to another immediately. Finally, he turned back and addressed Albus, “Couldn’t you plan it so that Sna – Professor Snape only pretended to kill you?” Harry asked as though the thought had never occurred to either of them. “You could fake your death and then...” he paused here and his voice became quiet, “and then you could go and die in peace somewhere.” Potter turned then and met Severus' eyes. “And you wouldn't have to kill your friend,” he said.
“That is a good thought, Harry,” Albus said, again pitching his voice to soft and warm, “and if we could be sure of where Draco will make his attempt, and the exact circumstances, it might work.” He sighed and inclined his head towards Severus. “Professor Snape has forced his own promise from me. That promise I now make to you: if the circumstances allow, Professor Snape will indeed cast a double curse – one non-verbal and the other – the killing curse – verbal. Without hatred behind the Avada Kedavra, it would be our hope that the first curse will prevail.” Albus nodded towards Severus, and then added, “This curse is a rather elegant version of the formula for the Stupefy Charm, one of the Professor’s own inventions, which presents all the outward effects of the killing curse.”
Potter nodded his head throughout, shooting strange, sidelong appraising glances at Severus. “That would be good, yes. And then... and then,” he looked straight at Severus this time, “you will have to go to Voldemort anyway, and everyone here will still think you’re a murderer, even if the Headmaster is alive.”
Severus nodded. He would have sneered at the summation, but something in the boy’s face and demeanour held back all the sarcastic comments that itched on the tip of his tongue. To say the boy looked winded was an understatement. He appeared crushed, deflated as though all the air had been let out of a balloon. There was also an almost visible denial of the impending loss about him; a loss that already distressed and pained him.
“That's the best we can hope for?” Harry asked. Then, in spite of the odds being against them, he said, “Right. Well I’ll know it isn’t for real, and when Voldemort is defeated we will be able to prove you weren’t killed that night, that it was all fake.”
Severus could tell that some of Potter's desperate clinging to this hope was due to premature grieving – denial, if you will, but a large part was also disgust at what Albus was proposing should the counterfeit measures prove impossible.
“Yes, Harry,” Albus said softly. “That is exactly what I hope will happen.”
Potter stood up, grabbing his bag and backing away from the desk. “I need to go and think about this... Be on my own for a while.” He rooted behind him for the handle of the door, his eyes darting backwards and forwards from Severus to Albus and back to Severus. “I'm really sorry,” he said just as the door closed behind him, though Severus had no idea which of them he was addressing.
Watching dispassionately as Rookwood’s face slackened, Severus pondered on the twist of fate that dictated this one nonentity should be mastered by another. Why was it Severus in charge here and not the just-now-Obliviated Rookwood?
The question deserved some scrutiny, for if Severus had so easily removed this threat – and he had – did that mean Severus was more important than Rookwood?
“You have found nothing in the records that suggest where Harry Potter’s Muggle relatives live or even what their last name might be.”
While Rookwood was still obviously suffering the effects of his sojourn in Azkaban, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that other forces were at work. Might it be that Severus was always going to win this little engagement, whether or not Rookwood was slower than he had been before?
“You have searched everywhere and found nothing. You will tell the Dark Lord that all records relating to Harry Potter’s family and whereabouts have been deleted or removed.”
The blue-green of Rookwood’s eyes shrank as his pupils dilated, a sure sign the new memories were taking. A second later, however, a tic started at one corner of the left eye.
Severus raised his wand. “Lumos.” The tic didn’t fade, in fact it became stronger, but the pupils reacted just as they ought and so he stepped back. “Nox.”
It was certainly conceivable that Severus could – if he chose – carve out a little side-game where the major role was played by him.
A side-game where Severus was the winner.
“You saw no one while you were here, and no one saw you.”
All it would take was two ounces of imagination and five of determination.
He started backing out of the aisle into the central walkway of the large archive room – just in time. No sooner had he stepped to the side than he saw Rookwood shift slightly against the rack behind him. Severus quickly slipped round to the next aisle and, cursing himself for a blasted, mind-wandering idiot, sank into a crouch.
Perhaps a minute later, maybe less, Rookwood left his aisle and passed Severus’ hiding place. From the little shakes of his head, rather as though a fly was buzzing in an ear, Rookwood looked like the catalogue description of a successful Obliviation. Still, it would be wise if Severus were to give him another five minutes, just to be absolutely certain.
Glancing around, Severus rolled his eyes at having picked the one aisle without one of those small, cylindrical stools. Balancing one hand on the rack behind, he dropped his bottom and braved the cold floor.
Once he’d settled into his inelegant seating arrangement, his thoughts moved back to the question of whether his role in this war was partway under his own command or as a pawn. In particular, the question was whether he was able to move the pieces under the Dark Lord’s nose. Now that he had killed Albus, he was in the Dark Lord’s good graces and had been given quite a bit of autonomy, enough, certainly, to be able to make small moves without drawing attention. It would be far too risky to attempt any major plays. Not for himself, perhaps, but for Harry. Despite their recent estrangement, Severus would never...
Here, Severus stopped. He was making this too personal again. Harry was as integral to the war as the Dark Lord; it was impossible to separate Harry from it. But did that matter now? Could Severus work towards securing a stronger position for Harry? Perhaps secure him a future, even if it was with Ginevra Weasley. Not that Severus was offering himself as an alternative, despite the boy’s advances earlier in the year. It was just that he missed the comfort of having someone close by who knew too well that Severus’ strings were being pulled by the hands of another.
So that was definitely an item for the agenda. Then, he would see to his own needs.
If it were possible to salvage something for himself, what would it be? There would be nothing for him after, no matter which side won. That ought to be his starting place.
Thereafter, Severus came up short. Beyond peace and quiet, he wanted nothing. Of course, if he was starting from scratch, then there was recognition and prestige to be desired. But those were impossible dreams without turning back time by twenty years to begin again as a nobody.
That left him with his most earnest wish: peace and quiet. Where, outside the grave, would he find that? Again, his past would prohibit an alternative. Assuming he escaped a sentence to Rookwood’s old cell, that is.
All of which left death. Was he prepared for that, prepared to be the ultimate nonentity?
Severus considered the matter for many minutes before he decided that, yes, he was. If it hadn’t been for Albus’ plans for Severus to kill him, thus saving Draco or time the duty, then he might have some other choice. But the moment he had fulfilled Albus’ last command, he had been left with nothing. In fact...
He had an idea that death was the only answer to his needs. Therefore, he would follow Albus’ example and think how to use his death for the greatest effect.
He would give the matter serious thought.
Severus was roused by the sound of an owl pecking at his window. He blinked a few times to force away the memory of Albus and his blackened hand... and that first step towards securing peace for himself. And perhaps for Harry, the son of Lily Evans.
He uncurled himself from his chair and walked stiffly over to the window.
As soon as he saw the owl, he knew it carried a missive from Lucius. He sighed and untied the small scroll from the owl’s outstretched leg, before shooing it away with a treat. He then took the note over to his desk and opened the seal.
Severus read the note slowly and then a second time, more slowly. From the heavily couched wording, Lucius obviously anticipated any mail leaving the manor would be intercepted, whether by the Order, the Ministry, or even the Manor’s unwelcome visitor. Unravelling the message was an intricate matter of reading between lines that were themselves between lines.
After reading it carefully a third time, Severus refolded it and slid his chair to the side so he could access the secret cavity behind Albus’ portrait.
Since the sword had been removed and taken to Harry back in December, all that the cavity hid were two small piles of letters, a leather document satchel and a dozen bottles of memories: Severus’ and Albus’ memories of the last twenty years.
Severus ignored the bottles, almost flinching from them, as he always did, and added Lucius’ letter to the larger of the two piles.
When he had finished securing the hidey-hole, he looked into the face in the portrait and smiled grimly.
“It is a good thing you do, Severus,” Albus said, returning the smile. “Did he have much to say? Any news on what is happening at the Manor?”
“Beyond the news that the Dark Lord is still angry with him over Harry’s escape? Not much, although he confirms what Harry told Phineus, that the Dark Lord is becoming more unstable.” Severus paused, thinking. “He does mention that I have earned his disfavour, although Lucius does not know why. He warns me to be on my guard. He also says he will try to get away and come here to caution me in person, which either makes him a fool for risking this letter... or that he is extremely frightened for me.”
“I assume you suspect – as I do – that Voldemort has learnt from past mistakes and intends to eliminate all competition for control of the Elder Wand.” At Severus’ distracted nod of assent, Albus hummed his thoughts for a while.
“Don’t worry yourself, Albus. You know very well he will kill me as soon as he is assured of victory – before, even.” Severus walked around the desk and returned to the chair by the fire. “In fact, I am counting on it.”
In the shadows of the empty grate, formed by the elaborate andirons, he stared once again into his past, fingers rubbing the space where a ring used to sit.
Peering into the softly bubbling base potion, Severus frowned in confusion. It should have turned indigo by now, but was still at the dark blue stage. He flipped back a few pages in his text and read the instructions through again.
“Oh shit!” he mumbled when he realised he had forgotten the dandelion root. Such a simple mistake, one a third year would make, not a graduate Master.
Sinking onto his stool, he rested a finger against each closed eye and tried to think.
To rescue the situation, he had to find a potion that used a comfrey-based, dandelion-free medium. Otherwise, a whole afternoon’s work would have been wasted.
However, that was the least of his concerns: there was also the insult to his pride. Already Pomfrey was sceptical of his ability to stock her cabinet and a mistake like this would serve to convince her of his ineptitude. While generally disposed to view him kindly, perhaps remembering those occasions he had spent time in her care, she expected nothing but the best from her medicinal draughts and knew he had little experience in brewing them.
There must be a potion he could hand her as ‘an additional, should she need it’. He worked his fingers into his eyelids and racked his brains, but couldn’t think past the mistake. There was nothing for it, he would just have to start again and work through the night on the nausea draught.
So decided, he became all business. He hopped up off the stool, cast the cauldron into the sink and began again with a clean one. This time, keeping the book open and in front of him, he followed the instructions closely.
An hour or two later, he had produced a rather exceptional base and was ready to start on the curative elements once it had cooled. He cast Tempus and found he had missed dinner. Swearing roundly, he caused the portrait of one of his predecessors to ‘Tsk’ with disapproval.
It wasn’t that missing a meal was such a problem for Severus, but Dumbledore was understandably very suspicious of him and tended to remark on any absence. He shook his head: it could not be helped.
He was just wondering whether he dared ask one of the house-elves to provide him with a late supper, when he heard a scratch at the door. Annoyed, he paused before concluding it had better be answered, which earned him another ‘Tsk-tsk’ for cursing mistrustful old men.
However, on opening the door he found it was not Dumbledore but Lucius who had caused the interruption. Standing back to allow him to enter, Severus tried to act as though the visit was welcome. Well, it was, but this was too new to him. The last few times they had met had been with a group of other Death Eaters, other sycophants waiting for the crumbs of the Dark Lord’s attention. Meeting Lucius one-to-one was a very different matter.
Severus schooled his features and tried to adopt an air of unconcern.
“You’d better come in, but I warn you, Lucius, I am in the middle of something.” He knew a tinge of the pride he felt in being Hogwarts’ new Potions Master had bled into his words, but he also knew Lucius would understand.
“Of course, I shall keep it brief.” He walked over to the worktable, where Severus had laid out the ingredients for the next stage of the potion and grimaced.
Severus knew an irrational urge to defend his potion making, to instil in Lucius the same sense of beauty Severus felt in the process. Raising an eyebrow, he dared Lucius to comment.
With a laugh, Lucius held up his hands in a placating gesture and backed away from the cauldron.
“Smooth your bristles, Severus, I don’t know enough to criticise.” He looked around and when he spotted Severus’ chair – the only comfortable chair in the lab – he sat down, very much at his ease.
Seeing Lucius thus seated, looking as though he had every right to be here, brought home to Severus the precariousness of the situation. He spun round and cast a few locking charms on the door and then strode over to stand in front of Lucius.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he hissed.
Lucius merely laughed again. “Are you whispering, Severus?” He looked around in a comical, overly dramatic way, peering under the worktable and behind his chair. “Are we to expect eavesdroppers?”
Annoyed, Severus turned on his heel and returned to his worktable. Not that there were things to do there, it was just safer if his back were turned to Lucius.
“You should not be here,” he repeated. “If Dumbledore were to see you, he’d watch me even closer than he does now. He still doesn’t trust me, you know.” Which was true, but Lucius didn’t have to know that the only reason Dumbledore trusted him at all was because Severus had warned him about the Dark Lord’s interpretation of the prophecy... about Lily. In fact, that he had turned to the Order of the Phoenix.
Merlin forbid that Lucius suspect that!
“Hey-ho,” Lucius drawled, as though the world was engaged only in a playground game. “I come bearing gifts, my young friend.”
Despite his intentions, Severus half-turned away from the table towards Lucius. So unused was he to receiving presents of any kind, it was beyond his control to stop the eagerness in his expression. “A gift? What is it?”
It was obvious Lucius was in a playful mood, for he laughed yet again and then harder still when he saw Severus’ look of chagrin.
Not in the mood to play one of Lucius’ games, Severus turned back to the table with a “Humph!”
“Come, come, Severus. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Lucius stood and Severus watched from the corner of his eye as he moved with smooth, fluid grace to join him at the table. “Here, for you.”
Reaching a hand over Severus’ shoulder, Lucius placed a small package on one of the cutting boards.
Severus looked at it, willing himself not to betray his pleasure. He waited for the exact amount of time he assessed someone less needy than he would wait, before taking up the package in both hands.
It was neatly wrapped, no small degree of care expended on its presentation and Severus felt delight in that knowledge. He turned it over and then over again before slowly, carefully, peeling away the soft silk. Inside was a velvet-covered ring-box inscribed with the coveted Billfrith mark – the goblin jewel smiths of Northumbria. Severus held his breath as he opened the box.
There, in a cushion of the softest silk, was a Byzantine gold signet ring. On its face was engraved a tiny figure of Spes, known as the last goddess – hope, holding a cornucopia of flowers. It was beautiful. With reverence, he took the ring from the box between thumb and forefinger and gazed at it from every angle. At his side, Lucius watched him, his elbows resting on the table and his chin in his hands.
“Do you like it?” Lucius asked. “Narcissa helped me pick the exact one, but it was really my choice.”
Severus smiled as he thought of the beautiful Narcissa picking out a gift for him. Never before had she so much as deigned to notice him – certainly not while at school. Now though, as Lucius’ bride, she was all attention.
He turned the ring so the face was towards him once more. It was more than beautiful; it was the most wondrous ring he had ever seen. But such rings, such gifts, usually came with a price. The question was, could he pay it?
“Yes, I like it very much,” he said, and hoped Lucius would be unable to discern the longing there. “I’m sure I could never do anything to deserve such a gift.” He risked a look to gauge Lucius’ intent and saw pleasure morph into an expression of sadness.
“No games, Severus; there is no Slytherin scheme behind it. It is what it is: a gift.” He placed a hand on Severus’ arm and whispered, “Just take it, Severus; I expect nothing in return – I want nothing. It is yours.”
Although still unsure, Severus could not resist. He had never thought to own such a thing and would have gladly paid almost any price. Holding his breath once more to better savour the moment, he slowly placed the ring on the index finger of his right hand. As was usual for such things, as soon as he released it the ring warmed for a moment before settling into a perfect fit.
“You probably know this already,” Lucius said then, “but the men of the Byzantine Empire were buried with their jewellery – they never took it off unless their soul whispered to them to give it to another.”
Severus spread his fingers slightly and tilted his hand, seeing how it looked to be the possessor of such an exquisite item.
“It shall be the same for me,” he said quietly, awed.
They both stood for a moment, looking at the ring, how the light from the candles burnt the gold to red and orange.
While Severus had every intention of keeping the ring, he had to be sure, so he asked, “Why?”
Lucius pushed himself away from the table, keeping his eyes on the ring. “An apology, Severus... An apology.” He then lifted his eyes to Severus’ and gave him a small smile. “I must go.”
Severus touched a hand to Lucius’ arm and said a very heartfelt “Thank you” before releasing him.
Another smile and then Lucius strolled towards the door. He had just dropped his wand after removing Severus’ locking charms, when he paused. “I did say gifts, Severus. Plural. My other gift is to tell you the Dark Lord has found a way to the Potters. It seems their friends are not as loyal as their house would suggest... You may do with that information as you will.”
Then he was gone.
Having a gloriously uncluttered day ahead of him, Severus had dressed in his most comfortable trousers, a ratty shirt with which he shared a host of memories, and a pair of black suede slippers that had a hole in one toe. On opening the door to Harry Bloody Potter barely an hour later, he consigned his sartorial choice to damnation.
What was it with this boy? Any other sixteen-year-old would be lying in bed at this time on a Sunday, but not Harry Potter. He frowned, keeping one hand on the door just in case the twit had some thought of being allowed in.
“Potter. What can I do for you?” he said as coldly as he could muster. Whatever had happened during the talk in Albus’ office, Severus had since decided it was too much to consider when there were more important things on his plate. Whether or not he had misjudged the boy could be dealt with when the dust had settled on the Dark Lord’s ashes. Although, he admitted, he would probably leave it to wait the time of reckoning.
“Um, hello, Professor,” was the ungainly start.
If this had anything to do with another ‘fracas’ with Draco Malfoy, Severus didn’t want to know. Or even worse, a rehash of the conversation with Albus.
“Speak, boy!”
“Right, well I... I just wanted to say something to you.”
“Really? You terrify me,” Severus said sarcastically.
Suddenly the floor of the corridor seemed to be more worthy of attention than Severus was. Potter wedged the toe of his trainers into the angle between the floor and the stone plinth on which the statue of Maglo was set. Knowing that banging his head against the doorframe would not speed the conversation one whit, Severus settled on clearing his throat to remind the twit of his presence and then glaring in a hurrying way.
“Then may I suggest you do just that?” he said witheringly.
Instead of complying, the boy’s face became clouded by thunder and he turned as though to march off. However, disappointingly, he stopped before he had started the second step, bit back his temper and tried to smile.
Then, through his teeth he said, “I actually wanted to apologise to you. Sir.” Which caused Severus no small amount of surprise. “About lots of things, like what the Headmaster told me, and so...” he looked up and down the corridor, “perhaps I could come in?”
Severus would rather host the next Death Eater meeting than have Potter enter his chambers, but he couldn’t very well risk someone overhearing such a conversation. He sighed and said, with a tangible unwillingness that was unaccountably assumed in part, “Very well, but it had better be quick... Ah-ah-ah,” he said repressively when Potter stepped forwards. “Allow me five minutes and meet me in my office.”
Not waiting for a yes or no, he shut the door with some force and turned his back on it.
Just when he'd decided not to ponder Potter’s behaviour in Albus’ office, and how it might mitigate Severus’ perceptions of him, the boy did something else to cause him to reflect! Of course, this apology might be – in fact, probably was – nothing more than embarrassed recognition that he had been wrong in his assumptions regarding his professor. Well, Severus could handle that without the necessity of adjusting his own assumptions. After all, if Potter had only just reached this point, taking into account the number of times he and his little friends had been proved wrong and knowing how Severus had saved his life, then Severus need not follow suit for another few years.
Decided on his course of action, Severus strode into his bedroom, bypassing the pristine copy of Journal of Potions Masters that lay alongside a freshly brewed pot of tea.
As Severus doffed and donned, making himself presentable, he felt a frisson of hope invade his movements. He hopped into his trousers and found that his fingers buttoned up his robes with more speed and agility than normal. With some reluctance, he attributed this feeling to its source: The Boy Who Lived as an ally.
It was therefore with a mix of resentment and fresh resolve to continue playing his role for Albus... and Lily, that a few minutes later he strode along to his office.
Potter was leaning against the corridor wall, half-slumped almost to the ground, his eyes again fixed on his shoes.
“Well, come in; do not keep me waiting.”
With a wave of his wand to disengage his wards, he swept into his office and over to his desk. For lack of something to do with both hands and eyes, he picked up Poppy’s inventory and pretended to regard it. From the corner of his eye, he saw Potter shuffle in and take up position by one of the two wing chairs in front of the fire, leaning a hip against it.
He kept his attention on the list for a few moments longer, just to gather his thoughts into a more comfortable order. This changed nothing – indeed, it was nothing, as Potter hadn’t yet said what he wanted to say. Looking up, he saw the boy’s gaze wander around his office, resting with curiosity on Severus’ collection of Georgian crystal and silver inkwells.
“You wished to say something,” Severus said in a neutral tone that was not quite devoid of its normal frostiness.
Thus enjoined, Potter whipped his attention back to Severus. “Yes sir, thanks. I mean for seeing me on a Sunday. I didn’t realise before, but then seeing you in your... you know.” He pointed a finger indicating Severus’ robes to illustrate his meaning. “So thank you, sir.”
Severus accepted the point without his usual disdain, merely nodding. He felt in a somewhat light mood, attributable to a strange feeling of not being alone. Which was odd, because he was no less isolated now than before. All that had changed was that someone else aside from Albus was convinced of his allegiance. Whatever it was, it felt good, rather like a comforting hand. That it stemmed from Potter was a little disarming, but Severus would take any succour he could with the charge of having to kill Albus ahead of him.
Taking the edge of the desk for his seat, he regarded the boy. Potter was shaping up fast into the semblance of a man, angled planes and wide shoulders looking clumsy on his too-large feet and skinny frame. No longer was he the epitome of James Potter, instead he had taken on more of Lily’s look. Whether this was because Severus had acknowledged some of her personality in him when in Albus’ office was not a question he asked himself. It was enough that the replica of the hated James Potter was no longer here to remind him of his bitterest memories, instead had been replaced by his friend.
“Sir, you probably know... er thought I hate – didn’t like you...” he stumbled to a halt.
Severus rolled his eyes, which hopefully told Potter he was being an idiot. “I was aware you held me in contempt and suspicion, yes.”
“Right, well, I just wanted you to know first that I don’t anymore.” He reddened slightly. “I mean, I can’t say I... that is, I—”
Severus decided that if there were to be any chance of opening his journal today, he had better help the twit.
He jerked his hand in a swift, rolling motion. “Yes, yes. Be reassured I will not take whatever you have on your mind to mean we are bosom beaus. I quite comprehend your point.”
“Right, yes sir.” The weave on the arm of the chair arrested his attention. “I apologise for going into your Pensieve last year.”
Severus closed his eyes against the red that surged at the corners of his vision. That fiasco at the Ministry, two months of a Potter-free summer and half a school year, and still the mention of Potter’s intrusion into his memories rankled as though it had been yesterday.
When he opened them again, the boy was looking at him warily, apparently poised for flight. Severus slowly angled his hand towards his own face. “You see me overcome with forgiveness,” he said coldly. “Is that all?”
Potter returned to his study of the chair cover. “I am sorry about it, really sorry. I know I have no excuse—” Severus snorted. “—but I was just so fed up of not being told anything. Just expected to do as I was told, no matter what, and yet never told why.”
Severus sympathised, though he wouldn’t be admitting that to the boy anytime soon, but it was no excuse.
When he didn’t reply, Potter continued with his haphazard attempt at apology, “I’m also sorry for what happened in the Shrieking Shack, with... with Sirius,” he hesitated. “About helping him get away—”
Severus interrupted, first by holding up his hand and then, when he realised the boy was still too intent on that fucking chair to see it, with, “That, Mr Potter, is in the past. However, apology accepted.”
In the past, maybe, but for Severus it was still a tender wound. It was not that he resented Black being innocent – well, not totally – it was the knowledge that while his ire and hatred had focussed on him, the man who had actually betrayed Lily had received his sympathy. That was intolerable, as it made Severus feel as though he could add another betrayal of Lily to his tally. There was also the galling realization that the Dark Lord had recruited Pettigrew and not told Severus. One would have thought he would have been told, as surely it would have been logical for one spy to know the identity of the other.
Shuffling his feet, Potter gazed at Severus for a moment and then, after a deep breath, rushed on with, “And I’m sorry that you have to... you know, and also that I feel less alone because of it. I know that’s selfish, and I’m sorry, but I do.”
It took a moment for Severus to unravel that little piece of Potter-babble, but when he did, he was stunned into silence. Probably taking that as disapproval or ridicule, Potter tried to excuse himself.
“It’s just that this last year, knowing about the prophecy, I’ve felt so alone. As if everything was up to me. Now, though, I don’t feel like that. I know there are other people doing things that are more difficult. And I hate that Professor Dumbledore is going to die, but I hate that he’s made you promise to kill him even more.” He held Severus’ eyes. “And I think that makes me not alone anymore.”
There was something in Potter’s eyes Severus hadn’t seen directed at him before, and it shocked him as much, if not more, than the words did; words that were the echo of Severus’ own.
He opened himself to all those thoughts that had followed him down the moving stairs after leaving Albus; the ones that had punctuated his activities throughout the week and which had accompanied him while dressing a few minutes ago. The thoughts that had been at the back of his mind since he had first heard Albus’ plans for the boy two years ago: he was not alone.
While Severus didn’t fool himself into thinking he had replaced Albus in the boy’s affections, that spark of respect filled the hole in Severus’ chest a little more. It wasn't warmth, exactly, just the knowledge that someone else knew – would know – of Severus’ true character and loyalty felt good. He could feel a sign of redemption in the feeling of being valued by someone other than Albus and Lucius. Both of those stalwart adherents had their own motivations, although they each had an element of guilt and betrayal in them. Otherwise, they were so far apart in allegiance, personal history and treatment of Severus that he could not feel their shared admiration as indicating anything positive about him, only them. What Potter had said and put into that look made Severus feel good about himself.
“Well, that’s about it really,” Potter said. He froze for a moment, not certain whether to wait for Severus to reply or just to leave.
“It would seem you have hidden depths, Mr Potter. Most admirable. I accept your apologies.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement, a gesture of formal politeness ingrained in him from his mother’s teachings of the old ways.
Correctly understanding the gesture, if not the foundations of it, the boy nodded back self-consciously and then turned to leave.
“Oh, and Mr Potter,” Severus added – for Lily – just as the boy reached the door. “For my part, I regret that such a game has you in its web. If you should... need to discuss your part in it, I hope you will come to me.”
There, he had met the boy halfway. What Potter did with the offer – and whether he did anything at all – was up to him now. If he chose not to seek Severus’ guidance, he had still done more for Lily’s child than he had for ten-score others.
After the door had closed, Severus decided that Potter knowing of Albus’ plans could only be of benefit to him. And not in the Slytherin sense of the word.
“Good day to you, Headmaster,” said the old goblin who had been his escort. Then, after a bow consisting of the merest jerk of head and shoulders, he returned to his position behind the long counter.
Severus, having offered his own abridged courtesy, strode quickly across the marble-floored hall and out of the large, silver-engrained doors. Ignoring the wizards either side of him, who seemed to be waving their Probity Probes indiscriminately, he emerged into the sunshine.
Halfway down Gringotts’ steps, he paused to enjoy the height of this vantage point and view the length of Diagon Alley.
More successful in his business with the goblins than he had dared hope to be, Severus was in remarkably good humour. He had expected to be met with, if not a rebuff, a distinct lack of support. However, although more tense than was customary for goblins, they had been very accommodating, even understanding, and had acceded to his rather unusual preparations for the distribution of his vaults.
At least, Severus assumed they were unusual. It might well be that the goblins were being asked to fulfil this type of request daily, as he was undoubtedly not the only wizard to feel that the time for ‘putting one’s affairs in order’ had arrived.
Severus cast Tempus and saw his business had not only been trouble-free, but also swift. It was just five minutes short of the quarter hour, which meant he had almost an hour to squander before his appointment with Bridgebent. He therefore strode languidly down the steps and up the Alley, with scarcely a single shopper impeding his progress.
He briefly wondered whether he would have time to visit Harry, before chastising himself for a fool. Such hastily made plans could ruin all they had achieved; ruin everything because of a twitch in his prick. With a promise to lay careful plans to meet with Harry, a promise he knew he would default on, he checked the direction of his thoughts.
Besides, he was uncertain of Harry’s and his friends’ plans for the day. According to his last message, via the portrait of Phineus, which Granger carried in her bag, Harry intended to remain at Shell Cottage. However, these last few days Harry had seemed less despondent, even excited. When pressed, he would tell Phineus only that they had come up with a way to get the cup from Bellatrix’s vault.
Severus stopped mid-stride and turned on his heel to stare up at the huge, white edifice of the bank. Surely they didn’t think they could just walk in and take it from under the goblins’ noses!
Shaking his head and condemning the foolishness of all Gryffindors – and his in particular – he resumed his walk.
Severus waited by the tree, wriggling his toes in his boots against the cold. He briefly weighed casting a warming charm against the likelihood that either Weasley or Granger would follow Harry back into the glade, before dismissing it as too risky.
Instead, he slid his hands deeper into his pockets and buried his chin into the fur collar of his cloak.
“Come on... Come on...” he chanted as though Harry could hear him.
It was many minutes later that Severus heard the crunch of feet on snow, just when he had almost given up hope and returned to Hogwarts.
Still hidden by the trees, Severus watched as Harry appeared in the clearing, his body covered in thick jumpers and what looked like one of Sirius’ old pea coats. His hair was dry now and he looked warmer, but remains of shock from the dip in freezing water were still visible in the chattering teeth.
Severus gave himself a mental kick for making it too difficult, for not putting the sword in the top branches of the trees. In his defence, he hadn’t expected Harry to come alone, or to dive in headfirst without casting a temperature charm on his body beforehand. He had thought the greater risk was that Harry would fall and break his neck, but obviously, he had been wrong.
Severus damned stupid, rash, irresponsible Gryffindors and pulled out his wand.
“Mr Potter, do you ever use your brain or do you rely on group rights to Miss Granger’s?”
Harry stopped his search of the tree line and whipped round towards Severus’ voice. An ingenuous smile tried an appearance, but Severus was not swayed by it at all. He was too annoyed; actually, he was livid, but he just hadn’t realised it until now.
“Did you not think to cast a Calefieri Charm on yourself before taking a dip in the ice?” Severus took a step forwards so Harry could see him. “I was half a second away from pulling you out – so I could kill you, you understand – and your friend Weasley would have seen me!”
Harry flinched, but from the look of it, the way his eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched with guilt, Severus doubted it was because of his tone. That made Severus take note but not pause. As Harry came closer, Severus turned around – more to take his temper away than to search for privacy – and strode a few paces in amongst the thick trees.
Aiming for a group of oaks, their branches stunted from their proximity to the others, but which were also too densely packed for the snow to have penetrated them, Severus marched ahead. He listened to Harry’s footsteps stumbling behind him with one ear, keeping the other intent for other, less friendly steps. When he had reached the centre of the group of oaks, their trunks creating a natural pillared room, he whirled round, causing Harry to step back at the unexpected halt.
“Take off your coat– and your jumper,” he snapped.
Harry’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s fucking freezing – I’m fucking freezing!”
But if he thought Severus was joking, the crossed arms and narrowed eyes informed him otherwise. “Now!”
“But... Severus—”
“Harry, you might well be suffering from hypothermia or frostbite or Merlin knows what else. Just take off your outer layers so I can cast the charms you should have cast on yourself!”
Severus’ patience was wearing thin, made fragile by his fear when watching while Harry nearly drowned. He knew he was acting too brusque, too sharp, but couldn’t rid himself of the sight of Harry struggling at the bottom of the pond. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten and tried to regain his equilibrium.
When he opened them again, Harry was still looking at him, so he glowered and stepped forwards towards him. That worked, as Harry immediately set to undoing his coat buttons, his fingers numb and fumbling.
As he watched, Severus could see Harry was shivering and so he cast Warming and Disillusionment charms on the area about them, plus a conjured circle of bluebell flames, which he cast to float just above ground level.
His coat now discarded, Harry was trying to pull his jumper over his head, getting his ears and glasses caught in the neck. Tut-tutting under his breath, Severus went over to help.
This close to him, Severus could see Harry was shivering and that his skin was pale and covered in goose bumps. He swore and gathered Harry into his arms, rubbing everywhere he could with hard, brisk strokes of his hands.
“Now that is more like it!” Harry muttered into Severus’ chest. “Oh yes!”
Severus huffed, but the simple words and the warmth and lust behind them irrationally caused his anxiety to ease. Not that he was ready to give up his ire just yet. In his opinion, Harry deserved a little more of Severus at his most cutting before he could be forgiven. However, first he needed to make sure Harry’s metabolism was gearing back up to normal.
He unbuttoned his cloak and robes – inciting more approval from Harry – and pulled Harry close, rubbing harder on his arms, flanks and back.
Soon enough, the small clearing became a little idyll of warmth; the slight snow where the branches were thinnest had melted away from the heat of both charms and balls of flame. Severus, his head propped on top of Harry’s, thought it looked like a haven. Some of the tension from earlier and the antics of the Carrows seeped out of him, leaving behind a bubble of vacuity in which only he and Harry existed.
“Harry, that blood is more needed elsewhere.”
“Sorry,” he hummed, “so good...”
“Be that as it may, calm yourself.” Severus poked Harry on the arm. “If you think we’re going to make love out here, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Spoilsport...” Harry murmured, but with the hint of a smile.
“Besides, we have things to discuss.”
Pushing Harry away, Severus removed his cloak, quite warm now without it, and spread it beneath the trunk of the thickest tree. He knelt down and smoothed it out, ridding it of its creases, turned to Harry... and frowned.
Harry was leering at him, his arms crossed over his chest and a hip cocked to the side. He followed that up by bobbing his eyebrows up and down suggestively, and then laughed at Severus’ look of disdain.
“Get over here, you twit!”
Harry laughed again, but joined him quickly enough. He hunched down and then waited while Severus arranged himself with his back against the tree and his legs bent and stretched wide. Severus patted the space between his legs and pulled Harry in close. Wrapping his legs and arms round him, he again rested his head on Harry's. Once satisfied every part of Harry was warm, he spoke.
“You looked guilty before, what was that about?” he asked, and then clarified by adding, “I mentioned that Ronald might have seen me and you looked guilty. Why?”
Harry tensed in his arms for a second and then relaxed again.
“Ah, well that might have been because I forgot to tell you that Ron and Hermione know about you – about us and... well, about everything.”
Severus readied himself for the irritation, the annoyance at Harry’s lack of circumspection to strike: it didn’t. Instead, he felt the urge to smile prod at his mouth. Too perplexed by the pleasure he felt at those words when he thought he ought to feel only unrest, he was quiet for a moment.
Analysing that thought brought clarity quite quickly for Severus, who normally was one to ponder a feeling from all sides before agreeing on its source or merit. This time, he knew almost immediately that having Harry’s friends know about their relationship validated it, made it more real and tangible: he was no longer a secret – a dirty secret? – and that felt very, very good.
“Severus?” Harry said quietly. “Are you angry with me?”
Severus twitched his nose and lips, thinking hard. However, his conclusion remained the same so he said, “No, I’m not angry. Strangely, the opposite: it pleases me.”
Releasing his breath in a long sigh, Harry settled further against Severus and they were quiet for a while. Severus didn’t feel the need to review the destruction of the locket; they had seen and heard the soul die and nothing could be gained from going over it. Besides, these moments together outside the sanctuary of Foxield Yeat were rare and Severus – and no doubt Harry, too – wanted to indulge in it to the exclusion of all else.
However, there was one point on which he needed clarification.
“When you say ‘everything’, do you include my intention of dying in that?”
Severus felt the muscles in Harry’s body tense again, so he stroked him and shushed him.
“Yes, I have... They think you’re mad,” he whispered. “They think there are plenty of reasons for getting you off... I mean, as soon as people find out what other things you’ve done – the good things – they’ll understand you were just following orders. The rook to Albus’ queen.”
“And the Death Eaters that manage to escape imprisonment? Those followers of whom I know nothing and could be anywhere... What of them, Harry?” He bent his head to rub his cheek against Harry’s, their stubble chafing agreeably.
Harry released a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m with you on this, Severus. You don’t need to tell me what it’ll be like for you... No, I know why you are doing it but I can’t help wishing there was another way. A way, you know...”
When Harry didn’t continue, Severus kissed his neck, mercifully back to its normal pink and clear of goose bumps.
“I know,” he whispered into Harry’s skin, “but it is the only way. If I don’t orchestrate my death, others will certainly do it for me... and I doubt I will like their methods.” He kissed away Harry’s shudders and added, “Tell them I want my dignity, Harry; tell them I want peace.”
He waited on a breath until Harry nodded, and then they lapsed into silence, just enjoying each other.
His chin on Harry’s shoulder, Severus watched the bluebell flames as they dipped and rose, moving as though in the gentlest of breezes, and forming blue-green spheres of little magical lagoons in the air. It reminded Severus of a grotto he had seen in a picture book as a child. He tried to think which one, and what had been in the grotto, but – as usual – his memories of his childhood were too vague; themselves like pictures from a book, taken out and pasted on a wall haphazardly, isolated from any meaning without their words.
“Whether we win or lose I know it’s going to be the same for me.”
Severus closed his eyes. He had promised himself, and Harry, that he wouldn’t put any pressure on him in this. It had to be Harry’s decision and Harry’s alone. But he nodded anyway because the truth was indisputable.
“So... On one side I’ll have people always trying to kill me; the other side will be those who’ll never let me forget the Chosen One label... Behind I’ll have the ones who will be afraid I’m the next Dark Lord, and in front will be those who’ll try to involve me in more games like this one...” Harry sighed. “I’ll be surrounded, and it’ll be worse if we win. If we lose, I’ll die anyway – and, like you said, ‘I doubt I will like their methods’.”
It was so tempting for Severus to gather Harry up in his arms and tell him that yes, that is just what it will be like for him, that it would be better to move on to another adventure. But he couldn’t say that – had promised himself he wouldn’t. Therefore, he remained silent; he focussed his attentions on kissing Harry’s neck and on making certain his arms held Harry tight, safe. That was all he would allow himself to do.
Harry turned his head to the side, facing Severus, and kissed him hard. Severus soon shook off his surprise at the depth of feeling there and took every clash of teeth, the mashing of their lips, and every growl that Harry wanted to give him. He even stayed passively still when Harry’s fingers dug painfully into his thighs. He hissed, though, when Harry moved a hand to slide one of Severus’ down his stomach and pressed it against his prick. Harry’s hips rolled under Severus’ palm, his prick hardening immediately as though it had been waiting impatiently for just this touch.
That and the feel of Harry’s arse rubbing against his own prick, soon had Severus aroused. With a growl, he pulled Harry’s hips back into him, pressing his own into Harry’s arse at the same time. His body awoke with the force of steam released from a kettle, his stomach swirling with need.
Severus stood up, pulling Harry with him, then turned him around to slam him against the tree. Every nerve was alive, dancing to the tune of small grunts as they rutted and thrust against each other, lips sucking and licking at every bit of skin they could find.
Suddenly Harry pushed Severus away and turned to face the tree, hands pulling at his trousers until they were down around his knees. “Severus, come on! Need to feel... Come on, fuck me – hard!”
Only a moment’s hesitation and then Severus had tugged and pulled one trouser leg over a boot and pressed his wand against Harry’s arse. He cast his usual preparation charms, but as the spell-words came out too fast and urgent, he pushed two fingers into Harry just to make sure he was ready.
Harry moaned and bent low, bracing his arms around the tree and thrusting his bottom out. Severus held himself in check a moment and watched him, really watched him, knowing this would be a memory to delight in later. He took note of the twitching thighs, the clenching of Harry’s buttocks as they responded to the slick lubricant with anticipation, He watched the enticing wriggle of Harry’s hips, which went straight to Severus’ prick. And he watched then as Harry paused in his squirming to push his prick down and between his legs, trapping it so the head – full and red – pointed towards Severus.
This memory, Severus would take with him forever.
Pulling his cock from his trousers, Severus grabbed hold of Harry’s hip with one hand and with the other guided his prick into Harry’s twitching arse.
It had been too long since Harry had been fucked and the heat and tightness was incredible; it threatened to steal Severus’ reason, leaving him with only the visceral need to thrust in hard and then keep on thrusting until he was drenched in Harry’s body. He gritted his teeth and forced his body to slow, to go gently, but Harry had other ideas – with one backward jerk of his hips, Harry impaled himself on Severus’ prick, his breath catching on the pain.
Severus swore and bent forwards to kiss the back of Harry’s bowed neck, both of them trembling.
Never had Harry been this demanding and Severus had likewise never expected it. For all his insouciance, Harry was as sexually sophisticated as a pair of jeans. Because of this, Severus knew Harry needed this, needed to have something that only this would give him.
So Severus obliged... He drew his hips back slowly and then rammed in again: his prick hardening even more with the over-eager stimulation. In his arms, Harry moaned and gasped his approval, so Severus did it again and again and again. He felt his balls slap against the head of Harry’s prick, increasing the spirals of pleasure writhing in his stomach and thighs.
Harry began to tremble even more, his breath expelling in rasps and short grunts. Severus ran a hand down to press against Harry’s shaft, most of its length still trapped between Harry’s thighs; just the feel of it created an image so sublime, so exciting that he soon – too soon – felt the increasing curl and tightness of his orgasm.
Quickly, Severus reached around in front of Harry and prised the thighs apart to let Harry’s prick spring into Severus’ hand. Encircling it in a ring of thumb and forefinger, he twisted and tugged in time with his thrusts, pulling the foreskin and tilting his thumb on the upwards pulls to rub and press into the slit. Harry’s head dropped even more and Severus saw his shoulders curl and readied himself to catch Harry – just in time. Come spurted into his hand and onto the tree, Harry’s legs buckled and his arse clenched around Severus’ prick in spasms.
Severus stilled until Harry stopped jerking and then grabbed both of his hips – one come-smeared hand sliding stupidly – and then rammed into him, filling him, emptying into him. Spikes of pleasure reared up and down and circled, pooling in his balls and then out into Harry.
Lightheaded from the speed, the force of it all, Severus curled over Harry’s back, grasping a few precious seconds of calm.
Both of them shaking, Severus carefully supported Harry back down onto his cloak and wrapped him in his arms. They didn’t usually do this, but Severus needed to make certain Harry was well loved after such a brutal fucking. So he held him; held him until their breathing slowed and the night air began to chill the sweat on their bodies.
They chatted for a while afterwards, sitting close, their arms, if not always wrapped around each other, continually touching. Beneath the trees they sat and talked, watching the bluebell flames encircling them until it was time to part.
It was only as Severus watched Harry make his way through the snow back to the tent, that he realised he had far too easily forgiven Harry his recklessness in the pond.
Hogwarts’ walls swayed and buckled, making it harder to use them to keep himself upright. He was in the right corridor, however, as the statue of Maglo seemed to dance and dip in front of him.
Severus halted and leant against the wall just yards from his door. His breath came out whistling and painful, and he needed to exert some effort to stand still. Cursing all Dark Lords and their penchant for redirecting their petulance onto the innocent – well, relatively innocent – he tried to breathe.
Tried to breathe.
Now that was unusual. Not since he'd been a boy, investigating the bottom of their old, cast-iron bathtub, had Severus found it so difficult to manage the mechanics of drawing in air and then pushing it back out again.
“Professor, are you all right?”
How strange that Potter should be in Severus’ bathroom, watching him drown or... But Severus couldn’t think of any other possibility that would explain Potter’s presence.
He waved a hand to shoo the boy away, but the hand seemed weighted and it carried him down the stone walls of the bath, onto his side.
“Professor? Fuck!”
Something touched him, something cold and wonderful.
“Professor!”
Whatever Potter had wanted – whatever the reason for him being at... Spinner’s End? – was swallowed by the blank heaviness creeping over him.
Water.
The darkness grabbed him, floating him across the floor of the bath-corridor. Everything began to spin and he had to fight the nausea as he allowed the water to wash him away.
When he emerged, it seemed no time had passed between stumbling in the hallway outside his chambers and now. And so Severus threw up all over his bedclothes.
A damp cloth was pressed to his lips and he felt the tingle of magic curl around him. He recognised the Coal Tar scent of Poppy on the hand that moved to wipe his face and the smell of the disinfectant potion – his own – on her sleeve.
Events took an uneven turn after that. Sometimes he felt as though days had passed between one of Poppy’s visits and the next; at other times he thought she was always there. When the days, and the events filling them, settled and clarified in his mind, Severus was amazed to find it had only been two days since the Dark Lord had called him.
Albus, wearing a weak attempt at a cheerful smile, was there to greet him with the news that, once again, Severus had survived.
Severus thanked him politely for letting him know.
Albus had other news. It seemed he couldn’t attribute this survival to his own artifice, but instead, had to award that honour to someone less likely to have managed the task. According to Albus, when it seemed Severus would drown in his own fluids, Potter’s panicked call to Poppy had averted his demise.
Of course, Albus substituted ‘timely’ for Severus’ ‘panicked’, but if there was one thing Severus recalled, it was the sight of Potter’s face. He remembered those green eyes, impossibly wide, first staring at him in confusion and then horror. Then Potter had dashed away up the corridor, before coming to a sliding stop when it occurred to him the infirmary lay in the other direction.
Actually, Severus was doing him another disservice, as he later found out. Apparently, the boy seemed to have some brains about him, because instead of wasting time rushing off to Madam Pomfrey, he had called one of the house-elves, a pet one, and had him bring Poppy down to the dungeons.
“Really, Severus, I don’t know what you were thinking of, going to your quarters when you should have come straight to the infirmary or alerted me,” Albus chided. He straightened the blankets across Severus’ chest, brushing at the creases with one hand, his undamaged one. “You had a punctured lung, my boy.”
Severus measured this diagnosis with his memory of the Dark Lord’s temper and believed himself to be in hearty condition considering how it had thrown him across the room.
“Well, I seem fine now,” Severus said, and then reversed Albus’ attentions to his blankets, scrunching them up in his hands, to prove just how much himself he was. “Did Poppy say when I could get out of bed?”
Albus looked at him carefully, probably assessing him against one of the matron’s unfathomable indexes. “You may resume your duties the day after tomorrow,” said Albus confidently, as though he had been graced with the key.
Severus thought about that for a while, judged how sore he felt still.
“Then I shall wish you goodnight,” he said with deliberate emphasis.
“Of course, of course.” Albus flipped his beard, a habit that told Severus how worried he had been. “Perhaps you will be well enough for another visitor later.”
Severus must have fallen fast asleep then, because when next he peered from under his eyelids, Potter was sitting in Albus’ seat, reading. He closed them again hurriedly.
Since that Sunday, when Potter had turned up at the door of his chambers to offer his apologies, Severus had found himself to be the boy’s new hobby. A week hadn’t gone by that he hadn’t found Potter shuffling his feet in his office doorway. Whether it was with questions about the Headmaster’s plans, discussions on Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, or weighing the likelihood of which of the sides would win the games, Potter had begun to invade Severus’ free time.
Although he had to admit the boy had engaging ways when he wanted to utilize them, this was such a novel experience that Severus found it almost impossible to deal with. He thought the boy would avoid him as much as ever, perhaps holding him in reserve should he want to know what was going on, what plans were being made. However, Severus had become his primary source of information.
He sighed and ordered his eyes to open so he could get this over with.
“Potter.”
The boy startled in his chair, bumping his knee painfully against the metal bed-frame.
“Hello, Professor. Erm, how are you feeling?”
Severus looked at him hard: there was something different about Potter today, something in the way he was looking at Severus. Narrowing his eyes, he stared suspiciously at the boy.
“As well as one can expect after being mistaken for a javelin.”
The boy blinked once or twice and then nervously looked towards the door to the main infirmary ward. That was the problem with such relationships – if one could accurately describe what he and Potter had as a relationship. Severus generally found that to veer off the delineated path of business into a more casual setting was to lose all fluency between him and his conversant.
Of course, it helped if said conversant had been there to witness the Dark Lord’s tantrum.
“What I mean, Potter, is that having been flung into a brick wall from the force of a well-aimed Confringo, I am exceedingly fortunate,” he explained. His tone betrayed his resignation to such treatment, but inside, Severus also felt strangely light-headed – light-hearted as well.
He glanced to the bedside table and noted the half-empty bottle of Remissio, one of his own muscle relaxants that also worked on the brain. The potion had the unfortunate effect of creating a mood of lethargy and fuzziness, as though one had cotton wool filling the ears, and he tried to fight the unsettling sensations.
“Oh, right.” Potter shuffled back into his chair, then thought better of it, and moved forwards again. “Erm, who cursed you, sir?”
Hoping this meant they were back on a business footing, Severus was willing to oblige.
“The Dark Lord. He was unhappy when I was unable to provide him with an update on Mr Malfoy’s progress and so shot the messenger, so to speak,” he said after making certain the door of the side-ward was closed.
Potter nodded slowly, seeming to mull that over.
That earlier feeling, the one that had told Severus there was something different about the boy, again materialized.
With eyes almost burning with the intensity of his thoughts, Potter hunched over towards Severus, elbows on his knees. “Who knows, sir? Knows about all this?” He nodded in the general direction of Severus’ chest. “You know, that you have to endure things like this, I mean.”
Severus looked at him blankly for a moment, before he grasped the point.
“From the Order?” He scoffed. “No one but Albus and Poppy know, Mr Potter. No one else.”
The boy shook his head slightly in amazement. “That... That’s incredible!” he said, awed.
Sighing, Severus hastened to disabuse him of his opinion. “Not at all. If the Order were to know of what I...” Discomfited, he waved a finger. “...go through, then it would make them less likely to accept my betrayal when it comes.”
“But, sir, that’s—”
“That is strategy, Mr Potter. You know as well as I how these games are played.”
“But how can they not trust you, sir? They know you’re in the Order, that you spy for us, so won’t they not believe it when you seem to betray us?”
Severus almost laughed aloud at that – almost. However, it was too far the other side of ironic to allow the laughter air. Should he remind the boy that until very recently, he had counted Severus as dark no matter how much proof swore to the contrary?
He aimed an intent eye at the boy, determined to impress upon him the truth.
“I am a pawn, Potter; a pawn to the Headmaster’s queen. It matters not what happens to me as long as I remain in position on the board. That position needs to be observed with scepticism if we are to be successful in our ploy to fool the other player – the Dark Lord – against realising his good little black pawn is actually working for the white to win. To do that successfully, I make isolated moves of which the other of Professor Dumbledore’s pieces are unaware in advance. So, yes, while they are told I am a subterfuge white, some of my moves have been designed purposely to encourage suspicion.
“You know this,” he added, pointing a finger. “Otherwise the Order would know of the Headmaster’s plans for his death.”
“Look, this isn’t some game though, is it? This is your life, sir!”
“One and the same, Mr Potter. All of us pieces just waiting to be played.”
“No... I can’t—”
“Everything has been in place many years. Every one of the Headmaster’s pieces has been in position ready for the game to begin, their moves handed to them on scripts.” He sobered his tone. “Including you, Mr Potter – think about it!”
For once, the boy seemed to do just as he was told. They settled into silence and Severus watched Potter’s wheels turning, could almost see him recall events of the past, see them playing out in his mind.
After a minute of Potter looking at but not seeing Severus, his eyes lost their faraway look and grew fierce. Severus stalled what he knew was coming next.
“Don’t you dare think the Headmaster deserves criticism,” he said. “He has done more, sacrificed more, than any one of us. For the past twenty years, his whole life has been devoted to eradicating the threat of the Dark Lord. Yes, he has manipulated us, picked us up and moved us into our positions, but he has done no less to himself. He knew right from the beginning that this war would need carefully considered manoeuvres if there were to be any hope of winning. No one else stepped forward to do it, everyone else either buried their heads or ensured they were at least below the parapet.
“It is mean repayment to blame him if there are some things he has done not to our taste. Albus has given us his all – and more than that, to some of us. No one else would have made certain you had over ten years of normalcy before being drawn into a circus, Potter. No one else would have had the strength to take on the whole Ministry to persuade them their nightmares had been realised; no one else would have given a man like me a second chance after having taken the prophecy to the Dark Lord; no one else would...”
Noticing that Potter’s body had gone rigid, that his rapt expression had changed to one of shock, brought Severus to consider what he was saying – had already said. At that moment, their expressions matched: equal halves of horror.
“Potter...”
His hand, which had reached out to the boy, dropped when he scooted his chair back, putting distance between them.
“You... It was you who...?”
Severus closed his eyes, shamed by the ignominy of his careless words. Disgusted with himself, appalled at what he had done, he fought the impulse to withdraw into himself, leaving only a cold mask. Instead, he opened his eyes and faced the boy.
Of all the times he had meted out spite on him, never before had he seen such a look of betrayal, of hurt. And it troubled Severus greatly. Perhaps it was knowing he had caused the only other person who knew of Albus’ plans for Severus to turn his back to him, but for some reason Severus wanted – needed to make things right.
Unfortunately, the only way to do so was to reveal everything he held locked deep.
“Potter, I – let me explain!”
But Potter just shook his head, still staring horror-struck at Severus.
Severus ploughed on regardless, speaking over the small, desperate denials. “I cared for your mother. Deeply. No one has ever meant as much to me as she did. She was my friend – my best and at one point, my only friend. I cared for her... You need to know that. I would never have done anything to harm her – or you, a child. Her boy!” He closed his eyes, afraid to see that same boy leave. “Please, allow me to explain.”
Pride dictating he hold himself quite still, his soul nevertheless prayed to the gods.
Silence closed in, pressing against Severus’ eyelids. Then, in a voice of most unnatural composure as though he had aged ten years in as many seconds, Potter spoke.
“Explain, then.”
Knowing it would be easier if his eyes remained closed, as if he were alone in his chambers, just speaking to his pillow, Severus began to explain it all very slowly and with carefully chosen words
“I was sent to apply for a position here – to spy on Professor Dumbledore,” Severus began, pleased that his voice was calm and collected. “But he suspected, perhaps even knew who had sent me and he refused. Then, one evening I overheard Sybill Trelawney prophesy about someone with the power to destroy the Dark Lord. I heard only half of it and understood less, but still took it to my master – and he was my master. I had joined the Death Eaters because I wanted a return to the old ways, to see an end to the increase in Muggle culture seeping into our world. I wanted to belong to it, belong to this new reversal towards the mores of elemental magic.
“I had heard stories of Muggle killings, but thought them either exaggerated or as the necessary removal of specific threats. It was only some time after that I realised the Dark Lord was intent on a pogrom of sorts... Found out that I was expected to kill. By then there was no option of leaving... Not that I think I would have... I still yearned for comradeship... to belong.”
Severus blanched at the admission of such weakness; felt the need to smash Potter’s pretty face and tell him to get the fuck away. Instead, he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and continued. “So I took the prophecy to the Dark Lord and then scuttled back into my hole... Months later I found he had interpreted the thing to mean that Lily – my Lily – must die. I begged him to spare her... begged him. And he scoffed at me. Then, I went to Albus – Professor Dumbledore – and told him everything. When he asked me to, I offered myself up to him as his spy: his black pawn in the hands of the white queen. And still, she died. Lily died...”
From the other side of the door, the faint sounds of the infirmary’s daily routine were heard in the hush of the room. Severus wanted to cry out; to scream that something important – something fundamental – was happening here! It was unconscionable to hear the rattle and clatter of bottles on trays, the mumbles of business as usual, while what was happening in here was being ignored. A dousing blanket of quiet should have lain over everything and everyone. All ears should be turned towards this room, this small, stifling space of bright light and mirrors.
And Severus needed that awareness, both good and bad, for both castigation and comfort.
He took a deep breath and continued quietly.
“Ever since that time I have affirmed a vow I made the night... that night. I have protected you and helped prepare you, and I have allowed the Headmaster to place me where he will. And I will go on doing that until the Dark Lord is defeated or until my last breath is drawn. But don’t think that a day goes by – an hour, even – that I don’t regret what I did. All that I did... and do. I know there is no atonement and no hope of forgiveness, but that is the journey I now take... that is my only road.”
Severus finally opened his eyes. However, he was not brave enough to look up and so concentrated on the rough weave of the starched coverlet. His hands, he ensured, remained unmoving and apparently casual.
He thought back to all those moments in his life when he had been at his weakest and realised that never before had he felt so defenceless. Not when the Marauders tormented him, not at the hands of the Dark Lord, not even when he heard the news that Lily had died. Now, in this moment and before this boy, he was at his most vulnerable.
“Did you...” Potter began, then cleared his throat. “Did you know Voldemort would go after my parents? I mean, if you were in love with my mum...”
Severus shook his head at the ridiculous thought tail-ending Potter’s words. “I wasn’t in love with her – no. No. She was my friend.”
Drawing a hand through his hair, he hesitated before replying to the rest. He had thought about this so many times, gone through everything that had happened in an effort to determine whether he could have done something to save her.
“I was too low in the Death Eater hierarchy to have known which of the Order had defied the Dark Lord... whether three times or otherwise.”
“So, you didn’t know it was going to be me.”
“No. But it would not have mattered. I told you that I didn’t understand the prophecy and I meant it, but what I did understand, I thought meant that someone would challenge the Dark Lord as an adult. It never occurred to me that he would go after a child – a mere infant.” Severus shook his head. “No, I would have had to do something had it been a child other than you.”
Potter kneaded the cloth of his robes between his hands, his gaze directed somewhere to the right of Severus’ shoulder.
“So it’s just like me then, with Sirius.” He flipped his gaze towards Severus’ face for a second before flipping it back to a spot on the wall. “I – I didn’t mean for it to happen... for him to die. So even though I bear some of the blame, I don't bear it all. It was Bellatrix and Voldemort’s fault, just as it was his fault my mum and dad died. It’s the same, isn’t it? You didn’t intend for it to happen...”
Severus stared at him; stared in outright shock and wonder. “Yes, it's quite similar... and no, I did not.”
“Right... The same...”
Neither spoke for a while and Severus, worn to a thread, was just about to ask Potter to leave when there was a scratch at the door.
Following on its heels was a muffled voice he recognised as Miss Granger’s. “Harry! Come on, it's curfew.”
He and Potter looked each other in the eye and, from the trace that was left, Severus finally realised what that look had been earlier. It had been respect, admiration. He wished he had known at the time, and then perhaps he would have been able to keep hold of it.
Gathering up his book and shoving it into his bag, Potter stood up and started to back out of the room.
With a jolt, Severus watched him with a sense of déjà vu: it was the same bag, the same backwards move and the same vulnerability as when Potter had left Albus’ office. And just as had happened then, Potter halted at the door.
He nodded, then jutted out his chin and said, “You’re not a pawn, sir; you’re a rook: the queenside castle.”
As soon as the door had swung shut and he was alone again, Severus whispered, “And you, Harry, are the king.”
“Everything looks to be in order,” Severus said as he handed the draft of his revised will back to the solicitor.
“It requires only your signature – magical and literal – and then it will be filed at the Ministry.” The solicitor, Mr Bridgebent, took the will and laid it out in front of him on the ornate walnut desk. “I feel it would be a dereliction of my duty not to make another attempt to dissuade you from this course. At least allow me to list—”
Severus cut him off. “Take my word for it that the beneficiary knows exactly what I own, and therefore what he can expect to receive. I see no need to itemize every crock, cauldron and Galleon.”
“But the wording, Professor Snape!” Bridgebent persisted, keeping a hand on the will as though he thought Severus would sign it without leave.
While Severus had no intention of adding to his instructions in any way, he did have some sympathy for the solicitor’s plight. Any lawyer worth his salt would find his delicate legal senses offended by the inclusivity the brevity of his wording caused. Severus did not care. He saw no reason why more than this one sentence was needed.
“It stands,” he said with finality.
Bridgebent sighed and then, after a momentary struggle with his conscience, slid the will back towards Severus and motioned for him to sign. Which he did, with all the elaborate flourish the perverse wickedness in him deemed appropriate. He smirked inwardly at the solicitor’s wince and slid the will back again.
After his more efficient signature was added to the parchment, as witness, Bridgebent nodded at Severus. “Your wand, Professor.”
Severus dutifully touched the tip of his ebony wand to the will and watched with relief as it glowed first white and then gold, before curling into a tight scroll and vanishing.
A long, pained sigh accompanied its disappearance. “So, Mr Sylvester knows he is to be the beneficiary?” Bridgebent asked resignedly.
“He does indeed.”
Now that his business was concluded, Severus felt no urge to linger. He stood and stepped back from the desk, sketched a respectful bow, and allowed Bridgebent to see him out of his offices.
Walking back towards the Leaky Cauldron, Severus trembled slightly from the enormity of what he was engaged on. Today’s dealings, both with the goblins and Bridgebent, took him one step further towards peace. They had been essential, necessary, as there was no going back for him; not since the time two weeks ago when he had paid the sleeping dragon a visit. And poked him.
Severus knew that to ensure his little side-game came off without a hitch he had to ensure the Dark Lord killed him with his own hand. The plan hinged on the Dark Lord’s style of removing those he wanted dead in an unequivocal and predictable manner. It would not do for the task to be handed to someone else, such as Rolfe or Goyle, who would have their own means of dispatching Severus. If Lucius were chosen, Severus’ plans would be even more complicated by sentiment – on both their parts. Bellatrix, on the other hand, didn’t bear thinking about, and Severus gave an involuntary, eloquent shudder.
No, if he was going to be killed quickly and conclusively, then it had to be the Dark Lord who did it.
For that reason, Severus was now walking through the drawing room of Malfoy Manor to reach the library: the Dark Lord’s inner sanctum. As he brushed a hand along the soft sheen of the sofa-table, he wondered whether he would get to see the master and mistress of the house. He hadn’t seen Narcissa since the night Charity Burbage had been served up as an agenda item, and Lucius had managed to venture outside his home only a few times since his release from Azkaban.
Even then, Lucius and Severus had had little opportunity to converse privately. For always, it seemed, there was someone with them: usually a fellow Death Eater and henchman for the Dark Lord. On none of these occasions had Severus been able to probe how matters stood with Lucius and his family. One only needed to look at their faces to know they were not faring well – and he saw Draco’s most days at the school should he need the reminder – but the intrinsic impact of a situation could rarely be discerned from the face of a pure-blood.
All Severus knew was that the family was being held in deep disgrace by the Dark Lord: punishment for Lucius’ malefaction at the Ministry and further compounded by Harry’s and the other two Gryffindors’ escape, taking Ollivander and the Lovegood girl with them. And that concerned Severus, for while the Dark Lord always extracted due penance for any mistake, he was usually quick to issue his favourites a pardon once it had been paid. This time, Severus doubted there was enough apology in a Malfoy for the Dark Lord ever to forgive allowing Harry Potter to slip through their fingers.
Severus glanced at the two chairs either side of the fireplace. He needed to know he would be leaving his oldest friend if not with a promising future, then at least in the possession of his life. It would also be kind, for both of them, to be able to say goodbye to each other – even if one of them didn’t know it for what it was.
His boot-heels clipped nicely as they left the muffling of the Aubusson to stride across the dark oak floor and he wished, absurdly, that he had danced upon it more often. Shrugging off his regrets, he walked into the room beyond.
Voldemort was seated in his usual chair, the one he had engaged for his sole use. Bellatrix was next to him, half-kneeling and whispering something into his ear. Whatever it was she said amused the Dark Lord, for his mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. Looking highly gratified at the effect, Bellatrix stood back with a girlish curtsy and then turned a malicious glare towards her brother-in-law, Rabastan, who sneered his contempt of the display right back at her.
The fourth occupant of the room stood aside from the main party, leaning against the window-seat with his head bent low: Lucius, wonderful, god-like Lucius. He looked faded, more worn and sunken than a month ago, but still he was Dionysus to Severus’ Maenad.
Of Narcissa there was no sign.
“My Lord.”
“Ah, Severus.”
Voldemort motioned him to come closer. With a short, curt bow, Severus took the cold hand in his and pressed a stiff-lipped kiss onto the air an inch above the long, thin fingers. Then, as he straightened, Severus twitched his eyes towards the wand Voldemort was twirling in his other hand; a wand he had seen held by another, far dearer hand than this.
From his left, he saw Lucius come forwards slightly, but only to the edge of the large rug, as though it marked the boundary of his exile from the Dark Lord’s graces.
It seemed Voldemort had also noticed the movement, for he smiled cruelly. “How shall I welcome you, my friend?” he asked, his eyes remaining on Severus. “As your host... you only have to tell me what it is you want and I will order the fine Malfoy to provide it for you.”
Severus felt Lucius’ humiliation flow towards him in waves.
By neither look nor thought did Severus betray his hatred for this Lord. Instead, he inclined his head gracefully and demurred, “Thank you, my Lord, but I came only to pass on some news of only minor import and then I must leave.”
“Ah, yes... It is as well I have such able men as you in my company, Severus.” Voldemort flicked a glance to his wand and Severus could have cheered at the opening when he saw the Dark Lord notice that Severus’ eyes had followed the movement. “Unfortunately, my reliance on others has been sorely misguided...”
The wand twitched in Voldemort's grasp and Severus saw Lucius flinch. However, no spell was spoken; there was only the sound of a brittle laugh.
“Tea, Lucius... For the four of us,” Voldemort said piling more retribution onto the Malfoy silver plate.
Severus took a seat close to Voldemort before either Bellatrix or Rabastan could do so. Pulling his robes to drape loosely about him, he watched uneasily as Lucius, chest heaving with mortification, strode to the far doorway with jerky movements. There, he clicked his fingers and the trembling, pointed ears of a house-elf, half obscured behind the doorframe, appeared at the call.
“So pleasant... So civilised...” Voldemort said in a silky voice when a tray appeared almost immediately beside him. He motioned to Bellatrix and she immediately began to attend to the china cups and saucers.
Without glancing towards the tea party, Lucius returned to the window and fixed his gaze on the fresh sight of spring turned to summer.
“It does so gratify me to be able to... host my friends...”
Severus accepted a cup from Bellatrix’s hand, bestowing a look of distaste on the weakness of the brew. She saw it and visibly bridled at the implied insult. Momentarily diverted by this insight into the housewifely pride of a sadistic lunatic, Severus gave her the same look he had given her tea.
However, his purpose here was not to gain petty points from Bellatrix.
He turned his attention back to the Dark Lord and indicated Albus’ wand with a nod of his head. As flatly as he dared, he asked him, “Your new wand, my Lord... Does it bow well to its new master?”
Voldemort stiffened. It would not have eluded him that Severus would recognise a wand he’d seen wielded daily by his employer, so Severus felt no more than a mere hint was needed.
“A wand such as that – plied by such a one before – would, I expect, feel wondrous in one’s hand,” Severus continued.
Bellatrix and Rabastan listened uncertainly, obviously aware of the sudden undercurrent, but just as obviously unaware of its cause.
The redness of Voldemort’s irises deepened to the colour of rich crimson. He studied Severus for a moment, all trace of assumed idleness lost to cold calculation. “My wand, Severus, knows its master.”
Severus dipped his head as though chastised. “Of course, my Lord. Your victory over Dumbledore would assure that.”
Deeming any more would end in dying before he wanted, Severus assumed the mien of one reproached and repentant and hurriedly changed the subject.
Citing the completion of improvements to the school’s curriculum as the reason for his visit, Severus then imparted his report in his usual succinct manner.
His words, however, made little indent on the interest of his listener. While most would think the Dark Lord attentive, Severus could tell his thoughts were elsewhere, and he felt satisfaction and hope blossom inside him.
As soon as he had finished his bogus report, he excused himself and rose from his chair.
“Well, my Lord, I must return to my duties.” He bowed, feeling the petals of hope spread wider as Voldemort looked ready to hold him, to restrain him, until he could fully deliberate on this new problem. “Thank you for the...” he glanced at Bellatrix, “tea.”
“Yes, Severus... You have done well...” Voldemort looked on him in speculation and then nodded abruptly. “You may go.”
After another short bow, Severus turned to leave the room and saw that Lucius, at some point in the conversation, had again left the window to stand at the edge of the rug. That beautiful face devoid of all expression made Severus pause in his stride. He nodded once – slowly – and held Lucius’ eyes for a moment before continuing on his way.
He felt that blank look, and one more precise and malevolent, pressing into his spine until he was safely back in the drawing room.
It was only when the gates of the Manor had closed behind him that Severus allowed his guard to ease slightly and revelled in the luxury.
With all his pieces set, Severus was ready to play.
Severus whipped his head round to look up and down the sixth floor corridor. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Severus hissed. “Think of what you're saying and where you are saying it!”
Slamming a hand against the rough stone wall, Harry rounded on him. “If you say one more time that I don’t know my own mind, Professor, I’ll go mad!” he rasped. “And the same applies to any thoughts you had of telling me you aren’t attracted to me, either. I see how you look at me. I know.”
Severus reined in his temper, but released the exasperation as he spat back at the twit, “You’re a fool, Potter. This flight of fancy is more than ridiculous. You no more have real feelings for me than I do for you. Whatever it is you think you feel, it is nothing more than transference.” He trampled over Potter’s attempts to interrupt him, jabbing his finger in the twit's face. “Yes, transference. You have distorted your feelings into thinking they are amorous when they are not. They are the result of finding yourself in kinship with me, two players in the same game; nothing more.”
If Severus had been able to foresee what very little encouragement could provoke with this twit, he would have shut the door in Potter’s face three months ago. Instead, he had blithely offered his hand of friendship, never thinking it would be grasped so eagerly... or so tightly.
“Transference?” Harry bellowed and before Severus could attempt to define the word again, he continued his rant. “Do you really think so little of me? After everything I've gone through, after everything you know I've been through, how dare you say that to me?”
“For Merlin’s sake, Potter. You are the classic depiction of a child in the midst of his first crush,” Severus said, cringing at his own words. “What you feel is our truce, our kinship morphed into misplaced infatuation. It’s not real. If we didn’t share compassion for a man about to die, or for the tool that has to do it, you would still hate me. You are blinkered by idealism and hormones and it is not real!”
Harry stared at him for a moment, his mouth hanging open. “You want me to excuse being attracted to you? Really?” He scoffed. “Okay, I’m sorry I haven’t shagged every guy I’ve noticed has a nice arse, but this is still new to me. I’m sorry for thinking your body and your voice are sexy as fuck, and I’m sorry that my sympathy and admiration has turned into something stronger.” He edged closer and hissed, “Feel better now?”
Severus glowered at him, but his usual edge had been lost back in March when Potter had first started to look at him with doe eyes. The boy just didn’t scare as easily as he used to, neither did he shrink from Severus’ caustic tongue. In fact, he was like a limpet, and it annoyed the fuck out of Severus.
Drawing himself up to his fullest height, he crossed his arms and looked down his prodigious nose. Before, this cure-all for impudence would have sent Potter running back to Gryffindor Tower, whimpering. Now, all it garnered were pursed lips and a mulish tilt of the neck. Biting back on a sigh, Severus moved on to his next strategy and tried to quash the boy's romantic feelings with less aplomb and more cement.
“Potter, you are a boy. A little boy who has yet to sort out his sexuality, and I refuse to be the object of your experimentation.”
This was half a lie, of course. Oh, Severus certainly did not feel an attraction towards Potter, but to say he was a boy was to be blind to his rather obvious and very manly charms. However, Severus hadn’t once directed a lustful gaze at a student for longer than his conscience called him back. And he would not start now.
Besides, if he were to angle after boys-cum-men, there were far lovelier morsels than Harry – the Harry who was at this moment about to erupt into teenage melodrama.
“Don’t you give me that!” Harry said, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth and eyes flashing in a manner reminiscent of Severus himself. “I’m not some spotty, day-dreaming idiot. If I were, I would have someone else in mind, I assure you. You know we have become close. You know it!”
But Severus didn’t know any such thing. From his viewpoint, this had started out as a wish to ease his own feelings of isolation and fear of the direction his role was taking him. The truce between them was built on their shared grief for Albus, and nothing more. He had to convince the boy of that.
“I know nothing of the sort, you wretched imbecile. You are delusional—”
“Oh, I am, am I? Let’s think about it, shall we?” Harry stepped back and pointedly raked his eyes over Severus, from stem to stern. “Your body’s great, but your face? Well, the least said about that, the better." As Severus opened his mouth to interrupt, Harry elaborated. "You've got a big nose, crooked teeth and your hair's all lanky. You've got frown lines the size of Cheddar Gorge and you wouldn’t know how to smile if your life depended on it.”
Those same frown lines deepened dangerously but Potter ignored them, his temper raging by now. “You’re too pale, too thin and too fucking angled. If this had any sense to it, you'd be the last man I'd be attracted to. But you’re fucking clever and you always have something interesting to say. Everything I’ve gone through, you know about – now that you’ve actually listened to me – and you relate to it because you’ve had an equally shit deal. When you’re not yelling and being a bastard, you’re a great person to be with – a wicked friend, honourable and brave, and a really good man to have at your side. And that's what I find so damn sexy!” He took a deep breath. “So, does that sound delusional to you, huh?”
It didn’t, but Severus also knew the alternative was too ridiculous and perilous to consider so he slammed the boy into the wall, stood nose to nose with him, and pressed home. “I repeat, this is romanticism. The nearest you and I have had to a cosy little tryst is having a cup of tea with the Headmaster or when you’ve invaded my chambers. Unless you count your numerous detentions, which I do not. The only occasion one could class as remotely romantic was when I said ‘bless you’ to your sneeze!”
He released Potter’s robes, the only indication he had grabbed them being the pain from having his fingers clenched tight.
“What you feel is merely castles in the air, clouds in the sky, and all other such claptrap. I, on the other hand, feel nothing for you that wouldn’t fit on an owl treat. In summary, I don’t feel anything for you – certainly nothing bearing the slightest hint of a rosy hue.”
Suddenly, Severus realised that standing in the corridor, demolishing a student’s sexual advances was not ideal. He swept his robes around him. “This conversation is over, Mr Potter.” Turning abruptly, he moved to walk away but was grabbed by the arm and yanked back.
“Please don’t walk away from this!” Potter begged, his tone deflated and a little desperate. “Please, Severus!”
Not intending to remain to pander to more nonsense, Severus jerked out of Potter’s grasp and sneered. “Poor Potter, is your heart all broken?” he mocked, and then continued in a harder voice, “Well, forgive me but if you want to indulge yourself in an abject romance, go and see our dear, dying headmaster. For that, Mr Potter, is a tragedy.”
Again, Potter tried to take Severus’ arm, but he dodged the hand. In his coldest, most detached manner, he said, “Have we finished here? Because I ought to mention that you are becoming rather a bore.”
Immediately he knew an impulse to retract his words. He watched as the boy crumpled and sank against the wall, his face and limbs sagging with rejection. However, this would be better for him in the end – for both of them – so he watched a second or two longer and then walked away.
If Severus regretted the loss of the connection he had started to feel with the boy, it was allayed by the knowledge that what he had done was for the best. Over the last few months Severus had come to realise that Potter was just as alone as he was, and had more depth to him than Severus had ever given him credit for, and so he was sorry it had come to this. But this inappropriate infatuation was outlandish and embarrassing, and needed to be dealt with before embarrassment turned into humiliation – for the both of them. And if Severus felt dejected, felt a certain sense of loss, well, that was no more than he deserved.
These reflections accompanied him back to his rooms and settled next to him as he lay awake that night.
As he riffled through his wardrobe, Severus wondered whether Harry often recalled the same memories that he did. If so, which one would he prefer? For Severus, it was the day they had spent watching the clouds in the overgrown garden at Foxield Yeat. He wondered how long the grass was now, whether the honeysuckle was in bloom yet. Most of all now, when his thoughts rested on that day, he wondered whether the clouds above the long house would show them each different shapes or, this time, the same.
Yes, for Severus that day was an oft-indulged pastime of memory. While he hadn’t realised it at the time, it had been of monumental importance, signifying acceptance, resolve and hope – a last hope. That had been the day Severus had come to terms with dying in this war.
Now he wore every detail of it around his neck like an amulet; each particle, each moment a charm he touched for reassurance and with an aching desire.
Shaking out the folds of a velvet top-coat he had rarely worn, he allowed the day to play out once again in his mind: hedgerows, long grass, broken doors, clouds with shapes in them, candles and come on a counter-top.
What was Harry doing now, he wondered; was today the day he and his friends intended to steal the cup? He still hadn’t heard anything of their plans and Phineus had become scathing in his criticism of secretive people. When said by this epitome of a Slytherin to another, about a Gryffindor, Severus thought it had been a fine joke.
Most of his robes Severus pulled out and added to the growing pile on the bed. He left only the bare minimum for his needs, just one or two teaching robes. The remainder he would pack into the waiting boxes, which in turn he would add to the stack already filling the cloakroom.
The same had been done at Spinner’s End, although there it had involved more Incendios than careful handling.
Not quite sure why he felt the need to put his affairs in order to this extreme, beyond the wisdom of leaving little for Minerva, his executor, to do after his death.
He hoped she would attend to the details herself and that she would have forgiven him by the time she reached into his boxes. For not only had he taken care of his clothing, he had also sorted and packed every scrap of history he still had. He would not like them to be touched by one who, just three days ago, had said he disgusted her.
Thus, he had embarked on the spring-cleaning of his life. He had been at Spinner’s End, separating the small amount of things he wanted to take with him from the bulk, when Severus had started to organize with a vengeance. It was possible that another reason for doing this was because the act of deciding what would come and what could be left had reminded him of how he had felt when going through his father’s things. The detritus of hatred seeped into every fibre of his clothes, each waft of his father’s Old Spice had brought with it a host of unpleasant memories.
He would not do that to Minerva.
Severus allowed the hand on his arm to draw his attention away from the Gryffindor table.
“Severus,” Minerva hissed.
He tilted his head towards her and frowned as he concentrated on deciphering a whispered message delivered through unmoving lips.
“I’m certain his hand is looking worse,” she said. “Do you think so?”
Severus knew so, but wasn’t about to tell her. However, he dutifully looked past her towards Albus and then faked scrutiny.
“If there is a difference it is slight. It could be one way or the other, I couldn’t say,” he said with more than a small twinge of guilt.
While she couldn’t know how mortal Albus’ injury was, a sixth sense seemed to be making her anxious without knowing why. Several times, he had caught her eyeing that hand askance, with an expression of loss ready to settle on her face. She had also started to distance herself from Albus, taking her tea alone or with Poppy or Severus. Lately, she had also taken to clinging onto Severus, hissing messages like this into his ear at rather inopportune times – in front of a hall full of students at dinner being just one of them.
At times like these, Severus felt odium for Albus curdle within him. He liked Minerva, really liked her, and regretted very much not being able to relax and enjoy her company with more outward honesty. He contented himself that even if she was unaware of the depth, she at least knew he held her in some regard.
That caused him to wince, which he covered by reaching down to rub at his knee as though he had felt an itch there.
What would Minerva – and Poppy – say to him if he did have to kill Albus? He wasn’t certain, of course, but felt it wouldn’t contain anything he would find soothing. He almost laughed at that thought. No, they would say nothing Severus would wish to hear. Minerva would probably try to kill him herself, and he thanked the gods that the act precipitating such intent would effectively sever his ties with Hogwarts, putting him out of range of her and the Order.
He wasn’t certain what the Dark Lord would have him do should he kill Albus and have to leave, whether he would set him some other task or leave him to hide out in retirement. But as long as it took him away from Hogwarts, he couldn’t find the emotion to care.
That wasn’t right, though: he had to care. Albus’ sacrifice – Severus’ sacrifice of his soul and eternal equanimity – demanded he try to remain in a position of strength on the board. He would have to ensure, one way or another, that he remained close enough to the other players and most of all to the Dark Lord, in order to be able to help Harry Potter.
His eyes were again drawn to the Gryffindor table. Harry was sitting with his friends, as usual, with the recent addition of Ginevra Weasley. Severus had watched them over the past few weeks, watched their little romance, and felt a malicious pleasure at having thwarted it with so many detentions.
Their argument – his and Harry’s – had unsettled Severus, but he was not quite certain why. Each time he managed to grab the feeling by the neck and fling it forward for examination, it had disappeared like a wisp of cloud in his hand.
Now, as he watched Harry, it was always with an uncomfortable feeling quite unlike those of before, but just as consuming.
When he had allowed his hatred for James Potter to dictate his dealings with the son, he had been torn between the conviction of a promise to protect him and the irrational desire to punish him for sins he had no part in. If Severus were to be truthful, even after their truce he hadn’t really conceded the last desire until forced to look in a mirror. That it had been Potter who had compelled him to do so was rather galling and only added to his confusion. Although it had confirmed that Lily lived on in her son.
Harry’s penchant for early mornings even on a Sunday had often meant he would inflict his presence on Severus while his friends dozed on. During one of these visits, in Severus’ office, Harry had challenged Severus’ assumptions of him, which had led to a discussion of Harry’s childhood.
As Severus had listened to Harry catalogue his life with Petunia and her husband, Severus had been inclined to scoff, which in turn caused Harry to lose his temper. The finale to this particular tantrum had stayed with Severus, long after hands had been shaken and tea had been drunk.
“Come now Potter; you had a good home, you were with your family; surely it was not that bad.”
“Oh, right. Yeah they were my family! The type of family that made me feel like a lodger! Very special.”
“If you think you’ll persuade me into dishing out the sweets and sympathy, think again.” Severus looked at Potter under bent brows. “You may not have had the childhood you think you deserve, but that is just peevishness talking. I know very well you had everything a child needs; perhaps not all you wanted, but – and you may trust me on this – it was a damn sight better than the lot on the plates of other children I can name!”
Potter’s lips thinned and whitened and his hands clenched into fists. “Do you hear me saying it was hell? No. Do you hear me telling you I had the worst childhood ever? No again. But don’t you try to tell me it was a good childhood, because it wasn’t.”
Snorting, Severus leant back in his chair. “Oh, I see. So this is why you arrived at Hogwarts a spoiled, petulant attention-seeker is it? Making up for what you didn’t get at home? If a little hardship, a few chores made you—”
“Chores? You’re not listening, Snape. My caring, doting aunt had me using a frying pan at the age of four! I slept in a cupboard when there were two spare bedrooms, and I had a pair of worn, filthy socks as Christmas presents and nothing for my birthday! Great growing up in a family like that, Snape.”
“Of course, poor little Potter!” Severus scoffed. “Did you feel yourself ill-used when not pampered and your every whim indulged? Well, from my position, that could only be a good thing. Your father grew up with the proverbial silver spoon – in fact the whole canteen of cutlery between his pearly white teeth, and I assure you it did his character no favours.”
For a few moments, Potter looked unable to say anything. Then his head tilted to the side and, in a much quieter voice, he said, “You must be a copy of your father, Professor.”
“I beg your pardon?” Severus asked incredulously.
“I just thought you must be exactly like him, if it’s coloured your view of all father to son characteristics. Are you, sir? Are you exactly like your father?”
Severus had at that moment picked up his quill, ready to dismiss Potter and return to his research notes. Now, his hand froze halfway to the inkwell, suspended by bone-clamping disbelief.
That question had the force of a steam train behind it and had hit his perceptions with no less devastating results. One thought, one conjured memory of his father, had been enough to halt any biting insult he could have levelled at Harry’s impertinence.
That day, his father, in all his selfish, slovenly, drunken ways, had rallied from his grave to stand in front of Severus’ desk, right next to Potter. Looking at him, remembering him, Severus had recoiled from the suggestion that he was anything like his father.
So why had he expected that Potter be the imitation of his?
Both of them had inherited their fathers’ looks, and both had the same mannerisms and certain facets of their tempers. So if Severus could see many differences between himself and Tobias Snape, why did he dismiss the possibility of such differences between Harry and James Potter? It was illogical and that he had ignored this for so long was dishonourable. And if there was one thing Severus prided himself on, it was his acute sense of honour – regardless of personal cost.
That day had been a breakthrough between them and had created a misalliance to form – one that had ended when it verged on inappropriate.
Which was why he was now confused about why, exactly, he viewed his feelings regarding Weasley’s elevated status as Harry’s girlfriend with such dislike. Possibly some of it was due to Harry’s previous conviction that he preferred males and this reversal, which was perfectly normal for one of such age, had galled him. But that didn’t explain the rest.
Another thought was that he had developed fatherly feelings for the boy. However, this thought was again accompanied by disorder; a mixture of Harry’s patent maturity and amorous feelings towards him, Severus’ treatment of him for over five years, plus the vision of Potter senior rolling in his grave.
Just then, the Weasley girl ran a finger up Potter’s spine while his attention was on her brother, and Severus smirked when he saw him wriggle and turn a look of irritation her way.
Most of all, Severus thought he missed hearing Potter scratching at his door on a Sunday, or trailing him on his rounds of the castle. It was his companionship he missed, their mutual dismay and grief for Albus that had brought him consolation for a few months.
“Have you tried everything, Severus?”
It took a moment for Severus to reengage the thread of Minerva’s conversation, so he had the discomfort of seeing her face fall before he could reassure her.
“Yes, Minerva, everything that can be done has been done.”
Her sangfroid buckled at that and he regretted being so careless. Offering her a smile to make up for it, he was yet thankful that he had told her the truth.
Severus chose a seat right at the back of the Muggle cafe, as far as he could get from the table where a mother sat with her three overactive charges, clearly at the end of her rope. She was a wan woman, aged not so much by the number of her years as by the sunless aspect of them. He briefly considered casting a surreptitious calming charm on the rowdy children, then thought better of it. She reminded him too much of his mother; the frown lines more of a feature than the lips they framed and the slump of the shoulders formed by an ever-present pressure from hands not her own.
Instead, he tilted his body away from them, then moved the plastic menu to hide them further.
These days, there was just too little compassion left in Severus’ soul to spare for others. In fact, it was all he could do to keep the last drops for himself. Besides, after this past year and the one rolling out ahead of him, he considered he was more in need of compassion than a woman harried by her children. Severus closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the frayed ends of his own rope just inches from his fingertips.
Harry was late.
He scanned the other customers, more to stave off his anxiety, his edginess, than an honest interest in whether they opted for the full English at half the normal price or were too aware of their waistlines to be tempted by the offer.
He stirred his tea, forcing his hand not to speed around the cup, and then spun the signet ring on his finger, as was his wont when feeling impatient.
“Severus. Thanks for coming.”
Severus looked up, not quite believing Harry was really standing there. A flicker of unease flashed in the green eyes, and Severus felt such a rush of relief at seeing it that he almost sighed aloud.
“Not at all. I bought you tea,” Severus said, nodding towards the second cup.
Courtesy demanded he wait until Harry was seated and had taken at least a sip of his tea before asking why he'd asked Severus to meet with him. It was a courtesy he could well afford if it gave him the opportunity to look hard at Harry, to take in the nuanced changes and interpret them. And there were many changes there to see...
The chin was darker than it had been at the end of term, more maturity obvious in the short stubble. So too was there a new hardness along the angle of his jaw. Harry was almost a man, if he wasn’t one already. Severus tried to ponder this question objectively, but the still-soft smile, the warmth in Harry’s eyes, held him biased.
Yes, he was a man. Severus could see that in the guarding of expression, in the hands held still and the resting of elbows on the tabletop. Nevertheless, the softness of the skin as Severus remembered it was still there on the neck, his fingers were still hairless despite the positive matting of fuzz on the lower arms down to the wrist, and he still emptied two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea.
“It’s good to see you,” Harry said.
Severus nodded, uncertainty holding his tongue notwithstanding the warmth in both manner and voice. He drank his tea and kept his face impassive... He hoped.
“I... I needed to see you. Is that all right? Just, you know, see you. Make sure you were okay.” A regression into the typical teenager’s fidgeting marked his discomfort and insecurities.
Bolstered by them, Severus set down his cup and relaxed his guard.
“Of course it is all right. For my part I was pleased to receive your letter, as I was also concerned about you.”
This admission seemed to do little to ease Harry’s shuffling and his face displayed only disappointment, not cordiality. Harry picked up the teaspoon from his saucer and fingered it, eyes downcast.
“You’re rather distant, Severus. I thought... I hoped...” He trailed off with a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment before trying again, “Is it because you’ve heard I’m not going back in September?”
Severus raised his brows but otherwise offered no comment.
“Is that it? Or, do you regret... kissing me?”
Severus felt like releasing a very, very loud guffaw. How could he attempt to separate the hundred and one different emotions raging through his breast right now? How to describe the tumult they created when massed together in such a small space. It was impossible to speak of any one of them in neatly cut, delicate little slices. Each one had strings attached to others, they melded at points and yet were wildly distinct at others.
One of the rowdy children spilt his glass of orange juice all over the table and into the woman’s lap. She stared at the child, her mouth working but no sound coming out. The child stared back for a second and then, as though a switch had been pressed, broke into loud giggles, pointing a finger at her lap. The woman followed the finger and looked down at her ruined skirt.
Her rope had just got a lot shorter.
As Severus remained silent, trying to pull his maudlin thoughts into some semblance of order, Harry’s face fell in progressive stages: from disappointment, regret and hurt right through to pain.
“Harry. Much as I would like my sole worry to be my feelings at having kissed a student – notwithstanding the feelings that caused me to do such a thing in the first place – the reality is that others are vying for their share of my attention. I think – indeed I know – that being manipulated into murdering Albus is winning, closely followed by the Dark Lord’s speeding descent into caprice and trying to avoid the more singular effects.”
Severus noted the sudden dismay on Harry’s face and could almost see the thoughts whirling and circling around Severus’ new position amongst the Dark Lord’s elite. However, he trudged on. “I admit that several do concern you, to some degree. As you say, your decision not to return to school next year bothers me very much. After all, was not protecting you one of the reasons Albus sacrificed himself? It makes it rather hard for me to do so when I will not know from one moment to the next where the hell you are!”
He took a much-needed deep breath and schooled his features back into neutrality. However, before he could move further down his list, releasing all the pent-up feelings of fear, loneliness and bone-deep weariness, Harry caught his hand. And squeezed before slowly releasing it, seemingly reluctant to let go.
“Severus, I need to find the... them! You know that,” Harry said. “How would I be able to do that if I’m stuck at Hogwarts?”
Severus laughed humourlessly. “Well, as you are sitting with Albus’ replacement, I would think the answer would be very well.”
The effect was everything he could have hoped for: horror, anger, distaste, empathy and sorrow. All these things played back and forth across Harry’s face, the last of them remaining long after the others had been pushed behind Harry’s own defences.
“You’re joking!” Harry said, leaning forwards and nearly upsetting his cup. “Surely the Ministry—”
Severus scoffed. “Oh, the Ministry does not know that I am Hogwarts’ latest headmaster, I doubt anyone beyond a few Death Eaters – apart from your good self – is aware. No, this is yet our little secret, the Dark Lord’s and mine. I am to be rewarded for killing the last headmaster by being given his still-warm seat.”
“I’m sorry, Severus,” Harry whispered. “So, so sorry.”
“It matters not,” he said, but he was nevertheless unable to meet Harry’s eyes and so checked on the woman and her miscreant children. She was gone.
Harry had settled back into his seat by the time Severus mastered himself to look back at him and he smiled slightly, ironically.
“You were afraid I would be angry and bitter about it, weren’t you?” Harry asked softly. Severus nodded after a pause. “Well you thought wrong. If I don’t place any blame on you for... killing him, then I’m not going to blame you for taking his place.” He narrowed his eyes then. “But I have to tell you, Severus, that it’s the shittiest deal you’ve been given yet.”
Severus raised a brow in agreement and they lapsed into silence.
As they harmonized their sips of tea, another feeling squeezed in amongst the maelstrom keeping Severus awake at nights. Now he was reassured of Harry’s continued support, he was calm and relaxed in his company and could be himself.
It seemed Severus was not the only one to have stepped into a pair of Albus’ shoes.
He refilled their cups from the teapot. Perhaps he ought to have realised it, but he hadn’t. Their relationship had gone from extreme hatred to a truce, from there to unrequited attraction – although that was moot in hindsight – to that very heated, desperate kiss in the midst of his flight from Hogwarts. No one would be amazed that Severus was unsure whether it had moved on again, into a state of disintegration. That it hadn’t, Severus viewed in terms of the utmost relief.
Sitting here with Harry, he suddenly felt very different from the man he’d been an hour ago. The bitterness and the other emotions from that rollercoaster time had faded, had been overtaken by the events culminating at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Severus was left with the sense that he and Harry enjoyed a level friendship without hatred, cruelty, resentment, passion or torment, or a culminating explosion of all of them together.
Sitting here now, the openness between them seemed more genuine, more natural than at any other time. He felt intense warmth towards Harry. A warmth that began in his chest and radiated to all points.
Perhaps he was not as alone as he had thought. Perhaps Albus’ absence would not be as painful if he had another friend with whom he could share it.
“I wanted to see you to make sure you were all right after that night. I couldn’t bear the thought of you tearing yourself up over it,” Harry said, interrupting Severus’ train of thought.
“To be honest, Harry, I wouldn’t know where to start.” He hesitated. “Would you know where?”
Harry reached a hand across the table and caressed Severus’ curled fist with an apologetic thumb, while shaking his head. It was the type of shake that suggested there was no possible beginning or ending to that conversation, so why bother trying. Severus appreciated both gestures, finding them strangely comforting.
“As you’ve told me many times, the pieces are set, the game is halfway done, and all we can do is play it through to the end,” Harry said.
They settled into another silence that was again, if not painless, at least oddly easy. It was the silence between two people who had a lot to say to each other, but who also knew that a thumb still rubbing a hand was a better device than words.
Perhaps he hadn’t lost Harry after all.
Lucius took the offered chair and draped himself with less than his usual grace. He avoided Severus’ eyes for a while, instead choosing to inspect the headmaster’s sitting room. Severus could almost see the wheels turning in conjecture when Lucius’ eyes rested on Severus' precious Potions and Dark Arts books, still in their packing-boxes and tucked against one wall. The eyes then took in other anomalous details, such as the un-Snape-like robe on the back of the door and the half-moon spectacles folded neatly atop an open book.
Severus had to wonder whether his indulgences in raking over the past in seemingly random fashion had a more fateful source. Comparing the Lucius of the present with his memory of the Lucius of the past was a stark study, the difference so marked as to be laughable. He filled two glasses with brandy, being more generous with one measure than the other to make up for who knew what.
It was only when he had handed him his brandy that Lucius turned his gaze towards Severus. But if Severus had expected Lucius’ observations of the room and the near-tangible air of speculation to lead his conversation, he would have been disappointed. As it was, Severus knew Lucius too well to expect any such thing.
“The Dark Lord is growing more unpredictable since Potter and the others escaped the Manor,” Lucius said. “Even more so since your visit. From being rather... vociferous in his cruelty, he has now become almost morbidly quiet. He stares for hours at his hands, speaking to no one save that snake of his and seemingly lost in thought.”
Severus nearly choked on his relief. The pleasure of the emancipation, assured now, causing his eyes to close briefly. A sigh escaped him and almost five years of tension began to seep out of his bones.
While Lucius’ shoulders eased a degree on seeing his friend relax instead of tense, his expression was of studied impatience. “I would worry if I were you, my friend. While the Dark Lord says little, what he does say is rather telling.” He paused to take a sip of the brandy. “Very nice, Severus. Not one of the school’s bottles, I suspect.”
Actually, it was, but Severus knew the remark for what it was and so pandered to Lucius’ need to extend these fading moments on centre stage. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs and gave Lucius his undivided attention.
“Do you remember the brandy we drank the night the McKinnon family were caught?” Lucius asked after rolling the brandy under his nose and taking a luxurious sniff.
Severus did: it had tasted of blood and was just as warm. It had tasted even worse when he’d brought it back up again. He recalled his head being cradled by Lucius’ soft hands, the back of his neck wet with Lucius’ soundless tears...
It counted as one of their worst experiences. The only way to cope with it, the twenty-seven-year-old Lucius had informed a twenty-one-year-old Severus, was to view it as the more crude and abhorrent effects of war, and to be philosophical about it. Thus, it was just something that had happened; regrettable, unconscionable even, but irreparable.
This was symptomatic of how Lucius lived his life, much to Severus’ repugnance. He might see and do things that were distasteful to him and some that no doubt secured him a reservation in hell, but of all the things Lucius disdained, self-recrimination ranked high.
They had never mentioned the tears.
“That was a pauper to the brandy we drank to celebrate your Masters. Do you recall the scent and taste of that one? It was woody and rich; a golden amber.” Then, and without pause, he said, “When he is staring at his hands, I should say he is always holding his new wand.”
Severus was so thrown by the non sequitur that he betrayed a little something to Lucius’ piercing eyes, which was just as Lucius had designed. He cursed himself roundly for the slip and readied himself for the challenge, neither shifting in his chair nor making matters worse with a flaccid denial.
On the other side of the fireplace, Lucius chose to ignore this response Or perhaps, Severus amended, had not issued a challenge at all. This was confirmed a second or two later when, after carefully setting his glass on the small table at his elbow, Lucius seemed to sag into himself. Already looking wretched and worn, the once-proud facade crumbled.
“Severus, for Circe’s sake, please tell me that whatever it is you are doing – and believe me, I do not wish to know – whatever it is, tell me you have made provision to extricate yourself.”
Much as Severus would have liked to comply, anything to have the Malfoy visage back in its hauteur, he was unable to do so. Instead, he did the next best thing. “I assure you that every move I have made – and will make – was in full knowledge and acceptance of the consequences.” When Lucius opened his mouth to argue or question or do whatever it was Severus didn’t wish him to do, he held up a hand and added, “That is the extent of what I will tell you, Lucius. Be content with it, because it is more than I would have offered freely.”
Looking as though he wanted to know more and at the same forget the last half hour, Lucius finally succumbed and picked up his glass.
They chatted for a strained while, then more easily about this, that, and a host of other subjects about which neither had any interest anymore.
Finally, when the mantel clock chimed eleven, Lucius stood and made ready to leave.
“It has been an enjoyable evening, Severus,” Lucius lied.
Which Severus compounded for his friend’s benefit with, “It has indeed.”
He helped Lucius into his outer robes and walked him slowly back through the office. Mid-room, Severus came to a standstill to allow Lucius a graceful exit un-chaperoned.
Whether again by design or born as a last minute thought, Lucius paused in the doorway, his hand on the latch. He turned and said in a soft voice, “I cried that night, Severus. Don’t cause me to do so again.”
Their eyes locked for a moment.
Severus didn’t know what Lucius saw in his eyes to hold him so, but he could see in Lucius’ suspicion jarring with hope and approval. In consideration of all the things he saw there, and all he had ever seen, he gave in to a most uncharacteristic urge to act on impulse.
He held up his forefinger to halt Lucius, and then slowly moved the hand down and out to his side, towards Albus’ old chess table. First, he picked up the king and moved it two spaces to the right. Next, he picked up the rook, fixed his eyes on Lucius once again, and set it down the other side of the king, to castle it kingside.
A look that was first dawning comprehension and then confirmation and acceptance spread over Lucius’ face. He stood there for a moment, just staring at Severus, and then he smiled slightly, nodded and left.
Later, as Severus prepared for bed, he explored the turn events had taken earlier. In retrospect, and with a return of his usual cynicism, he doubted the advisability of revealing his hand tonight. There was little question whether or not Lucius had missed the significance of the pieces; that while the rook had been black, the king had been white. Of course he had. The soft smile, however, so blatantly Lucius at his most honest, reassured Severus that he had relieved him of some burden.
Not for the first time, Severus would have to trust in Lucius and hope all would be well.
It was a fool’s errand to think about it further, as he couldn’t recall his confidences. He stretched his neck to ease the tension there and clambered into bed. Just before closing his eyes, he wondered which memories would plague him when he did, and could only hope that screamed pleas or carpets awash with blood would not be amongst them.
Of course, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he would travel the night through dreams.
The brambles caught at Severus’ boots and he had to do a quick hop-skip to prevent himself becoming entangled. He raced on, the cold of the night air sending shards of pain into his lungs. Behind him, he could hear shouts and the crack of spells being thrown and he tried to speed up.
He was just gaining on Lucius when he stumbled and fell against a tree, the impact dousing the pain in his lungs and replacing it with one in his shoulder. “Fuck!” Pushing off the tree with his good side, he lurched forwards only to stumble again, this time right into another patch of brambles. He tried to pick up his feet but the thorns had caught his robes and the more he lifted and twisted, the firmer their grasp.
“Lucius!” he cried, not at all ashamed of the desperation in his voice.
Up ahead he saw the shine of Lucius’ hair between two trees. The hair stopped and Lucius’ pale face – pale through moonlight, pale through horror – turned towards him.
“Are you stuck?” Lucius hissed in return, running back to him with his head bent.
Both of them were panting, their chests heaving, but Severus knew he was the worst off. “I can’t... These fucking brambles!” He tugged on the skirts of his robes – his first set that weren’t second-hand – kicking at the stems to free the cloth.
“Here,” said Lucius, “let me do it.”
Knowing the Aurors were close behind, Severus stood as still as his fear would hold him while Lucius prised him free. To their left he could hear others fighting their own battles with the undergrowth and wondered who they were. There had been so many there that night, on both sides, more than they had been led to expect.
“There! Now let’s get going. Hurry!”
Not waiting to see whether Severus was following, Lucius sped off, ducking and twisting between the trees and Severus couldn’t help but be impressed – and envious – of his stamina.
Finally, almost at the same time as he was ready to give in and surrender to the Aurors, Severus saw Lucius stop twenty feet or so ahead. Praising all the gods, Severus struggled up to him and bent over, hands on his knees.
“Come, Severus. We can Apparate from here.”
Severus would have liked to be able to answer, but his lungs weren’t taking in enough air for words. However, Lucius seemed to have taken Severus’ compliance as read because the next thing Severus knew, he was grabbed from behind, and then felt the pull and squeeze of side-along Apparation.
His shoulder and lungs both screamed their protest at the battering, and stole away Severus’ ability to think. With no idea of where Lucius was taking them, panic seized him and he fought against the hold around his chest. Fingers dug into his ribs, he struggled some more just before the pull eased, and they slowed to a halt.
They landed heavily, right on Severus’ already-abused shoulder. Crying out in pain, he pushed Lucius off his chest and curled into a ball.
Then the tears came. Not certain whether they were for himself or for the vacant, bloodied eyes they had left behind, he nevertheless gave in to them. However, once started, the tears erupted into great, wracking sobs. He tried to swallow them, tried to force them back down his throat with a fist in his mouth, but the sobs kept coming.
A gentle hand clasped the back of his neck tentatively and then gave an embarrassed pat before falling still.
“Fuck, Severus! Are you all right?” Lucius asked, his breath sounding raw between each word.
No, he was decidedly not all right. He hadn’t known it would be like... that.
That much blood from one person.
How could he be all right having seen that blood?
Severus’ own spell and that much blood...
After a few minutes, the tears abated and coldness set in. It wasn’t the cold of detachment or composure, but the kind of cold that came from fierce repudiation and self-hatred burnt black.
He felt Lucius behind him, still trying to stroke some calm into them both with the soft touches of an elegant hand. A hand that belonged in a drawing room, holding a teacup or a silver goblet, not one that had caused such mayhem.
“Did you know it would be like that?” Severus asked after a while, dreading the answer. If Lucius replied yes, then Lucius, the man who had ever been his idol and whom he hoped he could now call a friend, had betrayed him. If no, then there was no hope for either of them. Severus didn’t know which answer he would rather have, he just knew that he needed it.
But it seemed Lucius wasn’t going to answer.
Severus was just about to turn over to look at him when he finally began speaking, his words as soft and still as the night air.
“This journey to Utopia has no map, no rules, but it would appear that it takes us through hell,” he said.
Over the following years, Severus replayed those words many times, dissecting each one and the tone in which it was spoken, and decided the answer had been ‘no’.
Severus was thrust out of his dreams into wakefulness, his heart pounding. He looked to his side, recognised the room to be the chintz-filled bedroom of the long house, and dropped his head back into the pillows. Then, just to make certain, he gave in to the urge to feel for Harry’s head, make sure he was there, with him. The moment his fingers curled into the soft, shaggy hair, he began to relax. The dream, like a part-drawn picture, slowly lost its threat.
One hand still entwined in the hair, he moved over to spoon along Harry’s back, wrapping his arm around him to pull him closer. He rocked them slightly, rhythmically, just as he would do as a child. Harry stirred but didn’t wake, just growled out a cough in his sleep.
The dream had been a mix of truth and nightmare, one built from when he had been the Death Eater some still thought him to be and then into the realm of fear and horror. In it, he had been the one to go to Godric’s Hollow that night, not the Dark Lord. However, when he arrived, the house had been in darkness with no sign of Potter or Lily. He had crept up the steep stairs, his feet leaden and slow, until he reached Harry’s bedroom. There had been no light, no moon showing through the curtains, but he had sensed exactly where the baby would be.
Moving closer and closer towards Harry, pulled by the child himself, he had known something was very, very wrong. Still, he had moved on, only stopping when his knees touched the edge of the small bed. He raised his wand, ignoring the mutterings in the shadows that told him to stop – to look first. Instead, he drew on ten years of misery at Potter’s hands, every ounce of hate he had felt, and then cast the spell.
Green light billowed from his wand, reached straight for the child and enveloped him. But it wasn’t a child; it was Harry, his seventeen-year-old Harry. Severus had cried out then, grabbing for the spell to take it back, but it was light, only light, and his fingers felt nothing. Just before the room faded back into darkness, he had seen Harry’s face turn to stone, frozen and dead.
Severus shuddered and brought forth sunnier images to drown out the dream. It had been so close, too close. He tightened his grip, again causing Harry to grunt and cough. This time, he stretched like a cat and turned inside Severus’ arms to face him.
“Severus?” he murmured.
“It’s all right, Harry. Go back to sleep.”
“Why you awake?”
Severus hummed. “Bad dreams,” he whispered, nuzzling his cheek against Harry’s.
“What was it about?”
Loath to explain the dream but conscious of their promise never to lie to one another, he thought for a moment before replying with a simple, “Dying.”
“Your death?” Harry asked, more alert. In answer, Severus hummed again and kissed a line along Harry’s jaw.
Harry leant back, taking his chin out of the range of Severus’ lips and eyeing him blearily. “You know, we – you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. We could plan your defence; find some way of protecting you. You don’t have to die. It’s up to you, Severus.”
While happy to have diverted Harry from the content of his dream, Severus was not so happy with going over this old ground.
“Harry,” he said with finality. “I want to die. Leave it.”
“I know, I just need to make certain you won– we won’t regret it, because this is forever.” He snorted, “No turning back and all that.”
Severus closed his eyes against the pain in his chest. When he had first told Harry his decision, four months ago, he had made it plain that though he wanted Harry to join him, he would not pressure him into doing something for which he was not ready. He stood by that, but it still hurt to think of doing this without him.
“Harry, you don’t have to follow me. You can stay here, live this life. I will not force you.”
“No, I do know that, but I also know you want me to be with you. And I want to be with you too, wherever you go. I just need to make sure I...” He sighed and snuggled back into Severus’ arms. “I don’t know what I need; just what I want.”
Breathing in the scent of musk and shampoo, Severus thought about what Harry had tried to say. He knew well Harry had few enough ties to this life, but there was something stopping him from making the decision to leave it.
He thought back to their previous discussions, mainly held here at Foxield Yeat. Rehashing those words would do no good, however, as there was little time left for the two of them that he was willing to waste. Already the Dark Lord had snared Harry in his nets once; a net formulated from a complicated spell woven around the Dark Lord’s name. Who knew what else he would conjure, how despicable, now that Harry had escaped him yet again.
No, he would have to think of some words that were both new and portentous; something that would give Harry the freedom to decide for himself, without feeling that Severus was trying to push him into it. What he needed was to give Harry freedom to make his choice, give him hope be it life or death...
Hope.
The hairs on the back of Severus’ neck stood on end, a chill trickling down his spine. He remembered what Lucius had told him when he had given him the signet ring; about Byzantine men and how they would never remove their jewellery unless their soul told them otherwise. Severus’ soul was urging him now, the sensation of an imperative moment prodding him.
Pushing Harry away gently, he then lifted his right hand so Harry could see it, and, with his left, drew off his signet ring.
“This is all you need, Harry.”
He took hold of Harry’s right hand and started to slide the ring over his finger, but Harry curled them into his hand, preventing him.
“Severus! No, you can’t!”
“I can and I will,” he whispered.
Their eyes held for a moment and then, with a sigh, Harry opened his hand and allowed Severus to place the ring on his finger. He gasped slightly when the ring warmed, but otherwise said nothing.
“Whether you decide to live or to die, I am giving you a symbol of hope.” He looked at the tiny figure of Spes, turning her to catch the moonlight. “Always, Harry, no matter what, hope is now with you.”
“Severus, I...” Harry stared at him for a second and then leant forwards and kissed him.
As soon as their mouths pressed together, Severus knew this was not a substitute for words. Harry’s tongue brushed along his lips, nudging at them impatiently until they opened. Immediately they did so, the tongue curled to swipe along his palate, only to draw out again so Harry could turn to sucking and lightly nipping at Severus’ lips.
Harry moaned and pressed closer to rub his soft prick into Severus’ waist. A few little thrusts and it began to fill and stiffen – as did Severus’.
Severus shifted onto his side, hissing when his prick brushed against Harry’s balls. His hips jerked and circled, making the most of the available surface to urge the blood down and into his groin. Arousal pooled there, forming a tight mass of Harry-filled need.
With another moan, Harry rolled onto his back, pulling Severus to lie half over his chest. At the loss of prick-on-prick contact, Harry growled and tried to wriggle his hips under Severus’, but Severus stopped him, stopped the kiss.
Putting a hand on Harry’s chest to push himself up, he stilled, and looked into Harry’s beautiful eyes – eyes that begged to be made to widen, to flutter and glaze; except now there was only a question in them.
This was not what Severus wanted, not like this, not this time.
If this were to be the last time he would ever be with Harry like this, tasting him, being allowed to savour him, Severus wanted to take with him the flavour of everything.
“You’re going to fuck me, Harry. You’re going to come in me.”
Harry’s mouth opened and shut a few times, but the colour in his cheeks and the gentling of his features told Severus that Harry somehow understood.
Slowly, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face, Severus lifted himself off him and stretched out beside him. A hand grasped his, held it tightly, and then let go.
“That’s it, Harry.”
There was no need to say anything else, all he needed to do was pull Harry towards him into an embrace and then roll him on top.
Without any hesitation, Harry obeyed every pull, every arrangement of his limbs, until he was laying full length, his legs between Severus’ open ones.
“Merlin, but I love you!” Harry said.
“Then prove it,” Severus replied silkily and with an upwards thrust of his hips.
Harry’s prick was hard now – very hard – and Severus revelled in the feel of it sliding against the hairs on his stomach. In fact, he revelled in it all: the way Harry’s skin felt against his; the weight of his body; the hands pressing him down; and the way Harry was looking at him, feasting on him.
Most of all, he relished the feeling of having Harry take from him.
Severus intended no second of that gift would be wasted, so he fixed in his mind each point the two of them touched, recorded it, and then added their lips to the list.
He pursued the kiss for a few moments, using it to impress his awareness of everything his body was feeling into a memory. But Harry’s hips began rutting, his breath panting, and then he threw his head back and stiffened.
Severus soothed him, calmed him down and dampened the rise of heat by holding Harry’s hips and rubbing circles there with his thumbs.
Harry’s eyes had closed, his face scrunched with the effort to hold back the surge. As soon as he regained his control, he opened his eyes again and nodded.
“Sorry... so intense...”
“It’s all right, Harry... It’s all right.”
Once he was sure Harry had settled, he reached under his pillow and took out his wand. Feeding his hand slowly beneath his hips, he touched the ebony tip to his arse and whispered the three-tier sequence of charms.
Satisfied he would neither be embarrassed for his body nor hurt too much tomorrow, he patted Harry’s backside, saying quietly, “Come on, I’m ready.”
And Severus was. While there was residual tension in his legs, he felt no doubt or hesitation when Harry moved down his body to position his prick against Severus’ arse. It was not that Severus had never been taken before, because he had: just not by Harry. The tension stemmed purely from the knowledge that this would complete the changes in his and Harry’s relationship.
Gradually over the last year, the inequalities that had directed and governed them as professor and student had faded. Consciously and subconsciously, they had adjusted to a levelling of power between them.
This would remove the last bar, the last distinction.
Harry looked at him then, obviously searching out Severus’ mood, his needs. Severus gave them to him by raising his knees higher until his feet left the bed entirely and rested against Harry’s sides.
With a gasp, Harry dropped his eyes to where the head of his prick was pressing into Severus. Not moving, Harry just stared.
Severus used his distraction to swallow back the spear of pain from his anus and focussed on relaxing his muscles. As soon as he felt them ease, the ring started to twitch with want.
“Harry,” Severus growled. His prick had wilted slightly from both pain and the significance, but, conversely, the anticipation was there still, sending whorls into his stomach.
Without looking up, Harry nodded and then moved his hips forwards slowly, carefully. He paused for a moment, still looking down with his hand around the base of his prick, and then shook his head minutely.
Another growl and Severus had hooked his ankles beneath Harry’s buttocks and pulled.
Harry’s eyes snapped closed and he clenched his teeth, “Oh fuck!” he ground out between them.
Severus gave Harry a few seconds for them both to adjust and then again used his heels to draw Harry’s prick further into him.
The pain at first had the muscles in his arse cramping, but several tugs to his prick helped ease the burn until it faded into an ache. Once it had, he pressed with his heels until Harry was fully sheathed, his balls pressed against Severus’ arse cheeks.
It soon appeared that a Harry on top was a more vocal partner than the one on the bottom, because words – barely intelligible – were flowing out of him.
“So... so fuck-good... fucking good...”
Concentrating on his own pleasure for a moment, Severus worked his prick until it was fully hard again. Bliss began to seep into him, rivulets of it sketching a path deep into his balls. The dull pain in his arse was replaced by a throbbing pleasure as Harry thrust in and out of him, the slide of his prick wide and thrilling.
His balls, pressed tight under Harry’s stomach, tightened after only a few minutes and Severus tried desperately to stave off his orgasm. He wanted – needed this to last, forever if possible. Gritting his own teeth, Severus used his feet to drive Harry in again and again, releasing the pressure on Harry’s hips only long enough to allow him to pull out of his own accord.
They moved like this, a single parallel, and purred together: it was heaven.
Soon, Harry’s thrusts became shorter, with more rapid snaps of his hips, and Severus’ feet fell to the side, hanging and bouncing in the air with the force of Harry still ramming into him.
Severus exhaled a deep rumbling moan as his life became this one moment of time, one hinge of reality: no games, no death, no anything. He closed his eyes tight to enhance the sense of rightness as it enveloped him, just a second before the spirals and electric shards coalesced in his stomach. His body became a mass of flayed ends, indescribable nuances of separate reams of pleasure coursing down his spine and into his thighs, and then back up to his groin.
All this beauty of feeling, this wonderful connection, was against a background of Harry’s normal pants and groans, plus the new addition of a disjointed monologue...
“Can’t... Yes... Fucking-good-fuck! Severus...”
That was all he needed, all he needed to take with him of Harry: his name on a growl of rapture.
Severus pressed his head back into the pillow and bit his bottom lip savagely as his orgasm crashed in from his chest and shot straight into his balls. Every muscle in his body seemed to tremble and contract as come spurted out of his prick and onto his stomach.
He didn’t notice when Harry came, which disappointed him slightly; his body was still enjoying its afterglow and so he only realised Harry had collapsed on top of him as an afterthought.
Before heat and stickiness could take anything away from him, Severus gently slid Harry off him, onto the mattress. Once Harry had wriggled into a comfortable position, they lay there for a while, their chests still heaving, just watching each other.
Then, Harry smiled and so Severus kissed him.
This kiss was sated, neither as heated nor needy as earlier. It was a promise of sorts; a promise to let each other go should Severus’ road take him where Harry wasn’t ready to follow.
Strangely, Severus slept well that night, and the next; even when Harry had gone back to his tent and Severus to his role as headmaster, his dreams became calm and unsullied. It didn’t feel as though he had given up the last goddess, rather that she was now looking after the pair of them, giving them both hope.
The main doors were thankfully blasted open by the time Severus and Draco reached them, allowing them to hurl across the entrance hall and down the steps at speed.
“Draco! No!” Severus screamed.
Two Ravenclaws, no doubt attracted by the clamour, had skidded into the hall from the North hallway, coming to a halt to his and Draco’s right. Draco was casting hexes at them, wasting time.
“Just go!” he yelled again.
Draco, his face bleached of all colour and pretension nodded and ran ahead, his robes flapping and snapping as he flew down the steps and then, in a mad dash, he made to cross the grounds.
They got no further than the gamekeeper’s lodge: Hagrid stepped out from the shadows and stood in their way and Severus saw Draco stumble and slide, tears pouring down his face now; he began firing off hexes at Hagrid, who reared up and jabbed an umbrella at them, hexes streamed from it and Severus had to dance away from Draco to avoid them, his wand coming up automatically, a hex on his lips.
From behind, he heard a shouted ‘Stupefy!’, then red light screamed past and hit Hagrid in the chest just as Severus had half-turned, half-ducked to see that Robards had caught up with them and was speeding towards Hagrid, more spells careering out of his mouth and wand. Severus grabbed Draco by the collar and pulled him away, dragging him towards the gates where they could Disapparate. Jerking, Draco tried to brush Severus’ hand from his shoulder, flinging out his arm to dislodge it, but Severus held on, remembering his promise – a promise he meant to keep.
Then all hell erupted around them. Fire leapt upwards from Hagrid’ hut; flames flaring and twisting in the wind, crackling and raging; Hagrid was bellowing and cursing at Robards, while behind him, his dog howled with fear in the midst of the flames.
His heart quickening despite the cold vice around it, Severus revelled in knowing he was still alive. He could feel and think and hate and fear; he had thought he would feel dead – like Albus.
As they continued rushing down the path towards the gate, screams from the castle added to the melee and Severus, his fingers still gripping Draco’s robes, looked back over his shoulder to see a figure he recognised closing on them, running towards them at full flight – Harry. Further back, spell-light lit Potter into silhouette, hitting him in the back and Severus saw that Robards had again caught up; Amycus and Alecto yelled and laughed, almost skipping towards Potter, now on the ground.
They were only feet from the gates now and Severus launched Draco through them with a push from hand and wand, propelling him into a nose-ward lunge through the gates and to safety. Safety! No sooner had he seen Draco through than he was turning and yelling at the others to leave Potter for the Dark Lord and just to get the fuck away; they did, haring through the gates and Apparating.
Severus ran then, desperate to get to Harry; he ran, tripping and stumbling, losing all grace and favour with the ground. Harry seemed no nearer at first and then, suddenly, he was kneeling over him; trembles from whatever curse Robards had hit him with were keeping Harry down, winded. Severus pulled him up and dragged him out of sight amongst the guardian trees of the Forest; with Harry using his hands and legs to help, moving crab-like until they were hidden in darkness.
For many moments, neither spoke. Severus was too full of prayers and self-hatred, Harry breathing deeply and trying to suppress the tears in his eyes. They stayed like that, staring out over the grounds and at the growing crowd converging below the Astronomy Tower, their faces lit by the flames still raging from Hagrid’s hut.
The thick trunk of a tree hit Severus in the back and he accepted the wound gratefully. Slumped on his elbow, one leg splayed and the other tucked awkwardly beneath him, Severus gave his whirling mind full rein: anything to postpone rationality.
“Pr-Professor?” Harry stuttered, the single word shattering on his tongue. “Are you all right?”
Banality of the first order; an unquestionable inconsequence.
“What are you doing here, Potter?”
Severus squeezed his temples with one hand, relying on the other to stop him from falling further when dizziness threatened to take him down. From beneath half-closed eyelids, he turned to Harry and looked at him. What was the boy doing here, too close to Severus’ darkness, his taint? He should be with his friends, bathed in all that was noble and blameless, not here in the stink.
On his hands and knees, Potter chose not to answer, but to crawl over to kneel in front of Severus. He lifted his soiled hands and moved to touch Severus; Severus squirmed away, too disgusted with his own dirt.
“You should go back... Please...” he whispered.
It seemed others agreed, for a shout rose up over the tears of the faraway mourners, calling for Harry. Other voices, raised and becoming desperate, joined the call.
Harry looked back towards them, reluctance plain on his face, then back to Severus.
“Where will you go?” he asked. “Please... I need you – need to know where you are, whether you’ll be safe...”
No one should be this good, this compassionate: not to Severus. He shook his head, dismissing Harry, shaking his mind of all thought of him.
“You must go... If they catch me...”
That jolted the boy and he slid a few feet further into the trees, casting his eyes around the grounds and castle as though for a threat.
“Sorry... I just – when I saw him fall... I just needed to be with you...” he said and Severus shared some of his pity with him then.
Harry had so much kindness in him that it became a thing of wonder to Severus. Only once before – perhaps twice... But they were both gone now; one where he shared the blame and one that was solely his.
The shouts from the castle, calling for Harry, were now louder and Severus sat up, shook his head again and rose. He held out a hand to help Harry and they both stumbled a bit. Catching him in his arms, Severus was swamped by a sudden shift deep inside him. He closed his eyes, sheets of stubbornness and blindness falling from his mind. As they dropped, he saw Harry; smelled Harry and felt him; sensed him as marrow for his bones. Harry.
“Shit!” he mumbled and breathed in the scent of him, caressed him with his cheek in the leaf- and grass-messed hair.
He heard and felt Harry’s breath hitch and when the boy turned in his arms he felt no surprise at the want there in his eyes; Harry wanted and so Severus gave it to him in a kiss.
Their lips touched and a fire, just as hot as that still crackling beyond them, lit inside of Severus, bathing him, cleaning him, releasing some of the bitterness and pain. Outside, though, the kiss was one part desperation mixed with five of wonder: heady, needy.
Too soon for insanity, Severus pushed Harry away, peering at his kiss-bruised lips and savouring that they were his marks.
“I must go.”
Potter nodded and stepped back, but kept his eyes fixed on Severus.
The dynamics of their relationship had taken another turn and Severus was teetering on the edge of it. Unbidden, unsought hope crept over his feet, past the regrets and into his body; he wished and wished he could even now hate the boy...
Wished Harry was still a boy.
He walked away then, felt Harry’s eyes on him as he skirted the open grounds, keeping to the canopy of the Forest, down to the gate. He looked back only once, saw Harry standing there, motionless, and turned away.
“Severus. Severus!”
“Don’t concern yourself, Albus. I am all right.” He wiped away tears the recollections of that night had wrought and rubbed at his eyes.
“Oh Severus, if I could have seen another way... I was selfish. I wanted your hand near me if... I am sorry.”
“You know what I was thinking about?” Severus asked, turning to look at the portrait.
“Yes, I could see... I—”
“There is no need for another apology, Albus. You did what you had to do, as did I.” He stood and walked over to his desk, picking up a piece of parchment only to put it down and pick up another. He saw neither of them. He did, however, see the front page of the evening edition of the Prophet, the blaring headline full of what foolishness Gryffindors can contrive when let loose on the world. Severus ought to have known. A dragon, no less!
“I just didn’t stop to think what it would do to you. The effect it has had—”
Severus again interrupted him, “Albus, consider the favour you did me. If I had not had to kill you, I might never have thought to die myself.”
“You still plan to go ahead with it?” Albus asked, his voice full to the brim with both sorrow and understanding. “There is still time to change your mind. They could hail you as a hero; you could live as a free man. Harry would defend you, and you have my memories.”
“You and I know they wouldn’t be enough. I would be a pariah, always Albus Dumbledore’s murderer or the betrayer of the Dark Lord. I would be hounded from both sides for the rest of my life.” He hesitated. “Besides, I have goaded the Dark Lord into making plans to kill me.”
“What do you mean? How...?”
“I merely admired his new wand and informed him that a wand such as his needs to know its master.”
That revelation silenced Albus as effectively as if a gag had been painted onto him. In fact, it silenced the whole room. He glanced up at the walls and saw his predecessors either frozen in horror or nodding their appreciation. A stanchion of sympathy steadied him as he held their eyes, their gazes feeling like hundreds of compassionate embraces, no matter which emotion orchestrated them individually.
These past masters and mistresses had become Severus' staunchest supporters. First, he knew, they had done so out of regard for Albus and through hearing of Albus’ plans. But after, he prided himself on having won their esteem on his own merits. They had been witness to almost every move he had made in this game and were here, with him, to the end.
“And Harry?” Albus asked, his voice breaking slightly.
Severus knew not how to answer that, but out of respect for Albus and in recognition of a right, he answered as best he could. “I really don’t know, Albus. I think if he can die having won, he will consider it, but if there is any glimpse of a loose end, he will choose to live.”
“But you have spoken to him about it lately, haven’t you?”
“Yes, though briefly.” Severus thought back to that night in the long house, when he had given Harry his ring. “I don’t know, Albus... I think he may choose to live.”
“I... I’m sorry, Severus.”
“No matter,” Severus said, again picking up a parchment from his desk and moving it two inches to the left to avoid seeing the pity in those eyes – all those eyes.
“Perhaps you and he could steal some time together. At least say your goodbyes in person.”
“No. There would be little point—” He broke off to rub his left arm, his face suddenly shuttered and chill. “It appears we have run out of time, anyway, him and me.” With swift, sure movements, Severus drew open a drawer of the desk and extracted several items. These he thrust into the pockets of his robes, along with the loose change he took out of one of Fawkes’ old, beautifully carved seed dishes; the one Albus had used for his sherbet lemons.
“What do you mean, Severus?”
“I mean that Harry is here, in the castle, and the Dark Lord has been informed.” He swung open Albus’ portrait and pulled out the contents onto his desk. Lucius’ letters he placed in a neat pile in the centre and, next to it, he made a second pile of those letters in which Severus had inscribed his goodbyes. The bottles followed, twelve in all, which he placed in year order above the two stacks of parchment.
“How much time do you have?” the muffled voice of Albus asked, fearful anticipation causing the canvas to shake slightly in its frame.
Finally, Severus removed the leather satchel. Knowing he had no need to check its contents, he only pulled out the long, leather strap and looped it through his left arm and over his head. “Very little. If the Dark Lord has been called, it means the Carrows have Harry trapped or captured in or near Ravenclaw Tower.” On a whimsy, he popped Fawkes’ dish into the satchel now resting on his hip, wincing when he heard it scrape and knock against the potion bottles there. “I need to find him.”
“Severus—”
“I must go, Albus,” he said, securing the portrait back against the wall. He paused, seemed as though about to move away, then reached out a hand and laid it gently against the canvas. “So long, my friend.”
Albus lifted a hand and placed it flat to meet Severus’. “So long, my boy – my son.”
Severus dropped his head and willed away the emotion. With a jerk, he spun on his heel and strode briskly to the oak door, grabbing his outer robe off the peg as he waved it open.
On the threshold, knowing he would never come here again, he turned to record a final memory of the office and its occupants.
With a final nod and a small smile for the hundred or so faces, and a wider one for the man he still loved as his greatest, dearest friend, he left to find peace.
The sun was shining brightly, making mirrors of the puddles from the summer downpour and drawing them ever smaller as its late-June heat evaporated them. On both sides of the lane, cowslip and foxglove formed a phalanx of colour against a backdrop of the oaks and bracken of the woods.
This far outside the village of Cartmel, no house or cottage could be seen whichever way one turned. Unless one knew exactly where to look, that is. There was one house, once an abandoned long house, right at the end of the lane and tucked between a small copse on one side and the woods on the other.
It was neither picturesque in the chocolate box sense nor the stuff of fairy tale hags and ogres. The white walls were there, though faded to a pale grey, and there was ivy and honeysuckle sharing the front aspect. However, as their roots had already wormed into the lime mortar, their quaintness was superficial.
Overall, it was no more than pleasing to look at. The small, low-slung windows let in very little light and were placed as though someone had stood in the lane and thrown them at the house, remaining wherever they hit. The roof, too, seemed designed more for the benefit of mice and birds than the thatcher’s safety: too steep, too low, and too rambling.
If there was any beauty in it at all, it was in its location. Far enough away from the village to deter callers and yet near enough to make use of its services, Foxield Yeat was an oasis of peace.
At least, Severus had come to think so.
He walked the last few yards of the lane and opened the gate onto the lavender-lined path. Pleased that the old thing had seen fit to respond so well to his ministrations and stop squeaking and clanking, he was therefore gentle with a foot in kicking it shut.
At the door, Severus bent his knees and adjusted the bags in his arms. One elbow now free, he wedged it on the latch and pressed down. With an ungainly tilt, aided by another gentle kick of a black boot, he managed to get it open.
He shifted the bags again and shut the door behind him with backwards shove of his bottom and an “Oomph!”
As usual, the hallway was dark and chilly; the thick walls ensuring no hint of summer breached them. Severus strode along the flagstones, now clear of the grime of many years, and into the parlour. Here, he set the bags down on the table and rummaged in the pockets of his coat for the letter he had picked up from the post office. It was from Bridgebent.
He opened it hurriedly and quickly scanned its contents. It didn’t take long, consisting only of a confirmation that Severus’ new solicitor in Ulverston had verified his client as Mr Corvus Sylvester of Foxield Yeat. Now all the formalities had been observed, the property of the late Severus Snape would be released into the hands of his sole beneficiary.
With a smile of relief, Severus walked over to his bureau, folding the letter as he went, and tucked it away in one of the small drawers.
“Hello.”
Severus spun around to face the door into the sitting room, his wand already in his hand.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Harry said, coming into the room, his own hands held in a gesture of apology. He seemed to fumble for words for a moment and then blurted, “I tried to write to you.”
They stared at each other, locked in hopes and clouds. Then Harry shifted, and looked away.
“It was too difficult,” he said.
Severus leant against the bureau, all the strength flooding out of him to pool at his feet where his last hope lay. He steeled his face and heart and every other fucking part of him, and nodded. “I see.”
Harry looked up at him sharply, his eyes narrowed. Then they opened and a wide smile bathed the room in light and warmth. “No, Severus. That’s not why. I just didn’t know when I would be able to get here and so didn’t know what to say.”
He moved a step or two towards Severus. “Now I’m here to stay, Severus.”
“Harry Potter is dead?”
Harry grinned and bobbed his eyebrows up and down. “Quite dead. Although not as dramatically as you,” he said before sobering slightly, but not enough to erase the smile. “Hermione and Ron were against it at first, and refused to help, but when they saw how they all treated me afterwards and the expectations and... Well, it was just more games, and they finally agreed.” He looked at his watch. “If all is going according to plan, right now they should be arranging my clothes on the beach at Margate. They’ve promised me another hour before they raise the alarm.” He shrugged. “Just to make certain you still wanted me.”
The entire chattel around Severus’ feet leapt up to curl around him in a swirl of happiness and somehow Severus knew he would never again have such things chained to his ankles, impeding his steps. He was free.
“You have good friends,” he said, pushing off the bureau and walking slowly towards Harry.
“So do you,” Harry said, then reached into his pocket and removed Severus’ signet ring. “Narcissa Malfoy saw your ring on my finger when Voldemort told her to check if I was breathing. She touched it, seemed shocked to see me with it. Then she told Voldemort I was dead.” Harry took the ring and slid it onto Severus’ finger. “She told me after that she did it partly so she could go to Draco, but also for you. She said you would never have given away your last hope unless it was to someone you loved who needed it more... Someone your soul spoke to.”
Severus looked down at the last goddess, rolling it into its usual place with his thumb. It felt so very good to have hope again.
Everything was perfect; just as he had never dared to dream it would be. There would be no more games, no more strings being pulled; there would be no more servitude under a black veil of guilt. He had a life ahead of him – the life of a nonentity.
And he had Harry.
Severus took another step forwards. “Welcome home, Mr Ravenscroft.”
Harry’s whole body seemed to relax in relief, shedding its own veil of expectations, burden and guilt; he closed the distance between them.
“Thank you, Mr Sylvester,” he said.
THE END
In a game of chess, the queen is the most powerful piece on the board, but the king is the more important. The rook (often referred to as the castle) is ranked higher than the pawns, knights and bishops. Its role is to protect the king and queen from attack, as well as creating a defensive position for the other pieces: castling.
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