Ce Sera Bien
- Vain
5.26.2004
Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The lyrics are from the song Beautiful Disaster, and were performed by Kelly Clarkson and can be found on the album "Thankful." I am not profiting from this.
Summary: SS/HP post Hogwarts slash. Harry loves Severus. Severus loves Harry. And, for now at least, that's just going to have to be enough.
Rated: R
Length: Around 2,025 words.
Notes: SS/HP post-Hogwarts slash.
Many, many, MANY thank-you's to the sweet and tasty (XD) Apapazukamori for beta-ing all the way from Japan. 3 hugs Miss you so much, poppet. Any remaining errors are 100 my own.
Also, many thanks to those of you who reviewed this fic on my LJ. I was overwhelmed and deeply honored by your responses. Thank you all.
This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. SAME AUTHOR. SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME. As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.
Thank you for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.
For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see my Livejournal (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.
Please review.
He drowns in his dreams;
An exquisite extreme, I know.
He's as dumb as he seems,
And more heaven than a heart could hold.
And if I try to save him,
My whole world could cave in.
It just ain't right . . .
Oh, well I don't know—
I don't know what he's after,
But he's so beautiful,
Such a beautiful disaster.
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter,
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster?
"Well?"
He hesitates a moment, hand poised over the cauldron. He does not look up at me.
"'Well' what?"
I frown darkly and shift my weight while leaning against the door frame. The cold of the dungeon stone seeps through my black and green dress robes, but I ignore it. "You promised me you'd come," I remind him with more than a little irritation. I glance down at my muggle watch unnecessarily. "We're going to be late."
"I'm not going."
I clench my jaw and will myself not pull out my wand and hex him. He still does not look at me. It's not as though this is the first time he's done this. Or the second time. Or the third. . . . It's not like he's ever kept his promises—not these promises. Never. Not one.
I should not be surprised.
I look away from my partner of seven years and tell myself that the shooting pain towards the bridge of my nose is not a precursor to tears. Harry Potter, after all, does not cry. He stopped crying for good the day the Burrow burned to the ground, taking with it the entire Weasley family, including the newly-wed Ron and Hermione Granger-Weasley. No. Harry Potter does not cry.
And he certainly does not cry over a broken promise. Not even over eight or nine or twelve broken promises. Not even seven years of broken promises.
"But you promised," I repeat, wishing I didn't sound so hopelessly wretched. "The only reason I agreed to allow them to throw this ball was because you said you'd come. You promised," I repeat.
"Perhaps so," he pauses to consult a book on his work table and then adds something viscous and foul-smelling to his cauldron before continuing, "but, as even you can plainly see, I am currently otherwise engaged."
"Severus—"
Now he looks up at me, the clear warning in his eyes forcing me to bite back the words against my will. "I am very busy, Harry. Please leave."
"Severus . . . You promised this time. 'By hook or by crook,' you said. This time you swore you'd come."
He scowls at me contemptuously, obviously hating my apparently needy display, and tosses his head to flick his eternally greasy hair to the side. "I was mistaken."
And there it is. No apparent regret. No apology. Simply, 'I was mistaken', as though this was some sort of experimental potion he could just dispose of and re-make. Maybe that's what it is to him. I don't know anymore. Some days I wonder why I even care.
I take a slow, hesitant step into his laboratory. Though we've been together since I was twenty-two years old, I have never been allowed into this room without an invitation. I never minded, though; Severus has his boundaries and I have mine. War will do that to a person. We acknowledge the skeletons in one another's closets, but do not drag them out again. What would be the point? Part of that respect for one another's boundaries has always been to allow the other his space, but can't he see how important this is to me? Can't he understand that it's okay and I'm not ashamed? That, sometimes, loving someone this much is enough?
His scowl turns into a flat, cold glare as I step unwanted into his territory. I pull my robes tighter about my body as though cold, in spite of the hearth's merry crackle behind my lover's back.
"Get out."
I turn away from the chiseled obsidian chips that are his eyes and shift uncomfortably. "Severus, this is really important to me. I want you to be there."
"I believe I told you to get out."
I look back at him, trying to use my eyes to force him to empathize with me. "It's not like people don't know about us! They've known for years. So why don't you talk to me in public? Why won't you even be seen with me? Do you have any idea what people say when I'm always alone? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be utterly alone when you're standing right next to me, never touching me, never looking me in the eye? Why is it that you only love me behind closed doors? You don't have to be ash—"
Severus stands straight up and I'm suddenly aware that 5'8" is actually very small in comparison to his 6' 1½" and I unconsciously take a step back. His eyes are so cold, they burn me. "Get. Out."
I look at him for a moment, and hope that the light of the fire shining on my glasses hides the incriminating shimmer in my eyes. But he says nothing—gives me no indication that any of this even matters. And so I turn and walk away.
I take my light cloak off the coat rack next to the door and cast a quick glance around the dungeons I've shared with my lover for six years to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. I've pushed every issue in this relationship: our first kiss, our first time, moving in, making our relationship public, me coming to teach at Hogwarts to be closer to him . . . I've made every sacrifice. Every consideration . . .
But what really did I have left to sacrifice? I killed Voldemort at nineteen—two years too late for the Headmaster and a year too late for Hermione and the Weasleys. I had nothing left but an Auror career I didn't want, a flat that was nearly barren and cold from disuse, and a lifetime of nightmares that no potion or Occlumency could banish. I had nothing, really. I head out the door, careful not to slam it as I go. I had nothing, and without Severus, I would have nothing again. No one to cook dinner for, or to hold me after my nightmares, or to massage my shoulders after a long day of teaching idiot hellion teenagers who seem to think that there will never again be another Dark Lord. No one to kiss my right temple with curious tenderness when I get tired, or grade the last of my essays when I fall asleep over my desk and then carry me to bed. No one to make love to me in shower. No one . . . to love me at all.
I stop right outside our chambers and raise a trembling hand to cover my face.
No one to love this scarred, battered, too-short, too-thin body. Even if it is only behind closed doors.
I drop my arm limply to my side and stare at the blank wall front of me. I should go. It would not do for the Hero of the Wizarding World to be late to his own birthday party. I wipe my hands on my fancy, well-cut robes as I hurry off to the Apparition point and pretend I don't recognize the wetness on the tips of my fingers. After all, Harry Potter does not cry.
I'm awake when he finally makes it to bed. I begged off the party early, claiming illness. It's not too far from the truth, either. Lately I've felt . . . off. Thin. Like something inside me was broken. I don't understand it and sometimes I feel faint. I've even blacked out a few times, but thankfully Severus doesn't know. He'd merely order me to the Infirmary and make my life miserable until I went. Even after loving this man for seven years, I'm still not immune to that acerbic tongue when he sets out to hurt me. Or maybe seven years has just made me more vulnerable. I don't think I can tell the difference anymore.
He emerges from his lab sometime after 2 am and immediately goes to take a shower. He does it for me. He showers every day before bed to cleanse the scent of potions from his body and shortly after we started seeing one another, I noticed that the layer of grime beneath his nails vanished, and his teeth became whiter and straighter, and his skin less sallow. His hair was also noticeably less greasy after we'd been together for a good two months. I never commented on it, but I made sure to touch him often. It's curious how much he craves being touched. I crave it as well and he indulges me often when we're alone. Strange, how just holding onto someone while being held can be just as satisfying as sex, if less tiring.
He emerges from the shower wet and nude and towels himself dry with a towel he'd tossed over a chair last night. I feign sleep and listen to his nighttime noises as he readies himself for bed. I've got very good at feigning sleep during the war when Death Eaters captured me for a short time during my Seventh Year. Severus blew his cover to save me, but after that we reached a tentative kind of middle ground. Once Dumbledore died, he became my rock—my constant. When the Burrow was destroyed by Lucius and Draco Malfoy, he was really the only thing that held me together some days. Looking back, I'm always amazed that it took me so long to realize how much he meant to me. How much he still means to me.
My breathing remains smooth and even as he sits down on the right side of the bed. My body slides slightly towards the sudden depression. He pulls the covers up and slides beneath them, spooning next to me. I remain limp, the perfect image of sleep. Severus still thinks I can sleep through an atomic blast. I wonder what he'd do if he knew I literally wake up every time he rolls over or murmurs in his sleep.
He snakes his right arm around my waist and pulls me closer, pressing his face into my perpetually messy black hair. "Harry?"
I do not respond.
He presses a gentle kiss against my temple—his silent I Love You. "You stupid boy," he murmurs faintly against my skin. There is a fondness in the words that I rarely ever hear when he thinks I'm awake. "You stupid, stupid boy. When are you going to take the hint and find someone worthy of you? When are you going to . . . Oh, Harry . . ."
And he sounds so weary, so hurt, that I can feel that treacherous shooting pain in my nose again.
He kisses my temple again and leans over a bit to whisper in my ear. "I love you so much . . ."
I can barely make out the words.
Then he squeezes me to him, holding me so violently tight that for a moment I can't breathe. His arms stay wrapped tight around my waist as he settles down behind me, still holding me tight. It is only when I'm certain that he is asleep that I open my eyes and allow the liquid clinging to my lashes fall onto my pillow. I do not reach up to brush them away. After all, Harry Potter does not cry.
After several long minutes, I turn carefully in his arms and press butterfly kisses against his bare chest as he shifts slightly and mutters unintelligibly in the darkness of our bedroom. He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him as he goes, and I hold him tight, pressing my face against his chest and inhaling the scent of him. I love this man. The ache in my chest feels like a knife trying to carve its way out from the inside, but I love this man.
I take a shaky breath and allow myself to relax in his arms—the only place I really can relax.
So what if he broke his promise. It hurt, but it's alright.
It will be alright. Even if all I can do is kiss him while he sleeps and love him as best I can in the dark.
I'm longing for love and the logical,
But he's only happy hysterical.
I'm waiting for some kind of miracle.
Waited so long . . .
He's soft to the touch,
But afraid at the end he breaks.
He's never enough,
And still leaves more than I can take.
Oh, 'cause I don't know . . .
I don't know what he's after,
But he's so beautiful—
Such a beautiful disaster.
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster?
- Fin