Title: Spirits and Spotlessness
Author: Kedd
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: PG-13/R
Feedback: kedders18@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: Only in my dreams…
Summary: Snape ponders life, chairs, and Potter after Voldemort's defeat.
Note: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q-Fest, Three Word Challenge: lacuna, schadenfreude, querulent. It was late, and is finally online. Note to self, get a website. Many thanks, and lots of snugs, to faithful beta Ducky. Cognatus is Latin for family blood or blood-kin and ara is Latin for protection, a shield.
Spoilers: Some OotP references.
Archiving: Maybe. If you ask nicely… ;)
Spirits and Spotlessness
Long white fingers allowed the crystal to dangle almost carelessly from their tips, the pale amber liquid inside glinting pure gold when viewed with the flickering light of the fire behind it. The same golden tones were reflected upon the dark walls of the room, doing little to lighten the dreary atmosphere. The smell of the whiskey had long since pervaded the air, but the sole occupant of the room did not mind the smell, as it usually reminded him of better times. At this instant said occupant was attempting not to remember anything.
Severus Snape sat in his armchair in front of the fire, allowing the whiskey to roll over his tongue, savouring the smoothness of the liquid, the initial 'sting' to which he had long since become accustomed and the heat it left behind. If he had had a companion he might have commented on the fact that he could have easily traced the liquid's path down to his stomach, but the armchair opposite him sat, as always it seemed, empty. He had bought these armchairs long ago, when he first accepted this job at Hogwarts and Dumbledore's protection, almost twenty-five years ago in fact. They were plush chairs, covered in tan leather, the kind one would sit in and feel as if sitting, for however short an instant, was a luxury not to be forgotten. Although they did not come in pairs, Snape had bought one for either side of the fireplace being a man who liked symmetry and precision in all aspects of his life. Yet even a quick glance at these chairs would reveal the disparity that his life truly was. One chair, the one to the left of the fireplace, was well-worn, the leather creased, faded, and wrinkled. A small walnut table sat to one side of it, with a drawer filled with parchment, quills, and inkpots. In front of the chair was a small matching footstool which also bore the marks of long use, and had anyone shifted it from its place in front of the hearth they would have discovered indents in the rug that laid there showing the length of the footstool's stay. The second chair, on the other hand, was in prime condition. No matter when one walked into these dungeon chambers one would never find a book lying on the seat or a warm blanket placed within easy reach along the back. This chair, it would seem, was unused.
It could be said that the matter of the chair was what drove Snape to drink that night. Or rather, the matter of the chair's use. However that would only be half the truth. The other half appeared on the surface to be a matter of simplicity. Voldemort was dead. Witches and wizards world round (although particularly in Britain) were drinking themselves silly, just as they had been for the past several nights. Severus Snape, however, had never been a simple man.
Voldemort was dead. The prophecy which few had known about had fulfilled itself, although it had not been as simple as Potter walking up to the Dark Lord and Avada Kedavra-ing him away. Years of constant fighting had exhausted many of their options and their fighters, yet the months leading up to Voldemort's end had been filled with work, research, experimentations, and preparations. Besides, of course, the usual day to day existence and battles. Since the Dark Lord's return to power in Potter's fourth year things had gotten progressively worse for the wizarding community in Great Britain. The covert horrors had come to light with the Ministry's declaration of Voldemort's return in the fifth year of Potter's stay at Hogwarts causing an uproar amidst those members of the magical community too thick to see the signs before. (Privately, Snape thought that anyone too thick to see the plethora of signs was too thick to live.) After that, life became a flurry of declarations – those for the good, those for the bad, those in-between, and those not saying. Not that anyone had declared their support of Voldemort to the world at large, but Snape, continuing with his spying duties, had been privy to many of the testimonies of loyalty. Had, in fact, given one himself, although he had felt quite certain that Voldemort must have harboured suspicions about his true allegiance. Those suspicions had been confirmed beyond a doubt when Snape had been forced to rescue Potter in his seventh year from certain death at the Dark Lord's hands.
That had been the start of what, had the circumstances and the people involved been different, might have been called a truly beautiful relationship. As it was, there was nothing beautiful about it. For whatever reason, this time when Snape saved Harry's life it seemed to dispel all thoughts from the latter's head that Snape was evil. 'Or perhaps,' mused Severus, 'Potter had grown up enough to know that there is no good or evil, only shades of grey which vary depending on your vision.' Snape's acceptance of Potter as a member of the Order, and oftentimes working partner, might have had something to do with an understanding that came about as a result of the failed Occlumency lessons.
Over the summer months Snape's hatred of Potter had diminished somewhat; when Potter apologized in the fall of his sixth year the hatred fled. For Harry, foolhardy Gryffindor that he was, knew that no straight apology would make up for his grievous error and breach of etiquette. Thus, he cornered Snape one day in the dungeons and showed Snape several of his own memories. Dudley and friends surrounding a young Harry, who had been standing off in the corner by himself, and proceeding to taunt him; taunts turning to taps, and then blows as Harry's face became redder and his body bruised.....Being locked in the cupboard, in darkness, as a child of seven with the shreds of his secret journal in which he had made up the story of his life with his parents in their wonderful house. Harry's tears blending in with the ink and pen and causing the paint of the picture he was desperately and futilely trying to piece back together to run..... Another occasion when Piers suggested they play 'Potter Ping-Pong' a game where Harry would be pushed from one friend to another in an ever-tightening circle until fists were simple being shoved into his flesh.... Little constant pieces of torment - jabs, spit, snow down the back of his coat, books scattered across the hall, water on his chair, gum in his hair....His aunt and uncle ignoring him, pretending he didn't exist despite the fact he had blood gushing from his nose. And yet the memory was tinted with a vague sense of pleasure at being ignored, for if he was ignored Harry wouldn't be forced to wipe up the blood on the floor. Or punished for having let it fall there in the first place.... Although it had been hard to convince Snape to 'see' the memories, Harry had never regretted the fact that he had made the effort, for on that afternoon they gained an understanding of each other that was hard to forget. Snape realized that Potter hadn't had the 'carefree childhood' he had expected of the hero of the wizarding world, and Harry realized that Snape did indeed possess a shred of human decency.
This mutual understanding had proven useful to the Order in the years that spanned Harry's graduation from Hogwarts and Voldemort's defeat. At Dumbledore's insistence Harry had put off his plans to become an Auror, taking the necessary requirements to become a teacher (something that was much easier to achieve in the wizarding world than in the Muggle one) over the summer following his seventh year. This allowed Potter to stay at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's protection, a necessary measure following the murder of his aunt, uncle, and cousin at Number Four Privet Drive. The night of that murder would forever be imprinted on Snape's memory.
Although the Dark Mark had burned more fiercely than usual, Snape had assumed it would be a typical meeting for the Death Eaters. The Summons, the Gathering – some new information, perhaps a bit of torture (either of a Death Eater or of a prisoner of war), the Plans for Next Time, and then the Departure, either back to whence you came or off to have a piece of fun. It had, however, turned out to be as atypical as possible. It had been a cold February day, Snape remembered, the wind piercing all to the bone, and they had been summoned to gather outside. As Death Eaters apparated in around him, Voldemort stood tall on his platform surveying his minions. When the last crack had faded from the air, he began his speech, eyes glowing the colour of blood. In hissing tones Voldemort divulged the information that he had determined Potter's protection – his mother's love, and thence her blood. This was greeted with a startled silence. However the next section of the speech caused loud cheers. "Therefore," declared Voldemort, "I have eliminated the last of her blood. Dumbledore, the fool, did not see fit to protect Number Four Privet Drive or Potter's Muggle relations extensively when the boy wonder was not present. Potter's last living relations are dead. Any spell placed in their blood, has ceased to exist." Amidst the applause this announcement garnered, Snape's silence went unnoticed. A stunned blank had fallen across his mind, 'How the hell am I going to explain this to Dumbledore?'
In hindsight, Snape realized that perhaps he should have been more concerned about how to divulge this to Harry. When he managed to stumble into Dumbledore's office several hours later, Severus felt much worse for the wear. His hope that he would be able to escape quickly had been quenched when Voldemort had 'requested' that he stay for a 'special audience'. The Dark Lord had wanted to ensure that he would be told very nuance of Dumbledore's reaction to the news of the Dursleys' deaths – and of Potter's new vacationing spot. This had ended with a demonstration of what Snape could expect should he fail to deliver this information. 'Oddly enough, this seems awfully familiar to what I could have expected the last few times,' Snape thought bitterly, under the initial throes of the Cruciatus Curse, 'Not the most imaginative group of sadists, are we?' Despite his cynicism, by the time Severus reached Dumbledore's office his skin was several shades paler than normal, and his attention was focused firmly on preventing the trembling of his limbs. Perhaps that was how he managed to overlook the Boy Who Lived, who was ensconced in one of the armchairs facing Albus' desk.
"My dear boy!" Albus started, moving the empty chair out so that Severus could immediately seat himself in it, "Are you all right?"
Despite his best glare, Snape couldn't seem to quench the concern in the older man's eyes. "Peachy, Headmaster. Although, I am in a bit of a rush, so if you don't mind– "
Alas, he was to get no further. "Severus, old chap," ('Only Albus,' Snape mused, 'Could call someone a 'dear boy' and an 'old chap' only seconds apart and still appear to be in his right mind.') "The only place you should be rushing off to is the infirmary." A pointed glare reminded Dumbledore of Snape's thoughts on this subject. "However, I know that you will take quite good care of yourself in your chambers." A stern twinkle in the blue eyes informed Snape that Dumbledore would be checking up on him, and if he didn't find Severus' condition to be satisfactory he would have no problem moving Snape to the infirmary. "Perhaps a cup of tea would be in order before you give me your report?"
A small cough greeted this statement, drawing Snape's attention to the third occupant of the room. An eighteen year old Harry Potter, green eyes wide and clear behind his thick rimmed specs, blushed slightly and then began to stammer, an occurrence that would normally have placed a superior smirk on Snape's face. "I-I can be on my way then, sir." The too-small pajamas, worn thin at the elbows and knees, stretched tight across the boy's broadening chest, only served to make him appear more vulnerable. 'Obviously the boy's scar was hurting again,' Snape mused, before recollecting himself, with a quiet snort he mentally added, 'No wonder with the news I'm about to deliver.'
"Very well, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking at boy over the top of his familiar half-moon spectacles. "Remember that if your scar hurts again I would like you to come directly to me."
As Harry nodded his agreement, a caustic voice interrupted the proceedings. "Perhaps, Headmaster, it would be easier for all involved if Potter was to remain here for a few minutes more. The news I bring involves him directly, and his staying would prevent him being dragged out of bed. Again."
Despite the pallor of his face, Severus Snape's eyes gleamed as darkly as always, their ebony hues matching those of his hair in a way that sent shivers down Harry's back. 'And those eyes aren't the only things that send shivers down your back, are they Potter?' The internal voice was only too right. Recently it seemed that every aspect of the Potions Master was enough to thrill Harry to the bone – and to give him a raging hard-on. He had no idea when he had started noticing all this. Certainly during his fifth year he had still thought of Snape as a greasy git. Although it was also that year that Cho's antics had finally proven to Harry that his path was anything but straight. He had harboured thoughts about other boys – the older Weasleys (with the exception of Percy), Oliver Wood, and even Malfoy – before, but something about Snape ('The hands, the grace, the sarcasm, the voice - oh gods the voice - dark and deep and oh-so-sexy, the mystery of revealing what was beneath those robes, just one of the many layers surrounding him...') fascinated him immensely. And excited him immensely as well.
Quickly moving his eyes from Snape's before he could embarrass himself further, Harry glanced at the Headmaster to obtain permission for this unusual proceeding. Dumbledore, however, had fixed his eyes on Snape's face, a quirked eyebrow indicating his interest.
"Headmaster," Snape began, obviously trying to figure out some way to phrase this so as to make his meaning unclear to Potter, "The Cognatus Ara has been broken."
"But that would mean that – "
"Yes," Snape said quietly. "It would."
Harry became increasingly nervous as Dumbledore pierced Snape with a gaze before he spoke. "I believe I would like to hear the full account of this, Severus. Harry, I think you should sit down."
As his knees collapsed beneath him, Harry wondered what the news could possibly be. 'Ron and Hermione are here, so they're safe. And Sirius....' Well, that didn't bear thinking about. Deep down inside Harry believed that Sirius' death had been his fault and, despite the fact that nearly two years had gone by, the pain was still deep. But then what could have happened?
"Headmaster. Potter." Snape took a deep breath. "Harry. I have reason to believe that your relatives – the Dursleys – are dead." As he watched the boy's face lose all colour, Snape mused that perhaps that hadn't been the best way to break his news. As Potter continued to stare at him, emerald eyes wide in dismay, Snape felt the urge to fill the awkward silence that had settled over the three. Dumbledore beat him to it.
"Harry, my boy, I know you weren't particularly close to the Dursleys – "
Potter interrupted, still staring fixedly at Snape, "They're dead? How can they be dead?"
Dumbledore wasn't sure if it was the innocence of the words or their resignation that caused him to glance bewildered at Severus, who he noticed was merely nodding, as if this was a conversation he had everyday with a hated pupil. But then, conversations of this type were now occurring more frequently as each day passed.
"I'm afraid, Harry, that they are deceased. Voldemort seems to have been able to penetrate the wards around the house they lived in, and thus...." Snape trailed off with a wave of his hand. He had thought that Potter hated his relatives. 'He's having an awful strange reaction to the news if that's the case.'
Harry moved his blank stare to the fireplace. So they were dead. The only family he had known. 'But why would – oh.' His mother's blood. So it was his fault after all. "They're dead," he whispered, staring down at his hands, which in his mind's eye no longer appeared to be white. Instead he had an image of them as they probably should appear, coated with blood, the thick sticky substance covering them almost completely - fresh and wet in some places, dried to a crusty rust colour in others. And never would it go away. "And it's my fault." 'Just like Cedric. Just like Sirius. And who knew how many countless others would follow?'
"Actually, dear boy," Dumbledore said, "It's probably my fault. After all, I didn't have the same protective devices set around the house as I do when you're there. Only a few minor wards." A look at the solemn blue eyes confirmed Harry's knowledge that Dumbledore was being completely truthful. 'Perhaps...' he thought, before Snape snapped him back to reality.
"Au contraire, Albus, you know as well as I do that Voldemort would have managed to kill the Muggles anyway." Snape's voice was harsh. Tired and quiet, but extremely harsh. "He could have waited until they went outside your wards. He probably only went through them to show you that he could – a challenge and a demonstration of his power, I'm afraid."
To Harry's horrified eyes, Dumbledore's nod of agreement was a death sentence. "Then it was my fault."
"Harry –" Dumbledore began, but a swift glance from those sharp emerald eyes caused him to falter. It was hopeless. Harry would blame himself for all the deaths.
"Perhaps, Headmaster, you would allow me to speak to Mr. Potter alone?" The silky voice of the Potions Master invaded the air and two pairs of eyes settled on the seemingly unperturbed man.
A most unusual request. Luckily, Dumbledore thrived on the unusual. "Ahh...Certainly, Severus." Albus replied before heading into his personal chambers.
After the door shut behind Albus, Severus Snape shifted his full attention to the youth sitting before him. 'I may dislike the brat, but I can't let him go on thinking this is his fault.' In truth, Severus wasn't at all sure that he did dislike Potter anymore. Nor was he positive the boy was a brat. His ebony eyes scrutinized Potter carefully, trailing over the clenched jaw and the tight fists, following a trail that Harry could almost feel traced out on his body. He tensed, sitting a bit straighter, ready for threats, criticisms, anything he thought Snape might throw at him. The tension between them rose as Snape's eyes returned to meet Harry's and then abruptly vanished as the black orbs glanced away and the elder man sighed. Carefully folding his hands in his lap, Severus Snape wondered how to broach the topic he wished to discuss.
"Potter." 'Begin as you always do Severus. Why change what seems to be working so well?' How he hated it when the voice in his head was sarcastic. "I want you to listen carefully to what I am going to tell you." Looking once more at the young man in front of him, Snape received a nod in reply. He glanced down at his long fingers before continuing. 'Who knew this could be so difficult?' "My father was...not a nice man. He was used to having everything go his way, and would use any means possible to achieve that. He was weak. He was also one of Voldemort's early servants. I was the only child of his and my mother's marriage. She died before I left for Hogwarts, and he continued to try and mold me into his image of the perfect heir." Snape paused for a breath. He was unused to sharing any information about himself, particularly with a student. Potter however was sitting quietly, patiently waiting for his next words. Snape allowed a small smile to twitch his lips. 'And he's looking puzzled. Not that there is anything new there. Wondering what on earth my sad childhood could have to do with him, no doubt.' "My grandparents had always taken a keen interest in my well-being; more so after my mother's death. He encouraged this, after all, granny and grandad held most of the Snape family fortune in their hands. My fondest memories come from time spent at their house – brewing potions with granny, learning new spells from grandad, sitting and talking with the sound of granny's knitting and the smell of grandad's whiskey filling the air. They treated me as an equal, an individual who was to be respected and, more importantly, loved."
When he paused once again, he saw Potter begin to draw breath, undoubtedly to ask a question. "Not now, Mr. Potter," Snape snarled, perhaps a bit harshly, if the frightened look on Potter's face was anything to go by. "I'm sorry," he added, a bit more softly. "I'm just afraid that if you stop me I will be unable to start again." The memories were painful, more than he would have expected. 'And the hardest is yet to come.'
"Upon my sixteenth birthday my father held a huge birthday celebration. That night, after all the guests had left, he came to my room and asked me if I would be amenable to receiving the Dark Mark the following evening. I was a strong-minded youth though, and did not want myself to be in service to anyone, strong wizard or no. So I refused. Don't get me wrong," and here Snape forced himself to meet Potter's young, innocent eyes, "I agreed with many of Voldemort's goals. And I was extremely bitter, particularly after that stunt your godfather pulled. But I was not willing to be overpowered by another." Looking back down at his lap, Snape steeled himself for what was about to come. "He wouldn't accept no for an answer, however. It seems that Voldemort had been asking about me – had heard rumours of my talent with potions. So my father tried to bribe me, and then to force me," images of this torture flashed through Snape's mind – rape, Cruciatus, starvation, chains, humiliation – "before he finally made me capitulate."
Looking Potter straight in the eye, Snape quietly said "A week after my birthday, he threatened to kill my grandparents, his mother and father, if I would not accept the Dark Mark." Potter's gasp interrupted the tale. He could not even begin to understand how one would willingly give up their parents. He would do anything to get his back. "The next day, I joined Voldemort's ranks. Less than a week later, I had inherited the Snape family fortune from my grandparents. He had seen the power he had over me and killed them to prove that resistance is futile, and that love is intolerable – a weakness. Or something like that."
'For one that has been at the centre of so much death,' Snape mused thoughtfully, 'Potter certainly is very disturbed at every mention of it.' This was, however, one of the things Snape liked best about Potter. His inexperience, his innocence, his way of seeing the world as a 'happy, fluffy-bunny, field of daisies, rose-coloured' place. It gave Severus hope that his cynical, bitter, 'the world is a frozen wasteland with no hope of thawing' theory might be off.
"For years I blamed myself for their deaths. I was plagued with 'if only's. If only I hadn't been so good at potions, if only I had avoided my grandparents, if only Voldemort hadn't asked for me by name, if only I hadn't been so stubborn and strong, if only I hadn't let my grandparents love me. These thoughts brewed inside me. Twisted me, made me bitter. I began to resent myself – and I unleashed that resentment onto undeserving others through my involvements with the Death Eaters. It took me years to realize that this made me as bad as my father. It took me even longer to realize that if anyone was to blame for my grandparents' deaths, it was my father. He was the one who killed them. Not me. That was a major turning point in my life, Potter. The time I realized I had no reason to feel guilty about their deaths." Clearing his throat, Snape turned and locked gazes with the emerald eyed boy. "Don't repeat my mistakes Potter. God knows you don't want to turn into the bitter Potions Master, the least-liked professor at Hogwarts."
Harry jumped when Snape pretty-much voiced his own opinion of the man. Except, of course, for the sexy as hell bit. Feeling that finally, Snape was ready for a response, Harry hesitantly said, "I understand, sir."
Snape let a sneer curl his lip slightly at the frightened expression on Harry's face. 'So now I know what the boy thinks of me. Hmph.' But he refused to let Potter off that easily. "What do you understand, Potter?" he questioned.
The boy visibly paused. It was an awful lot to expect of him – to honestly say that he did not hold himself responsible for, nor feel guilty about his relatives' deaths, on the very night they had perished. Yet Potter met his eye as he said, "Voldemort is responsible for their deaths, sir. I am guiltless and should try and let my bitterness, my guilt go."
Snape had to smile. "Very good Potter. If only you would try and learn that quickly during Potions class." The two sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes, Harry stunned that Snape had not only smiled – 'An expression on him which you like overmuch.' – his mind chirped in, but had teased him. For that last remark had contained the tone of a friendly taunt rather than a cruel barb. It wasn't until Snape had finished the last of his tea that the silence was broken by other than the crackling fire. "Harry," he said, trying to phrase this in the best way possible, "I would appreciate it greatly if you would refrain from telling any others my story. You are one of only two people who knows it," here a glance at the door showed Harry who the other was, "And it may put me at risk if the truth of the affair was known."
'This,' thought Harry, 'has been a most remarkable evening.' For the third time in less than ten minutes Snape had flabbergasted him to such an extent his mind was completely blank. It wasn't until he saw the worried expression on the other's face that Harry recollected himself enough to respond. "I wouldn't dream of telling anyone about it without your permission, sir." He swallowed, and added, "I'm not like that. I know what it's like to have everyone talking about you, their noses in your business. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
Trying to ignore the lump in his throat, Snape quietly replied, "Thank you," before standing. "Tell Albus that I have found myself incredibly tired and will give him complete details of the meeting in the morning. Oh, and if you would be so kind as to also mention that there is absolutely no reason for him to check on me tonight at all, I would be immensely grateful." Receiving what could possibly be interpreted as a nod, Severus turned in a feeble swoosh of black robes and started to walk as briskly as he found possible towards the door.
"Sir?" Potter's voice stopped him midstride.
"Yes, Potter?" Snape asked.
"What happened to your father?" Harry could see the black clad body tense and then gradually loosen. Snape's head tilted slightly towards the ground and his voice just barely reached Harry's ears.
"I killed him."
Harry felt an icy finger trail down his spine at the dead flat tone of Snape's voice. He kept his eyes trained on the man's back as he left the room. Snape, deep in thought, was unaware of the sad and thoughtful gaze upon him.
Snape stared morosely at the bottom of his glass. It was as empty as the bottle lying on the floor next to his chair. For some reason the thought didn't bother him as much as he suspected it should. In fact, he felt rather empty, as though a curious lacuna had settled over him. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' he wondered, 'Voldemort's barely been dead three days. Every other witch and wizard in Britain has been inexcusably exultant, and here am I, ex-spy, I who should be reveling in my new-found freedom, barely content.'
Glaring at the red embers that were just beginning to die, Snape allowed his thoughts to take them where he would. 'Voldemort is dead. That's good. I'm no longer a spy, and most of those who would want to kill me over my betrayal are dead or imprisoned. Also good.' Scowling more furiously at the embers as if, somehow, this was all their fault, Snape took a deep breath to ready himself. All along he had known it would come down to this, it always did. 'Bloody Harry Potter.'
That was what was bothering him. Harry fucking Potter. Snape let out a low bitter laugh; had anyone been around they would have tensed at the dark sound. As it was, a mouse who had been peeping into the room hurriedly decided that perhaps the next room over would suit its purposes better. "You always were the root of all problems, weren't you Potter?" Snape asked his glass. Sighing, he got up to retrieve another bottle of Glenmorangie. Having identified the problem without the whiskey's aid he felt that he deserved its help in determining why Potter was a problem.
Settling back in his chair, he rekindled the fire with a wave of his wand and proceeded to nurse a fresh cup while pondering the Potter question. "Let me see," Severus muttered thoughtfully. He found that problems would oftentimes work themselves out if he though aloud. "I last saw Harry yesterday. Or was it today?" His tired brain was unable to process the passing of time as nicely as it did otherwise. "No matter, it was amicable enough. He was working in the infirmary when I dropped off the latest round of potions."
Harry had looked as tired as Severus felt. The boy had had dark purple circles under his dull green eyes which were nothing like the sharp emerald that normally dominated his face. The lines that creased Potter's forehead had seemed deeper and he had blinked a great deal, as if trying to remain awake. In fact, Snape had been surprised that Poppy had let him continue working – until he saw Poppy. He swore that the caring medic had lost fifty pounds since the beginning of the war. And she had very little aid – so many had been wounded in the last battle, and yet those who hadn't been were, for the most part, busy celebrating. A few, like Snape himself, were helping in any way they could. Snape had exhausted the supply cupboards (both his personal one and the school's) brewing batch after batch of Pepper Up, Dreamless Sleep, and Heal-All potions amongst others. In fact he hadn't slept at all, he was so busy with the brewing, until he nearly added seven newt's eyes instead of six to the Heal-All – a mistake that would have caused the potion to become poisonous in large doses; the type that most of the patients would need. Severus suspected that Potter probably had done much the same thing. One thing that he had learned from their companionship was that Potter was a hard worker.
That revelation had been entirely accidental. While the boy was in school Snape had never had reason to believe Potter worked at all. This changed barely a month into the first year Potter was teaching. It was October, and the temperatures were already dropping below freezing at night. The castle's corridors, despite a myriad of heating charms, were always chilly, a state which put Snape into an even worse mood during his patrols. He had prowled the school at night since he started working here, although officially he only needed to do so three times a week (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays) from midnight until three. The school was magnificent at night though; quiet, calm, almost museum-like. And the fact that he got to punish any students he came across was an added advantage. However, even Severus Snape got cold, and as all trouble makers seemed to be taking a night off (and since most of the staff never really bothered with their patrols anyway, relying instead on charms to alert them when anyone was out of bed) he decided to head to the kitchen for a cup of tea to warm up. Tickling the pear, Snape waited until the corridor was revealed and then, with a small smile on his lips, entered the blissfully silent, dark, and house-elf free kitchen. Making his way to the tea and coffee corner, Snape boiled the water and added a tea bag before turning to take his usual chair next to the fire. Unfortunately, in Snape's mind at least, the chair was already occupied. And by one Harry Potter none-the-less. "Potter," Snape growled, glaring at the boy whose wide emerald eyes were fixed on him, "You're in my chair."
The boy had the audacity to blink, as if this statement was beyond his comprehension. Then with a smirk, the infuriating scoundrel had said, "I didn't see your name on it."
Swooping over to the chair situated directly across from Potter, Snape sat. "That is entirely beside the point. Every member of the staff worth their pay knows that the chair you are currently occupying is my chair." When Potter just arched an eyebrow at him, Snape snarled, "What the hell are you doing down here at this hour anyway Potter?"
"Not that it's any of your business," Potter began, "But I'm marking papers."
"At two o'clock in the morning?"
Potter shrugged. "I couldn't sleep knowing they weren't done."
Snape looked at the young man levelly. He knew that Potter still got nightmares, if they could be called that. He looked tired, and the more tired he was when he slept the less likely it became that he'd be able to resist any visions. "Or could you just not sleep, Potter?" Receiving a sharp glance from his colleague, Snape raised a hand to forestall arguments. "I know what it is like to suffer nightmares; the fact that yours are occurring as you dream them only makes them worse." Potter shifted his eyes away from Snape's face, a sure sign that Severus had guessed the truth. "The more tired you are Potter, the more likely you'll experience these dreams. Your innate mental strength will be weakened." Snape sighed, and put down his cup of tea. "Come with me, Potter." When the young man hesitated, Snape snapped, "For goodness sakes boy, I'm not going to kill you. I was simply going to give you some Dreamless Sleep."
When he saw the relieved look in Potter's eyes, Snape turned and began to stalk away. Expressions of gratitude embarrassed him. Reaching his chamber, Snape went to the cabinet where he stored his personal potions and located his bottle of Dreamless Sleep. Turning back to Potter who was shifting nervously from foot to foot, Snape placed the vial in his hands. "Here. This is one dose. I'm assuming you know how to use it?" At the nod, Snape turned to shut the door, having decided that he had patrolled enough for one night.
"Thank you," came a whisper from the hall.
"You're welcome, Mr. Potter," Snape had replied.
The next time Snape had been on duty, he had entered the kitchen to get a cup of tea, only to find one waiting for him next to his chair. Potter was doing his correcting in the chair opposite, but for a change, the boy looked well-rested. They continued to meet in the staff room at these odd hours; Potter preparing Snape's tea, Snape in possession of Dreamless Sleep should it be needed. Eventually meetings turned to discussions; both welcomed the opportunity to discuss the war, and more specifically, Voldemort's perverted schadenfreude. Snape knew firsthand from his spying what Voldemort was capable of, however he had been dealing with the mindless torture for decades, while Potter had only recently begun to experience it. However, even Snape found that some of the pain bled off when he discussed it with a person who didn't shock at the mention of his past (or the mention of the more gruesome tortures). Harry found that it helped him to have someone who would listen to him without expecting him to do something about the cruelty. He also found that it was useful to have someone who could explain, to some degree, what the point of such torment was. Then, as the Order's business intruded on their personal discussions, they began to meet in Snape's chambers at irregular intervals. There was a certain comfort to be had from sitting in the plush armchairs listening to the cheerful crackling of the fire and playing a friendly game of chess, and both Severus and Harry would find themselves sitting in their chambers at night longing for the presence of the other, if only so that they would not be so alone and cold. Of course, Snape justified this by saying that he only wished for someone to beat in chess and since Harry couldn't believe that he and Snape were actually being civil and didn't want to impose too much in fear of being rejected, so they continued to meet irregularly and infrequently, savouring those meetings.
It was this sense of companionship, this human presence, which Severus Snape was currently bemoaning the loss of. Before Potter had invaded (for that was all it could possibly be) his life, Snape had never thought that a lack of contact with humanity outside that necessary in day to day life was tolerable, let alone something he would crave. Now, as he stared into the flames, Severus Snape realized that this contact was no longer something he could do without. "Bloody hell Potter, what have you done to me?" he demanded of the room at large. A sense of panic settled over him, though whether the panic was caused by the fact that he was actually feeling an emotion of sorts, or because Snape realized that Potter would no longer come to chat with him, Snape did not know.
For the Potions Master had no doubts that Harry Potter would no longer associate with him. After all, Voldemort was dead, and the lingering demons of memory could now easily be put to rest. Snape would be of no help to Potter's everyday life, and perhaps worst of all, Snape knew that there would be no way Harry would want his company now that life could return to normal and he could leave the castle whenever he wished to visit friends his age with his interests. For besides their horrible memories, what did the two have in common? 'Nothing,' cried the nasty voice in his brain, 'Absolutely nothing. And it's not like that's a reason the boy will want to come and talk to you. Right, I can just see it now, "Hey Sev, I was wondering, want to relive some of the worst times of our lives over a cup of tea?" Not likely.' Snape snorted, "No, that's more Albus' thing, anyway." Yet despite his frivolous comments, Severus Snape knew that once again he was hurting deeply.
Swallowing another gulp of liquid, he wondered how much longer he would have to see Potter around Hogwarts. There was no way the boy would continue to teach now that Voldemort was dead. He was positive, however, that Potter would finish out the term, so there were at least a few more months to deal with. Letting out a long suffering sigh, Snape had just tightened his fingers around his glass in preparation for another fortifying gulp when he heard a tapping at his door. Contemplating whether or not to open it, Severus discovered that he was too weary to care, and even then Snape found that he was not very concerned – if it was an enemy, did it much matter at this point if he died? It wasn't like he had anything to live for. With a false sense of bravado, Severus Snape picked up his wand and waved open the door, prepared to face death with his wand in one hand and his whiskey in the other.
To his immense surprise the only person who entered the room was a jean wearing, bottle carrying, Harry Potter. Once he saw Severus, Potter's eyes began to shine and then they widened in surprise as the Man-Who-Killed-Voldemort let out a very undignified squeak. "Why the hell have you got that thing trained on me for?" he demanded of the Potions Master who had kept his wand pointed at Potter as the boy entered the room.
Quickly placing his wand on the nearby table, Snape stumbled slightly over his words as he said, "I had been expecting Death Eaters looking to kill me."
Taken aback, for Harry knew as well as Snape did that most of the Death Eaters had been captured, Harry decided to ask the next most logical question: "Then why did you open the door?"
Already off-kilter, and perhaps a tad inebriated, Snape lowered his ebony eyes to the ground so that he was gazing at Potter's well-worn trainers rather than the boy's omniscient eyes. Speaking as quietly as he could, Snape mumbled, "Because I didn't care if I died."
Harry stared at the man sitting in the armchair for a long moment, and for the first time in a long time actually saw him. Even with his eyes downcast Severus Snape was an imposing sight. Black robes with a multitude of tiny buttons, a high collar, and long sleeves, the toes of black leather boots just peeking out from underneath the hem. But his skin was deathly pale and the lines in his face extraordinarily pronounced. His robes were slightly faded and hung loose around his emancipated frame, and his boots, normally kept shiny, were scuffed and dull. Here was a man who had lived under pressure for too long, one who was underappreciated and not well liked. And yet Harry still found him sexy as hell.
Purposefully trying to take an upbeat tone, The Boy-Who-Lived said, "Well it appears that I have a lot of catching up to do."
Blinking up at the young man framed by his doorway, Snape just wanted to know one thing. "What exactly do you mean Potter?" he demanded in a querulent tone. For Harry couldn't possibly mean what it sounded like he meant. This man, with his adorably messy black hair, blazing emerald eyes, soft red lips, and well-defined body must have somewhere better to drink than in a musty old dungeon, 'And,' added the voice in his head, 'Someone better to drink with.' For Snape knew that he and Harry were like his armchairs – he was faded and worn, while Harry was bright and in prime shape.
"I meant that perhaps we could share a few drinks together, in celebration of the Order's victory." Potter seemed to hesitate, "If you don't mind that is."
For a split second, Snape could do nothing more than watch Harry fidget nervously with the bottle in his hand. Then with a wave of one long-fingered hand, Severus said, "Sit down, Potter." As the lad did, Snape passed over a clean glass and watched with a sneer as Potter passed up his offer of top-quality single malt Scotch whiskey for Old Ogden's.
Having filled his glass, Potter curled up in the armchair he had occupied through many of Britain's darkest days, letting out a sigh of relief as he realized that no longer would he be coming to this chair to combat the forces of evil. Instead, he could rest here knowing that he wanted to be here and that Severus wanted him here. "So, Sev," he said, while carelessly swirling the liquid in his glass, "Why exactly were you drinking tonight anyway?"
"Perhaps, Potter," Snape commented snarkily, "I wanted to drink myself stupid and wallow in my own misery."
Harry felt his brow wrinkle slightly in confusion as he glanced at the drab man across from him. "So then why'd you let me in?"
"Potter!" Snape groaned. "Even you can't possibly be that thick!" At the confused, yet admittedly adorable, look on Potter's face, Snape sighed. "Think Harry. Why is ninety-nine percent of the wizarding world out drinking tonight?"
As his eyes suddenly cleared of confusion, Harry allowed himself another sip from his glass. 'So he is drinking because Voldemort's dead.' "But then, why on earth are you drinking alone?"
"I'm hardly alone, Harry, when you're here," Snape replied, his voice low and dark. If it had been Harry's first year in Hogwarts he probably would have run out of the room as fast as he could upon hearing that; as it was, he shivered and crossed his legs more in order to hide his reaction. "Besides, it's not like I have drinking friends," ('Or friends at all, for that matter,' his nasty internal voice added) "And I have more than one reason to drink tonight." Truth be told, his second reason for drinking was so close to the first they were inexorably linked. But there was no way he was going to tell Potter that.
A small piece of Harry felt like saying, 'The fact that nobody likes you and you don't have any friends is completely your own doing.' The rest and admittedly more humane portion of Potter felt a rush of pity. Snape obviously felt that he was destined to be alone, and didn't believe that could be any different. And yet, the man had at least one friend. Feeling awkward, and totally unable to express what he was feeling, Harry just stared into the fire and sipped on his drink while listening to the faint swish of fabric that told him Severus was doing much the same thing. As the minutes passed and his feet began to get warm from the heat of the fire, Harry began to feel rather lethargic and strangely content. There was no pressure resting on his shoulders, no demands that he do this or solve that or defeat thus-and-so. He could, for the first time in his life, simply exist, with no discernible purpose. It felt….liberating. Letting out a little sigh of satisfaction he felt the weight of Snape's gaze upon him. "Doesn't it feel wonderful to finally not have a purpose to your life? To be able to choose not to do things?" he asked without looking at his companion. If he had, he might have been shocked by the melancholy look in the dark eyes.
"I suppose the lack of responsibility would be appealing to you, Potter. Of course, you never heeded responsibility in the first place, so why its lack should affect you is beyond me." A pause as Snape locked eyes with Harry, whose head had swiveled around as though it was released from a wound elastic band. "I on the other hand find it horribly oppressive. You see, Harry, I have devoted my entire life since I changed sides to the defeat of Voldemort. That's nearly twenty-five years," a sigh, as Snape passed a hand over his tired, old face. Despite wizards' legendary longevity he really wasn't sure how much more of this world he could bear. "Well over half my life. When something occupies you for that long, is the focal point of all your energies for a quarter of a century, and then, suddenly it's gone…." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. 'You want to die? You don't know what to do with yourself? You don't see a point to life anymore? Or that the only point you see is to keep on living solely because you've made it this far and don't want to turn into a quitter now?'
His internal musings were interrupted by a quiet, "Then what?"
"Then," said Snape, the words feeling ominously like a death sentence even in his mind, "You feel as though there is no longer any reason to live."
A silence overtook the room as oppressive as one found in a room full of mourners too exhausted to even begin to talk about their loved ones lying among the dead. It was a silence that had been felt lingering over the skin too often recently, and both men disliked its presence. Yet neither quite knew how to get rid of it, for although it was not the first heavy matter that they had dissected in these chairs, it was one that was intensely personal and intensely now. It wasn't something distanced by years or something easily spoken of in the third person, as though one was recounting the tale of a horrid accident, something to be gawked at. It was very real.
Clearing his throat, Harry peered through his spectacles at the somber man in black. "So, you said that there were a few reasons you were drinking?"
"Yes," was the curt reply.
"Is that one of them?" Harry queried.
"I suppose," replied Snape languorously, "That it could be considered one, although really I had been drinking because of that chair."
Harry glanced down. 'This chair? This chair's practically brand-new! It looks brilliant; no spills or stains, wrinkles or fades; the legs aren't even scratched. I wonder what he's complaining about, compared to his chair this one is in mint condition.' Glancing back towards Severus, Harry raised an eyebrow as he responded, "This chair looks really good. Like it's hardly been used." A jolt went through him as the piercing ebony eyes met his own. '
"Exactly." With that one cryptic word, Snape drained his glass and placed it on the walnut table next to his chair. Standing and stretching, with a slight wince as his back cracked from sitting for so long, Severus glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantle and then at the door. "Perhaps, Potter, now would be a good time for you to leave."
His voice, as Harry absent-mindedly noted, was much cooler than it had been mere minutes ago. And yet Harry couldn't figure out a reason for the change. 'Normally Severus wouldn't make me leave,' he thought to himself, 'Unless of course I was falling asleep in my chair, or it was unreasonably late. Neither of which are true.' So then why the change in tone? As he picked up his half empty bottle of Ogden's and walked to the door Harry turned this thought over in his mind. He hated mysteries, and yet that's what Snape was – one gigantic mystery. 'Why would he throw me out now? It's not like I'm being thick; he agreed with my assessment of his barely-used chair. I mean, I'm the only one that I've ever seen in it, although I'm not in it now.' For some reason this last phrase seemed to resound inside his skull, in cadence with his steps. 'Although I'm not in it now, although I'm not in it now, I'm not in it now, not in it now.'
And then Harry Potter had a revelation. He wasn't in that chair now, and that was the problem. Severus Snape wanted him in that chair. And in his mistaken belief that he had no friends (and therefore no reason for anyone to visit him) and because Harry had often discussed Order business with the older man in these quarters, Snape believed that Harry would no longer be in that chair now that Voldemort was dead.
As a long fingered hand closed over the doorknob and began to open the wood door sealing Snape's chambers from the rest of the school, a dull thud was heard made by a bottle of Ogden's hitting the carpet. A sharper thump could be heard a second later as Harry's palm slapped against the door pushing it shut. "Just hang on a second, Severus," the Boy-Who-Lived said, green eyes flashing as he turned to face the Potions Master who was standing, arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised, next to the door, looking on at this display. "I think that perhaps I've figured something out." As he spoke Harry began to walk deliberately towards Snape, causing the older man to slowly circle so that his back was to the main room to avoid being trapped against the oak door. 'Perfect,' thought Harry, just managing to conceal a predatory grin. "I don't think that you want me to leave," he continued, advancing slowly, forcing Severus who was now watching him with very wide eyes to retrace the path they had just taken. "In fact, I rather think you'd like me to stay." By now, Harry could feel the heat of the fire just brushing his face and he had Severus rather effectively pinned between himself and his chair. Leaning in, so that his mouth was centimeters away from the other man's, Harry whispered, "And guess what Sev?" his light breath just fluttering off of Severus' lips.
Said lips tightened as Snape fought himself to conceal a moan. 'Oh gods, what is the boy doing?' he fleetingly thought. Fighting his instincts which were urging him to press himself against the warm body in front of him, to mould his hard erection to the one that must surely lie underneath those jeans, Snape leaned ever so slightly backwards, only then aware of exactly where he was. And as Potter's arms came up, one on each side of his to rest firmly against the back of the new-looking armchair, Snape allowed himself to sink backwards into the tan leather which still held faint traces of the heat of the previous occupant.
Glancing down at his prey and judging the man's reaction carefully, Harry straddled the older man as he had down so many times in his fantasies, although he was careful to maintain a fair distance between his arse and Severus' lap. Bending forward slightly so that their eyes were at the same level, Harry stated calmly, "I want to be in your chair."
Hearing those words uttered by those lips, lips which were so close to his own, the sincerity of the words shining out of the eyes which were gazing into his own, the sight of the lithe young body perched atop of him; it was all too much. Snape let out a low moan, tilting his head ever-so-slightly backwards, and Potter, who obviously caught on faster in some areas than others, lowered his head so that their lips joined in a slow kiss. Lazily, their mouths crushed harder and harder together, the slightly rough texture of Harry's lips beneath his own the only thing which kept Severus tied to reality as their tongues met for the first time. A whimper pressed out from beneath his mouth, and the feel of hard muscle under his hands. A gentle tug as Harry's hands got tangled in his longer hair, and then a stronger one as Severus found himself granted entrance into Harry's mouth. Delicately exploring, delving into the hot cavern, feeling as much as hearing the shuddering half-breaths, tasting, faintly, vanilla. And even as he ran out of air, Snape tried to hang on, using very last ounce of willpower to keep his spinning head attached to Harry's, afraid that if this stopped he would discover that it was all a terrible mistake, that what felt so good, so right, was really wrong. And yet, he knew instinctively that nothing that felt like this, like a waltz under moonlight, could possibly be wrong.
Although their lips finally separated Snape made sure that their foreheads remained resting together, and looking Harry straight in the eye, whispered "You're sure, Harry?"
As a soft smile curved those tempting lips, Severus knew his answer before his love vocalized it. "I'm sure, Sev."
End.