A/N: Written for Mrs. Bella Riddle's Loved and Hated Ships Competiton. Snarry is, um, not my loved. BUT - and there is always a but, isn't there? - I have actually changed my view on it as a result of writing this. It sort of makes sense, in a twisted way.
Many, many, many thanks to wynnebat for betaing, for keeping these two as IC as possible and for helping my find an ending. Wynne, where would I be without your Snarry love?
As always, reviews welcome.
(PS. Italicised dialogue just felt right for this fic, but if you spot any instances where FFn has eaten spaces, please let me know!)
He's bleeding all over your bedsheets, this stupid boy, this damnable boy. He's got scrapes on his face and gashes on his arms and a mangled mess of muscle on what used to be a calf and he's leaving bright red butterflies all over your bedsheets.
Professor, he mutters, Professor – Sn – Snape, please, and his mouth is the shape of a hollow hole in an ancient tree, wide and gaping with no end in sight, and you are as torn as he is.
Quiet, you say. He falls as silent as those trees gathered in old forests and you wonder if he is alone, if anybody heard him, if he made any sound at all when he finally fell from grace.
The salve burns his skin for a split second before it cools – green eyes fly open.
And he's still bleeding all over your bedsheets.
She's nestled into the crook of your arm, her pale face luminescent in the moonlight, and you wrap yourself up in her like a child in his favourite blanket. She doesn't seem to mind. It's cold out here, anyway.
Cold, you breathe, and your breath tumbles from your lips in white clouds.
So cold, she giggles back, and rounds her lips like a choirgirl, huffing white into the night. We should go, Sev.
Lily, please. Her fingers are bony and sharp, delicate ice sculptures themselves, and you want them between your clasped hands. I don't want to go back.
Green eyes flash to yours. Are they still bullying you, Sev? Worry seeps into her voice like a thief, stealing the certainty in her tone and replacing it with the tremble of her lips, and you are so in love with her that it pains you.
No, no, not anymore. Too quick, too rushed, but she just blinks at you, all faint, blonde lashes and tired eyes, and you cave in. Okay. I'll walk you back then, shall I?
She wraps her arms around yours and plants a kiss onto your cheek as she has planted her name deep into your chest. Something's blooming there.
C'mon, Sev, I'm freezing.
The moonlight shines on her hair as she runs ahead.
He's wrapped up in your bedsheets again, stupid boy, damnable boy.
Say it, you growl, thrusting harshly. Your fingernails are digging into his back, and he is choking, gasping for air, his breath damp on your neck and caught around the moans that run from his lips like filthy water.
S—Sev—Severus, he says, biting his lip, running his hands along the taut muscle of your arm.
Look – Look at me, you pant desperately, and Potter opens his bright eyes and locks his gaze onto yours, his eyes glittering dangerously in the dark.
You groan and come with a few final, rushed thrusts, growling into Potter's ear and snaking a hand between your bodies, slick with sweat. He comes at your touch, arching his back and breathing Severus into the night.
You lay there, panting. His body is warm. It feels like safety, like comfort. He wraps his arms around you and you feel his heart beating rapidly.
What are you doing, Potter? you hiss, and you are already back to pretending.
I thought... he says quietly, eyes closing resolutely.
You thought wrong, you say, pushing yourself off his body and crawling away from him. Out.
Tonight, Potter does not protest.
Severus, she moans, and her words slip into your mouth like the air you are desperate to breathe, don't stop.
You're beautiful, you murmur into her neck. And she is, all wild red hair and flushed skin, pale all over except for the smattering of freckles across her chest and the bruises you have kissed onto her neck. Your fingers are lost under her skirt, tracing the inside of her thighs, teasing her with gentle fingertips.
Please. Green eyes wide again, begging for you, lusting for you, and you cannot say no.
She comes around your fingers, her hands clasping onto your shoulders as she shudders, a low moan humming against your collarbone.
You're beautiful, you say again.
And she is.
He is a restless boy.
I can't just fucking sit here. I need to find him, I need to fight, I need to be out there!
Quiet, Potter, you drawl. They will come for you when they need you.
When will that be? When more people have died? When he's winning? I need to fight, Snape. I need it!
The passion in his voice reminds you of his father but the fire in his eyes reminds you of her.
He's all blazing glory and brooding looks, and there are times when you want nothing more than to hex his ignorant, self-sacrificing arse to the ground –
But then you remember.
Save her, you had asked.
She was not saved.
Protect him, they had asked.
He will be protected.
He looks at you, livid, her eyes burning on his face, her determination dripping from his words; he is every inch her son despite the face he wears.
You owe her this much, don't you?
Mudblood.
Hurt floods that forest green, darkening her eyes, dampening that spark.
She runs.
I'm sorry, you mutter, but it is too late for that now.
You're a selfish bastard, he says darkly, standing only inches from you and shoving his righteousness in your face.
I'm keeping you alive, Potter, you reply, ever calm. You're no use to us dead, are you?
I'm no use to anyone in this fucking house! he screams, and spittle flies from his lips. A vein throbs in his neck. His cheeks are flushed in anger, his teeth clenched tight, his jaw stern.
His eyes are alive.
You cannot think; you never could with those eyes on yours.
You grab him.
Closer.
And you crush his lips beneath your own, teeth clacking, nails digging into flesh. He is wrapped tight around you, desperation seeping into his kiss, and his sighs taste just like hers.
You're beautiful, you say, but you spit it like an insult and you think he knows what you mean.
She marries him on her 19th birthday.
You are not invited.
You sit outside the church and burn holes in grass that is too green for your eyes to handle.
When they come out, they meander through patches of charred, black dirt, hands entwined, and Potter kisses her stained-red lips.
I love you, you think he says, and you Disapparate before she has a chance to reply.
The screams wake you in the middle of the night.
You leap from your bed with your wand already in hand. Your footsteps are careful but quick, and you are outside Potter's door in seconds. You fling it open.
There is no one there.
But Potter is thrashing on the bed, sweat shining on his forehead, his shoulders, his chest. He calls out, crying for a saviour.
No! he cries, and you spend a moment in the doorway wondering tentatively what you should do. If anyone is safer in sleep, away from prying eyes and probing minds, it is Potter.
But it is Lily's eyes that fly open, Lily's eyes that fill with terror, Lily's eyes that shine with tears. And that is enough for you.
You are there in seconds, your hands clawing at Potter's shoulders, shouting his name, calling him back to sanity.
Potter! Potter! Wake up!
Potter shakes violently, tears streaming from his eyes, before he slumps, a dead weight in your arms.
Potter! you shout, Wake up!
Potter's whisper is barely audible, a ghost in the night, but it tears your heart open and sends dark shivers up your spine.
Don't leave me, he gasps, his breathing ragged and his eyes haunted.
That is the first night you stay.
And this time, it's not for her.
Take the boy, Severus, Minerva says sternly. She keeps her back to you, her eyes focused on the dancing flames of fire before her.
Me? Take Potter? you ask incredulously. The boy hates me! And I him. It would never work. You know well of the work I must do for the Dark Lord.
It is then that she turns slowly on her heel, her heavy robes fanning out elegantly, her face solemn. There are times, she says, when I question your loyalty, Severus. You can see the shadow of doubt in her eyes.
Where is Albus? you ask, ignoring her fears. Why hasn't he asked this of me?
Ah, she says quietly, but he has.
She says no more, throws one last glance at the flickering fire, and leaves.
After all this time?
Always.
You loved her, he accuses, and his voice is as sharp as his nails down your back. Didn't you?
You look at him, curled up there on the sofa with a heavy book on his lap, fallen open on a page crowded with Quidditch brooms. His harsh gaze makes you think you have somehow slipped back to the 1970s.
She was my friend, you tell him, hoping to appease him, hoping the questions will stop and you can try to forget again.
Look at me, he says, but you won't, you won't.
Until he is standing right before you, tall and thin and blocking the candlelight around you, and you are in the deep shadow of his sharp edges. Look at me, he says.
You look up.
And there they are again, those fucking eyes, the ones that tear your heart out with every passing moment. You want to rip them from his face, tear through flesh and bone to free her of Potter's face, but this – this is no Lily Evans.
Answer me, he mutters darkly.
Yes. It is a simple word, one syllable long, and yet it somehow stretches on forever in the not-so-huge distance between you. He does not touch you, does not move, and those green eyes never leave yours.
Am I like her?
You hesitate. More than you will ever know.
He nods sadly. I thought you'd say that.
You don't know what you were supposed to say, but you think you've hurt him somehow. He's just a confused boy and you're a grown man who should have known better than this. But, damn it, you've always been fucked up and he's always been fucked up and maybe being fucked up together isn't so bad.
She loved me, he says, and you nod. There is nothing else to say.
Potter stares for just a moment longer, searching for something in the depths of your eyes, before he blinks rapidly and retreats.
You don't know which you fear more: the thought that he found something there, or the thought that he didn't.
Sev, she says, will we be best friends forever and ever and ever?
Don't be so girly, Lily, you say, and she glances pointedly at the wildflowers gathered in your hands. You laugh at her, punch her lightly on the shoulder and stick out your tongue.
She flashes you a quick grin and those green eyes are brighter than you've ever seen them. She waves her own flowers in your face.
That's a yes, she giggles, and you hit her again for being right.
Forever, she says, and runs ahead. You are left to follow the trails of her giggles deep into the forest.
You wake up sweating and scrawl a letter to Albus that says just one thing:
I will take Potter if you will promise me his safety.
When you wake again the next morning, he has already replied.
Harry's safety, he writes, lies with you, Severus. If only you believed in yourself as much as I believe in you.
You throw the letter into the fireplace and go about making the guest room look presentable.
Severus, he whispers into the darkness, Severus.
What? you bark, pulling the blankets tighter around your shoulders.
There is no answer.
You roll over and look at the other side of the bed; it is empty, the sheets crumpled, and visions of bloodstains and dead boys dance before your eyes.
Potter! you shout, leaping from the bed. Potter, where are you?
You feel worry tingle in the base of your spine, creeping slowly up your back, and you know there is only one place he can be.
It must be happening now.
The Final Battle.
You do not question the whispers that woke you; you simply turn on your heel, and are gone.
Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?
She blinks at you, wide-eyed and worried, and you find yourself saying, No. It doesn't make any difference.
And, oh, how you wish that were true.
There is no blood; there never is.
He is still warm when you find him, crumpled like a fallen soldier in the middle of a battlefield. Hogwarts rages around him, spells flying and screams dying, and the night has never been this loud.
But he is silent.
He is still and he is warm, and your hands grasp at his robes, trying to rouse him in vain, but you know you are too late.
You've failed her; you've failed him.
Those eyes are blank and staring, burning so bright, such a vivid green that you don't understand how he is not alive.
Potter, you breathe, wake up, wake up.
It is the second time you've torn at his torso with your rough hands, the second time you have tried to drag him from his nightmares – but his nightmare is over now, isn't it?
Your throat constricts painfully, but you will not cry.
Potter, you murmur, your fingers tracing the soft skin of his jaw, Harry. Please.
You are too late, Severus, comes Albus' voice from behind you. He is gone.
You splutter in disbelief, though you know it is true. But then the Dark Lord –
Needs to be defeated.
You turn your head slightly, locking eyes with the man who promised you their safety. Both of theirs.
How? is the only word you can form, the only thing you can think besides the thought that Potter's warmth is slowly seeping through your fingers and soon he will be cold.
Albus smiles. You.
And nothing makes sense, but this might, this might fix it all and make it all better – but it won't.
It won't.
You look back at the body of the boy beneath you, the boy who bruised your heart and bloodied your bedsheets, the boy with his mother's eyes but his very own mind, and you think that you could have loved him.
I'm sorry, Lily, you murmur, and press a kiss to her dead son's head. I'm sorry.
You do not apologise to him.
You rise slowly. Your body feels stiff, your joints locking and creaking, and you feel far, far too old for this.
Severus? Albus says before you leave.
You look at him. His eyes are blue. They are wrong. You swallow the lump in your throat and the blame you want to put on his head and you say nothing.
I believe in you.
And with that, you walk away.
You can almost feel Potter's body behind you, further away from you with each step, tearing from you like a limb you never knew you needed. The grounds have fallen quiet, and you swear, right here, you can hear him breathing softly, the way he did when you finally let him stay the night in your bed.
You do not look back.
The Dark Lord's eyes are red, and that could not be more wrong.
(Cuts and scrapes and he's bleeding all over your bedsheets –)
You spit the curse at the same time as he does, and you never do know whether it hits him.
(Green eyes flash to yours, Lily, Lily, Harry –)
That flash of green – too bright, too electric – blinds you, and you feel light and free even as you are drowning deep into that familiar, comforting forest green.
(After all this time?)
And then she is laughing and he is grabbing your hands and everything is brighter than before.
(Always.)
You are home.