A/N: This is a devastatingly sad fic, but it's raw and honest and I love it. It does have a happy ending—I can't stand the emotional investment to be anything other.
Tonight was going to be the night. Harry Potter rubbed his hands together, determined to finally get Severus Severus to admit his feelings for him. They'd been down this road before—twice now, actually.
The first time, Severus had pushed Harry away because he'd claimed Harry was too young having just finished school at the age of 17—much too young to know what he wanted out of life. But, as the war raged like some demented game of chess, each side progressing but neither winning, Harry knew that no one was guaranteed a future, and he had done and seen more than most adults.
So, when he returned to the castle at 18, to take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, he made another attempt. Which was going swimmingly well, until Severus had been summoned by the Dark Lord. Harry wasn't sure what had happened at that meeting, but something clearly had, because when Severus returned, he was distant and distracted. It had taken Harry nearly six months to break down his defenses and get back to where they had been before that blasted meeting.
And dammit, tonight was going to be the night that he got up the nerve to kiss Severus Severus and show the man how good it could be between them. He just needed Severus to give him a chance. Just one chance. Because for all his bluff and bluster, Severus clearly had the hots for Harry, too.
Harry had seen it in the flush of his cheeks, the longing gazes, the barely there touches, the hold-your-breath intimate moments that almost turned into kisses before Severus shook his head, stepped back, and scuttled away. Why Severus was holding back, Harry had no idea. But tonight he had every intention of changing that.
Harry had taken extra care with his appearance, going so far as to have his hair trimmed earlier that day. He'd showered, shaved, splashed on some cologne, and beneath his best set of robes which were just shy of dress robes, he'd worn form-fitting black trousers and a green button-down dress shirt to bring out the color of his eyes. He also put on the necklace he'd worn last time, the one he'd caught Severus staring at, whether because it lay in the open vee of his collar, or because it had a snake head and a lion head on it, their mouths open, as if challenging one another. Which was rather what Harry and Severus's relationship seemed like to him—a series of challenges to be overcome.
As was their custom, Harry made his way down to Severus's chambers to celebrate the completion of another week of teaching, another week nearer the end of the school year. He came bearing Severus's favorite: vin chaud, a honey-mulled wine with oranges, cinnamon, and spice, served warm and typically around Christmas. As it was February, it was a bit past the holidays, but snow covered the grounds and the bitter wind blew through the castle, chilling the dungeons to what felt like sub-zero temperatures. Thank Merlin for warming charms.
Harry took a deep breath, plucked up his courage, and knocked on Severus's door. Severus opened it and seemed momentarily at a loss for words as he looked Harry up and down. Harry felt his body heat at the blatant interest in Severus's eyes. Severus, who wore black trousers and a long-sleeve white button down shirt with the arms rolled up to the man's elbows. Severus, who looked simply delectable.
"Severus," Harry greeted him.
"Harry," Severus returned with a curt nod.
It had taken months to get Severus to call him by his given name.
Harry handed Severus his offering and Severus took it with a raised brow.
"I picked it up special this morning," Harry said.
Severus opened the brown paper bag and peered inside, a look of unexpected pleasure gracing his harsh features. "This will do," he pronounced.
Harry beamed.
"Come along, dinner is almost ready," Severus said.
Harry pulled off his outer robes and followed Severus into the small kitchen, where a table and two chairs sat. The table had already been set. When Severus set the paper bag down, Harry pulled out the mulled wine, set the carafe it came in on a stone, and cast a warming charm on it. Then he poured each of them a glass of water and took his seat.
Severus brought out a steaming dish that smelled delicious. "Lamb stew," he said.
Harry moaned. "You know how I love your lamb stew," Harry said, feeling his mouth water in anticipation.
"I might have remembered," Severus admitted, putting a large dollop on Harry's plate.
Harry grinned and poured them both a generous amount of mulled wine.
Conversation was easy and casual as they fell into their routine of discussing their classes the previous week. It was always a contest to see whose student had done or said the stupidest thing, which student had surprised them most with a hitherto-unknown stroke of brilliance, who had lost the most house points, or who had ended up in the hospital wing.
This was what Harry lived for, these Friday nights spent in Severus's quarters, their easy banter, their soft glances, their accidental touches.
When Harry dimmed the sconces in the room, Severus raised a brow but refrained from commenting.
"I have something else for you," Harry murmured.
Severus's expression faltered but, when Harry summoned something from the other room—something that turned out to be an apple-peach cobbler—Severus's favorite, Harry knew—the look on Severus's face made Harry want to get up and kiss him right then and there.
Instead, Harry forced himself to cut the pie into large slices, sliding one easily onto Severus's plate.
When Severus took his first bite, he closed his eyes and bit back a moan. Harry felt his arousal skyrocket; he wanted to be the one to cause that reaction in Severus.
"You like it, then?" Harry asked, his voice breathless.
Severus gave him a look that plainly said that that was the stupidest thing Harry had said all night, and Harry laughed.
When they were sated with good food and wine and dessert, Harry got to his feet.
Severus made to follow, but Harry laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let me," he said.
Harry proceeded to gather up the dishes and place them in the sink under a washing spell. He left the mulled wine in case Severus wanted any more. Then he placed the remaining lamb stew—there was very little left, actually—on the cooker under a refrigeration charm.
When he turned around, Severus was standing there, facing him, a hair's breadth away. Harry caught his breath as their eyes met. Uncertainty, and something akin to determination, flared in Severus's gaze. Harry pitched headlong into those dark, enchanting eyes, desire and kinship and something else that made him giddy with happiness filled his insides. This was his chance. And Severus wasn't skittering away.
Harry leaned forward and brushed his lips against Severus's, feather-light and gentle, his gaze never leaving the other wizard's.
Severus's breath hitched and his lips parted.
Harry leaned in closer, his own lips parted, tongue ready to taste the man he'd had a crush on for longer than he cared to admit. Harry slid his hands onto Severus's shoulders as his lips brushed against Severus's once, twice, three times.
Severus's eyes were wide with wonder as he flicked his tongue out to taste Harry. Groaning, Harry titled his head, eager to return Severus's kiss, his tongue jutting out gently to meet Severus's. The moment their tongues made contact, Harry felt his insides swoop with delight. His fingers tightened fractionally on Severus's shoulders as he pulled the older man closer until their bodies were nearly touching.
And then Harry was on his arse on the floor, his bum smarting, and Severus was pressed up against the wall, bent at the waist, holding his arms to his stomach and swearing under his breath.
"What the fuck, Severus?" Harry said, pushing himself to his feet, frustration warring with hurt.
When Severus raised his head, Harry felt his insides burn. He looked from the man's haunted, pained expression to the left forearm clutched in his right hand.
"Go," Severus hissed.
"Fuck!" Harry spat.
"Just go, Harry. Don't make this any worse than it already is."
Harry turned on his heel, stomped to the door and threw it open, angry tears burning his eyes. As soon as the door snapped shut behind him, he knew he'd made a mistake.
"Fuck," he said again, sliding down to the flagstones, his back to the wooden door. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face, tears heating his cheeks as they fell. Six months. Six fucking months wasted, if last time was anything to go by. Severus would return and he'd push Harry away. Again. For whatever stupid reason Harry hadn't managed to extract from the man. "Fuck," he said again, slamming his fist on the cold stones beneath him.
An image of Severus's face swam before his eyes—the picture of misery. This wasn't Severus's fault. If anything, Harry should have been more sympathetic to the man's plight. Surely it wasn't easy to play the spy. And yet here Harry was, feeling sorry for himself, because his plans had been ruined. Which was nothing compared to how Severus must be feeling, walking into the Dark Lord's den of despair and depravity.
Harry dashed his tears away, angry at himself. He pushed himself to his feet. If Severus thought Harry was going to let Severus push him away again, just because of some stupid meeting, he was sorely mistaken. Harry'd tell Severus that he'd gone back for his robe if Severus required some reason for Harry's presence in his quarters. Resolved, Harry pulled out his wand, squared his shoulders, and prepared to hex Severus's door down if he had to. He slammed his hand against the solid wood, ready to shove it open the moment one of his spells worked, only to have the door creak open at his touch.
"What the…"
The door wasn't locked. Or warded. And that was not like Severus at all.
Harry let himself in, locking and warding the door behind him.
"Severus?" he called, knowing the man wouldn't be there.
Had Severus left the door unlocked for Harry? In case Harry returned? Perhaps as an apology? Harry doubted it. Severus took Moody's old saying to heart: constant vigilance. The fact that Severus had not locked and warded his door left Harry feeling quite unnerved.
Shaking his head, he made his way to the kitchen and finished cleaning up. He spell-dried the dishes and put them away. He wiped down the table and worktops. He tidied whatever else he could find. When all was done, he returned to the study to wait for Severus's return.
He managed to sit on the couch for all of ten minutes before he was up and pacing around. Harry wasn't good at waiting. He didn't like to think about what the Death Eaters got up to at their meetings. He certainly didn't want to think about what Severus got up to. If Severus was torturing someone, or being tortured. Either scenario was unbearable.
Sighing, Harry walked to Severus's bookshelves and looked for something to occupy his time. There were a variety of advanced potions texts, of course, as well as books on offensive and defensive magic, the dark arts, tomes on the history of various Wizarding wars and, much to Harry's surprise, a small section of Muggle literature. Intrigued, Harry pulled out a fairly short novel, The Magic Garden, plopped down on the sofa, and began to read. As the hour waned and a chill settled in, he summoned his robes, using them as a makeshift blanket.
He was just dozing off when the fire flared to life.
Harry sat up, dazed, as Severus, in a swirl of black robes, stumbled into the room, his Death Eater mask falling from his fingers to clatter against the stone floor.
Then, much to Harry's shock and bewilderment, Severus fell to his knees and dropped his head into his hands. He was shaking so violently his teeth chattered. Moments later, a sound like a wounded animal tore from Snape's throat and rent the air.