Title: Tread Softly
Author: Lamenting Quill
Pairing: Harry/Severus
Rating: T
Summary: Harry longs for a sign from Severus that his feelings of love are returned.
Info: Not DH compliant.
Notes: Written for mk_malfoy with lots of love and Happy Birthday wishes!
Completed: February 26th, 2008
Disclaimer: Not mine, J.K. Rowling's.
Tread Softly
by
Lamenting Quill
He watched from the window.
The tall man moved leisurely through the garden, elegantly and deliberately. He gazed upon the long, pale fingers as they plucked herbs delicately from their stems, exercising a gentleness that so starkly contrasted with the man's very essence. The dark figure then lifted the herb to his crooked nose, and apparently satisfied with the scent he had inhaled, he slipped it into a black silken pouch.
Harry watched.
He still wondered why he had offered the man a place to stay after a few vengeful Dumbledore supporters had burned his home to irreparable ash. It was no secret that they had certainly never been on anything remotely resembling good terms. But Harry had known that the wizard couldn't afford to rebuild his childhood Muggle home in the deserted village, having been living only on the meagre savings he'd earned during his stint as a professor, with no inheritance to fall back on and his only income that which he earned selling potions by mail.
No; life after war had not been kind to Severus Snape. But Harry couldn't help but think that Snape was only reaping what he had sown, as cruel a thought as it may be. Why he had forced his help onto the proud, ungrateful wizard was a mystery to him. Merlin knew he should be first in line to watch Snape suffer, yet instead of leaving him to struggle – friendless and practically jobless thanks to the enemies he had made and the life he had led – Harry had moved his reluctant ex-professor into his home.
It hadn't been easy getting Snape to accept his help, and in the beginning of their new arrangement he had regretted that he had succeeded in doing so. Snape hadn't changed since the end of the war, that was for certain; and just because Harry was giving him a place to stay (well, renting him a room) did not mean cordiality had commenced. But after the passing of a few months Harry had come to enjoy having the presence of another in his home, even though that 'another' was both biting and sarcastic. There were times, though, when Snape really wasn't so bad. Not after you learned to read him reasonably well. He was never nice, certainly, and Harry held no foolish notions that he ever would be. But he was often pleasant, in an odd, unexplainable way that Harry couldn't understand but somehow found comforting.
He supposed that he found it reassuring; reassuring that no matter how many other things in his life were always changing, there was one thing – one someone – whom he could always depend on to be the same. Everyone else near him would always conform to whatever they thought he needed them to be. If he was feeling sad they were compassionate, if he was angry they were calming, if he was upset they were soothing. But Snape… he was always Snape, and while admittedly unpleasant, Harry could appreciate the fact that the man conformed to no one's needs but his own.
Watching the object of his current musings making his way back up the garden path and to the house, Harry pushed away from the kitchen counter he had been leaning against and turned his gaze from the window, lest he be caught in his observing.
"Collect everything you needed?" he asked, as soon as Snape had entered through the side door.
His only answer was a grunt, as Snape removed his cloak and hung it in the small closet by the door, leaving him in his customary black trousers and white linen shirt. Seeing his former professor in his casual apparel had been perhaps the hardest thing for Harry to adjust to since sharing his home with the conservative wizard, but he had to admit that the look suited him.
Harry only shook his head in slight amusement at Snape's response and watched as he made his way over to the counter near the sink and carefully laid out the ingredients he had just collected, cleaning what needed cleaned and chopping what needed chopped. Without a word Harry went over to one of the cabinets, retrieving several small glass jars and casting sterilising charms on each before setting them on the cool granite near Snape, who made a slight noise in the back of his throat. The sound was his only acknowledgement of Harry's actions.
Once Snape had put the freshly prepared herbs into the jars and sealed them, he took them downstairs to the cellar where Harry had arranged an area for him to brew his potions. Harry hadn't received a thank you for the courtesy, but he knew the gesture had been appreciated by the lack of insults he had received the rest of that day. He smiled. No, Snape wasn't that bad, he thought, as his ex-professor returned to the kitchen.
"What, pray tell, are you smiling at, Potter?"
Jarred from his musings by the snapped question, Harry cleared his throat and replied, "Nothing of importance. But I forgot to mention to you earlier that Hermione flooed and I'll be keeping Camellia this evening while she and Ron attend the annual Magical Law Enforcement Charity Ball at the Ministry." At these words, Harry watched in amusement as Snape's brows moved to knit slightly together, and knew that it was as close to whining as the man would ever come.
.
.
"You can't catch me, Uncle Harry!" the little girl shouted gleefully, running out of the kitchen after having finished her snack.
Harry sighed, drying his hands on a towel as he finished cleaning up spilled juice. "Cami! I told you no running in the house!" This shout was of course ignored, as he heard her little feet pattering quickly through the sitting room followed by her happy screaming, then her muffled 'oof!' as it sounded like she collided with something.
"Potter!"
Oh shite. Harry cringed hearing the angry voice, dropping the towel and hurrying into the sitting room where the sight awaiting him had him biting the inside of his jaw to keep from laughing, knowing that doing so would only evoke more of Snape's ire.
Snape had been sitting on the settee reading with his feet propped up on the coffee table, and it appeared that Cami had been trying to run between the couch and the table as she often did, but of course unlike Harry or Ron when they were in Snape's position, the Slytherin hadn't moved his legs out of Camellia's way, and so the five-year-old ended up draped across the scowling wizard's shins.
Rushing over, Harry scooped her up in his arms and settled her on his hip and she began speaking at once, her big brown eyes wide in shock.
"He didn't move, Uncle Harry! Mr. Snape made me crash!"
"You will find, Miss Weasley," Snape said lowly, not even looking up from the book in his lap, "that it doesn't pay to hold any high expectations for the goodness of others. Your mistake was in expecting that I would care enough for your well-being that I would expend the energy to spare you your 'crash' as you say." He paused, glancing up at her, one brow raised and a slight smirk on his thin lips. "I daresay you'll not make the mistake again, and perhaps you will learn not to put so much faith in others; believe me when I say it will save you a lot of disappointment."
Cami looked at Snape, her sweet little round face full of the innocence that only a child could possess as she asked, "If we never got dis'ppointed, how would we know when stuff makes us happy?"
It was the first time that Harry had ever known Snape to be without an answer for a question.
.
.
"I hope she wasn't too much trouble," Hermione said, standing in the middle of the sitting room, having just flooed through to pick up Camellia.
"Not at all," Harry replied, gently handing a sleeping Cami off to her mother.
Hermione smiled. "I'd better get back and put her to bed. Thanks again, Harry," she said, pecking him on the cheek, and after a few more exchanged words Harry was left to the silence.
He went to the kitchen and fixed a cup of tea before heading back to the sitting room and claiming his favourite chair by the empty fireplace, sighing as he sat down. It was amazing how just a few hours of taking care of his little goddaughter could effectively drain him of any energy he had formerly possessed. And yet, at the same time, nothing brought him greater joy.
"I take it the latest Weasley menace has finally been retrieved."
Harry was quite proud of himself for not jumping at the sudden statement. It had taken awhile, but he had finally become somewhat used to Snape and his surprise appearances from seemingly nowhere. He glanced up from his teacup slowly, seeing him leaning against the kitchen doorway, his white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and arms folded across his chest. Snape had spent the last couple of hours in his lab working, and Harry couldn't suppress a small smirk, for 'I've work to do,' coming from Snape when Camellia was in the house translated to, 'I'll be in the cellar hiding.'
"Yes," Harry replied, hiding his smirk in his cup, "my goddaughter is gone so you may come out of hiding. The water in the kettle on the stove is still hot if you want tea," he added. Snape glared at him, giving a slight snort as he pushed away from the doorframe and went into the kitchen, returning moments later with cup in hand.
Harry was just about to proceed in one of his many attempts – with no hope that he would succeed any more so than with the last – at small talk when a sudden sensation caused his breath to hitch. He leapt to his feet, hastily placing his tea on the table.
"What is it, Potter?" Snape asked curtly, though Harry could see the barest hint of concern lurking behind his customary glare.
"The wards, they've been breached," Harry replied, drawing his wand and moving to the kitchen, hearing Snape following close behind. It was probably only someone from the Order paying them a surprise visit, but there was still the possibility that it might be something more sinister. After all, Harry was still wanted dead by some of Voldemort's remaining followers who escaped imprisonment, and Snape… well suffice it to say there were more people than just the Death Eaters who would love to see Snape dead, and to be the ones to do the deed. No one but the Order was supposed to know that Snape was here, but Harry knew that never meant they didn't, but it was safe to assume Harry himself to be the intended target this night.
"Well?" Snape hissed sotto voce, as Harry searched the darkness out of the kitchen window for a sign of who might be on the property.
"I can't see-" A sudden shadow caught his eye, and there was no mistaking it. "Death Eaters," said Harry, straining to try to see how many. "It looks like… three of them."
"Lucius, Crabbe and Goyle, no doubt," Snape sneered. "Crabbe and Goyle pose no threat, but I wouldn't underestimate Lucius."
"What do you suggest?" Harry asked, turning from the window to gaze up at him, stifling a gasp at his proximity. He hadn't been aware that Snape had been standing so near.
"Do you trust me, Potter?"
The question was asked sharply, and Snape's gaze was intense as Harry met his eyes. Somehow he knew this was an important moment; that more – though he didn't know precisely what – was at stake here than just their lives. The silence stretched for only a mere second, but that second felt like an eternity, and then Harry inclined his head slightly.
"Implicitly," he replied quietly, and had he not been standing so close he would have missed the miniscule breath of relief that the man released.
Snape then stepped back, using his wand to quickly knock the kitchen table over, send the dishes off the countertop to shatter over the floor, and to open the side-door just a crack. He then turned to Harry, holding out his hand.
"Give me your wand."
Harry hesitated.
"Do you trust me or not, Potter?" Snape hissed.
"Yes, but-"
"Then give me your wand."
Hearing the Death Eaters' footsteps approaching the house, Harry's eyes flicked to the now open door and then back to Snape, seeing the challenge written in his pallid features. Taking a deep breath, he handed over his wand, feeling vulnerable and empty without it on his person.
"Now follow my lead," Snape said quickly, as the Death Eaters drew nearer.
Before Harry could respond, Snape had struck him with a slicing hex, the gash tearing across his shoulder and splattering blood onto the floor. The next thing he felt was the back of Snape's hand making sharp contact with his cheekbone, and then that same hand was around his throat and pushing him up against the kitchen wall, wand pointed at his heart.
It was this precise moment that the three Death Eaters burst through the opened door, coming to a halt at the sight before them.
"Well, well, well… look what we have here. It appears as though our old friend Severus has beaten us to him, boys," drawled the familiar voice of Lucius Malfoy.
Not releasing Harry, Snape looked over at their intruders. "Lucius, how nice of you to stop by, but if you've come to offer your assistance I don't believe I shall need it."
Lucius was saying something in response, but Harry couldn't make out what it was. His shoulder and cheek were stinging, and while Snape's grip on his throat wasn't as tight as it could be, he was still finding breathing to be a difficult task. He could feel Snape's fingers tensing and releasing around his neck, and got the impression that the man was trying to tell him something, though he couldn't decipher what. However, something Lucius was saying finally reached his ears.
"…and how do I know this is not a trick, my dear Severus? While the Dark Lord always trusted you, I never made that mistake, and in the end I was right. I doubt the boy is even without his wand at present."
"Do you take me for a fool, Lucius?" Snape spat. "Do you not see it sticking out of my left pocket as we speak?"
The inflection on 'left' had been subtle, yes, but Harry didn't fail to notice. Now he understood what Snape had been trying to communicate. He waited a few more minutes, breathing slowly and shallowly so as not to hyperventilate with his airways slightly restricted as they were. He had to admit that Snape was good at keeping Malfoy engaged in pointless banter enough to make him distracted.
Easing his hand gently along the wall so as to avoid detection, he managed to reach out and wrap his fingers around his wand residing in Snape's pocket. The next series of events this led to were somewhat of a blur for Harry. As soon as he had closed his hand around his wand Snape had released him and they were suddenly throwing curses and hexes like it was the night of the final battle again. Their act had succeeded in catching Malfoy and his cronies off guard, and while it only gained them a mere second of surprise, it was enough. The three intruders only managed in firing off a few curses before they were lying on the kitchen floor in a heap, amongst the damage that had mainly been done by Snape before the Death Eaters had even entered.
"Go call Kingsley. Tell him we have a few things for him to pick up," Snape barked as he sheathed his wand. His eyes flickered first to Harry's cheek, to his neck, and then finally to his shoulder. His voice was still harsh, but the barest hint softer as he added, "I'll retrieve the medicinal potions and meet you back here."
Harry could only nod as he left to do as he'd been told.
.
.
"Remove your shirt and sit."
Placing his wand on the now righted kitchen table – having done a swift clean-up job after Kingsley's departure – Harry did as Snape commanded, removing his torn shirt and sitting in the hard-backed chair. He was surprised when Snape knelt down in front of him on the rug at his feet, opening a black leather case and extracting a small jar. He then conjured a soft, wet cloth and rose up on his knees to clean the wound he had inflicted upon Harry's shoulder. Seeing the apology for what it was Harry offered Snape a smile which, of course, was not returned.
After Snape had cleaned the area and applied a liberal amount of healing salve, he said emotionlessly, "You've a bruise on your cheek."
Harry chuckled. "You have a good backhand."
Snape glared, snarling, "Do you want some salve for it, Potter, or shall I let you suffer?"
"A bit of salve wouldn't be amiss. I wasn't lying about the good backhand," he replied. His cheek really was quite sore.
He watched as Snape dipped his long fingers into the jar, and he watched their journey as they rose to his cheek. The salve was cold, but the touch was warming. He fought the impulse to lean into it, knowing this wasn't the time to make concessions to such impulses as those. Dark eyes locked with his and his breathing stilled. He thought Snape's fingers may have lingered on his cheek a little longer than necessary, but perhaps it was just his imagination playing tricks on him, because as quick as the moment occurred it had passed and Snape was on his feet.
"Leave the salve on for thirty minutes and then rinse it off. There should be no need for another application," he said curtly, turning to head back to the cellar.
"Severus."
He stopped at the sound of his given name, something that Harry had never used, even though they had been sharing a residence for several months now.
"Thank you," Harry said sincerely. "For everything."
Snape glanced back over his shoulder, inclining his head marginally in acceptance of Harry's words. "I've been saving your arse for more years than I care to count, Potter. There was no reason why tonight should have been any different," he snarled, turning and disappearing down the stairs.
Harry only shook his head in amusement, a smile on his lips and the ghost of Severus's touch fresh on his skin. And he didn't fail to notice the lack of rebuke for using his housemate's given name.
Alone in the kitchen, his smile widened.
.
.
In the next few days that followed they danced around one another. Harry hardly saw Severus at all, for the Slytherin spent most of his time down in the cellar. Whatever it was that had passed between them the night of Lucius's 'attack' Harry was now positive that he wasn't the only one feeling it.
Feeling…
His hand came up again to his cheek where he could still feel the lingering touch of Severus's warm fingers, even after the passage of days and bathing. The memory of it was seared into his skin, not to be removed by soap or even time.
He shivered.
Harry knew he shouldn't dwell on the event. Nothing could come of his growing attraction and attachment to the stoic Severus Snape. Even if his feelings were returned, Harry knew he would never act on them. And if he, Harry, were to pursue something more… well, he was certain he would only succeed in pushing Severus further away instead of doing the opposite. No, either the man would come to him, or things would remain as they were.
He tried to swallow his disappointment in thinking of the latter.
"Potter."
There was nothing for it, Harry jumped at the sudden bark of his name, turning in his chair by the fireplace to glare at the smirking man in the kitchen doorway. "Must you get your sick kicks by scaring the bloody hell out of me like that?" he snapped.
"Yes," Severus replied simply.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Well, did you come in here just to scare me shitless, or was there actually a purpose?"
"Lunch is ready, but of course if you would prefer to starve you won't hear any complaints from me," he drawled.
Standing, Harry walked over to him, slipping past him in the small doorway causing their bodies to brush briefly as he passed. He didn't fail to notice the small hitch in Severus's breathing. Turning to look over his shoulder, Harry couldn't help but smirk as he said, "Oh… I think you'd miss me."
And so the dance continued.
.
.
The days faded into a month.
An entire month of high tension, heated glances and lingering touches that were slowly driving Harry crazy, and yet there was nothing he could do about it but wait. Wait for something that may never occur. Wait for Severus to say the words he would probably never say. Wait to feel those thin lips against his….
Wait.
He knew whatever sign Severus might give him would be subtle, so he watched closely. He listened closely to Severus's words and how he phrased them. He paid close attention to body language, to his expressions, to his eyes. But there was nothing. Nothing.
He had been about to give up hope when it happened.
It was Saturday evening and Harry had been away visiting Ron and Hermione. It had been an enjoyable night, but at the same time he was glad to be home. He had entered the house and had seen no sign of Severus, assuming he was working in the cellar. He removed his shoes and hung his cloak by the front door, moving into the sitting room. His eyes had fallen to the open book lying on the coffee table and he recognised it immediately. It was a worn leather volume from Severus's collection, one he had seen him with often.
Severus never left his books out of their proper place, and he especially wouldn't be so careless as to leave one lying open.
Walking over, Harry gently lifted it from its resting place, seeing that it was a collection of Muggle poetry: William Butler Yeats. His heart stilled as he read the page to which the book had been opened.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
He closed the book gently, disbelievingly. He knew it had not been left lying – and turned to that particular page – by accident. With Severus, there were no such things as accidents, for everything he did was methodical, precise and well thought out. No, this… this was what Harry had been waiting for.
A sudden noise caught his attention, and he looked up from the closed book in his hands to see Severus in his usual position in the kitchen doorway, his expression unreadable.
"Are you home, then?" he asked curtly.
Harry saw the hidden meaning in the question, and he couldn't help the smile slowly taking over his features. Home. He thought he just might finally be. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, Severus; I'm home."
Harry watched as Severus crossed the room, and he let the book be pulled from his hands and watched the man place it back on the coffee table before turning to look down at him. His breath caught in his chest at the look in Severus's eyes, and a shiver ran down his spine as long fingers came up beneath his chin, tilting his head up just slightly.
"Then welcome home, Harry."
The whispered words were like a balm to his soul, and Harry's eyes fell closed as Severus's lips captured his in a fierce kiss that was both harsh and demanding, a perfect representation of the one giving it now. Tongues battled for dominance, hands grasped clothing, and Harry wondered how he had lived without this for so long, for he felt at this moment to disentangle himself from Severus would be to die, to give up everything that ever meant anything. But he slowly disengaged from the kiss, nipping at Severus's bottom lip as he pulled back, panting to catch his breath. He rested his head against the strong shoulder before him, relishing the way strong arms wrapped around him, squeezing gently, and Harry smiled.
The dance was over.
Now they had a new path to travel, and the walk was an uncertain one. But looking up into Severus's eyes, Harry knew one thing for certain: he would always, always…
Tread softly.