A/N: This is a PREQUEL to Benediction, written for a reader who wanted to see the scene of them meeting for the first time again after thirteen years apart. Thanks for the suggestion!

Harry Potter stood outside the gates of Hogwarts, pale, exhausted, and at the end of his rope. He should have been thrilled to be back at his old haunt, reliving memories of teenage pranks and parties. Instead, he just felt hollow.

He hadn't left Hogwarts as a student fresh from his NEWTs, ready to embark on a new career at the Ministry. Instead, the last he'd walked these hallowed halls as a student was at the end of his sixth year, after Snape had killed Dumbledore. He hadn't returned his seventh year, instead following Dumbledore's wishes that he find and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, ultimately destroying Voldemort himself at the Battle of Hogwarts. The battle that not only he, Harry, had survived, but that Snape had also survived. The light hero and the dark hero, their continued existence after Voldemort's defeat against all odds. For Harry had returned from the dead, while Snape had precluded his demise by the expedience of anti-venom and blood replenishing potions.

Unlike many of his friends, Harry did not return to Hogwarts to repeat his seventh year and sit his NEWTs. No, he returned to Hogwarts first to help rebuild it and, later, to seek forgiveness from Severus Snape, neither endeavor as successful as he might have liked.

During the weeks and months he'd helped shore up Hogwarts and its defenses, he'd found himself working beside the wizard he'd loathed most of his youth. He had understood by then that Snape had killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders, but it had done little to soften his feelings toward the bitter, resentful man. Still, he had gained a better understanding of Severus Snape during those long, silent hours spent side by side, casting spells and weaving their light and dark magic together. He'd witnessed Snape's stoicism, his dedication, his absolute assuredness that he was right and all others be damned. But Harry had also felt the grudge Snape held—whether against Harry or the Wizarding world in general, Harry couldn't be arsed to find out.

Instead, standing shoulder to shoulder with Snape, working day in and day out to repair the castle, Harry had grieved. Grieved for the lives that had been lost, the remaining lives forever affected by death and loss and change. He hadn't spent much time thinking about the man by his side, save for the necessity of the magic they needed to perform together.

It wasn't until a spell had gone wrong, deflected, and hit a stone column causing it to crash down on Harry's legs, that their relationship had changed. Harry had moaned in agony, mostly insensate to the world around him. Vague images of Snape's face looming over his, Snape's long hair brushing his cheeks, Snape's voice saying, 'Potter' over and over, had drifted in and out of his consciousness. The next thing he knew, he'd woken up in the hospital wing, Snape asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside him.

"Snape," he tried, but his voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Snape," he rasped.

Snape jerked awake, his eyes roving over Harry as a look of immense relief crossed the man's normally unreadable features before the usual mask of indifference slipped back into place.

"Potter," Snape said, shifting from a slumped position into a more upright one. "I find it ironic that the Dark Lord didn't manage to kill you, but a misfired spell nearly did."

"Yeah, about that," Harry said. "I can't feel my legs."

"No, and you won't be able to for a while yet. A special team of healers from St. Mungo's has been working on you for the last three days to rebuild your crushed legs."

"Three days!" Harry exclaimed, glancing around the empty hospital wing.

"You've been sedated," Snape said.

Harry reached down and pressed his thighs. Although his fingers felt warm solid flesh, he felt nothing in his legs to indicate he was touching them.

"Er, will I regain feeling in them?" And then, more to the point, Harry asked, a bit of panic seeping into his voice, "Will I be able to walk again?"

"That remains to be seen," Snape said. At Harry's horrified look, Snape added, "But if anyone can beat the odds, Potter, it most certainly is you."

It had taken almost five months, and more than a few harsh words from Severus Snape, but Harry had learned to walk again. And most surprising of all, Snape had been with him every step of the way. Snape hadn't so much coaxed and cajoled Harry into doing the exercises and practice needed to regain his strength and coordination. No, Snape had done what Snape did best: bullied, criticized, and ridiculed Harry into fits of anger that pushed Harry beyond his limits and, ultimately, made him determined to prove Snape wrong.

And when Harry had finally managed the goal Snape had set for him—twenty-five confident, solid, steady steps on his own—Harry had whooped in triumph, fell into Snape's arms, and kissed Snape smack on the lips.

He hadn't meant to do it; he certainly hadn't planned it. Harry was just so happy and proud and overwhelmed by his success that it just happened. He pulled back a moment later, uncertain, and likely as stunned as Snape was himself.

Harry and Snape gazed at each other, a kaleidoscope of emotions warring with one another, and then they were snogging. Months, perhaps years, of pent up emotions worked themselves out through the press of lips, the clash of teeth, the dueling of tongues.

Snape maneuvered them toward his bedroom as hands roamed and bodies pressed and rubbed against one another, until the two men collapsed onto Snape's bed.

Harry was nothing if not eager. He'd grown used to Snape. Snape had become a balm to his grieving soul, to his hopeless failures at using his injured legs, to his self-pity. Snape had become his rock—and was as hard and demanding and unforgiving as one, too.

Snape rolled Harry onto his back, coming to rest atop of him, chest to chest. Harry moaned as Snape nipped and licked his way down Harry's body, discarding articles of Harry's clothing as he went. Harry bucked under the unexpected touch, the unexpected pleasure. This was an awakening in more ways than one—an end to his grieving, a new beginning. He latched onto it with the force of a drowning man, determined to hold onto this one thing that made him feel alive, that made him forget, that made life worth living.

Their quick tumble in the sack that night led to many similar nights, with each becoming bolder in the bedroom and with Harry, at least, becoming inextricably attached to the man who, more than any other, had saved him from himself once again.

And when lust and need gave way to something deeper, Harry grew content with staying, with casting his lot in life with this complicated, taciturn man: a man who was Harry's opposite in many ways. Harry was reckless, Snape was reserved. Harry did things on a whim, Snape planned for every outcome. Harry wore his heart on his sleeve, Snape played it close to the vest.

It was this last difference that brought their unspoken agreement to a screeching, devastating halt. And Harry knew it the second the words slipped from his mouth.

"I love you, Severus."

Three words that can solidify a relationship. Three words that can also destroy one.

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape scoffed.

"What's so crazy about me loving you?" Harry had said, lying on his side as he rested his head on his palm and stared down at his lover, both of them ensconced in Snape's bed.

Snape's face darkened ominously. "You are barely eighteen, Potter. You don't know what love is," Snape said, sitting up and sliding on his pants and trousers.

"And since when did you become judge and jury?" Harry asked, his ire rising.

Snape rose from the bed and made to leave the room. "Enough of this. I knew I should have put a stop to the madness months ago."

"Madness?" Harry echoed as he drew on his own pants and trousers before chasing after Snape. "What do you mean, madness?"

"In case it's escaped your notice, I am old enough to be your father," Snape said scornfully.

"So? What difference does that make?" Harry snapped. They were standing in Snape's sitting room now, nearly yelling at each other.

"You have your whole life in front of you, Potter. I did not save your sorry arse more times than I can count so you could sit around doing nothing and waste it!"

"And just what is it that you'd have me do, Snape? Is saving the world from Voldemort not enough?"

Snape laughed but there was no humor in the bitter sound. "So that's your plan. To live off your fame and glory for the rest of your sorry life."

"No, but after everything, I deserve a break."

"Yes, and I seem to have become the epitome of that break, Potter. I will not allow myself to be used any longer as your excuse to avoid living."

"I… what?" Harry said. "You think I am using you until I find something better?"

"That is exactly what I think, Potter."

Harry gaped, stunned and hurt.

Snape's expression turned decidedly colder. Glancing at his fingernails, as if Harry was beneath his notice, Snape said, "That's all you've been for me. A good shag to pass the time."

Harry stared, momentarily speechless. "That's not true," Harry breathed. "You… " Harry swallowed against the frantic lump in his throat. Maybe Snape didn't love him, maybe not yet, but he knew the man cared about him. He knew the man wasn't just using him, didn't he?

Snape sneered. "You are still a child, Potter. What use would I have for a child?"

"I can't believe you're doing this," Harry said, hurt causing the tears to spill over. "I love you."

"Really, Potter," Snape mocked. "Stop sniveling. I refuse to listen to this… this… drivel."

"Drivel?" Harry exclaimed. "Listen, if you don't feel the same, just tell me."

"I thought I just did," Snape said icily, his arms now crossed over his chest.

"Did what?"

"Tell you," Snape responded through gritted teeth.

"Tell me what?" Harry demanded.

"That I don't feel the same. About you." Snape said, his face lacking all expression, his eyes dead.

Harry felt the world around him shift and shatter. Had he so misjudged the man before him? The man he'd been practically living with for the last six months? The man who'd been by his side, on his side, all this time? The man who'd helped him recover from his crushing injury? The man who'd pushed him when he was more than ready to give up? The man who'd oscillated between making tender love to him one night, and having mind-blowing sex the next?

"No," Harry breathed. "You're lying."

Snape scoffed. "Come back when you're all grown up, Potter, and then tell me you love me," Snape said, turning his back on the boy.

"Please don't do this," Harry begged. "Please. I'm… I'm sorry."

"I have some business to attend to," Snape said dismissively. "I expect you to have your belongings out of my quarters by this afternoon."

"But…" Harry began.

"Clearly you have misconstrued the nature of our association, Potter. I suggest you place your affections where they'd be appreciated."

With that, Snape swept from the room, leaving Harry to stare after him. This time it wasn't his legs that were crushed, but his heart.