Albus Dumbledore was not what you would call… sexy.
For a small window of his life, he'd been in possession of what had been critiqued as 'average' looks. Which was all right with him—average was nothing to sneeze at, and anyway, there'd been so much else to do, so much to explore, understand, learn—there hadn't been the time or inclination to settle down, to make use of his average gifts while the extraordinary beckoned.
And then average was gone.
But he didn't mourn much. His love went to his work, his colleagues, his students.
He bought socks, he fought wars, and went to bed alone.
If he sometimes imagined having a lover—and this theoretical lover took many shapes over the years—he contented himself with the knowledge that, if a prospective candidate ever happened along, he wouldn't have any idea what to do with them.
XXXXX
The night it happened wasn't special.
The staff room buzz died off as the professors filtered out the door and down the halls. Albus gathered his notes from the long, polished table.
He remembered the near silence. The fire crackled. Out the high windows hung a field of bright stars.
There was measured clearing of the throat. "Headmaster."
He looked up. "Yes, Severus, what is—" he began.
And then Albus Dumbledore was being kissed. Well and truly kissed. The hard line of Severus' mouth became warm, wet, soft against his own.
Well.
For a moment, he was too shocked to move.
The Headmaster felt the lightest press of fingertips against the length of his beard and shivered. His toes curled and dragged at the bunching of his too-large socks, kneading the extra yarn the way he didn't reach out and knead bony shoulders, even when they seemed as though they needed a good rub. Albus heard the crinkle of paper as his eyes fell shut.
He wasn't sure what to think. It was… close. It was mingled breath, the trace taste of humbugs, and unsweetened tea with lemon.
The tip of Severus' tongue touched his lower lip.
Oh.
There was the unmistakable smack of suction as the Potions Professor pulled away.
Albus blinked through his half-moon glasses at Severus—by Merlin—Severus!—the terror of the Potions classroom, the scourge of the Astronomy tower after dark—the tall, thin, young man with spidery fingers and a wit he might choose to employ as either scalpel or cudgel—Severus—who would stay in his rooms and read rather than have a drink with the rest of the staff—Severus—who had never learned to forgive—Severus—who'd (so far as the Headmaster knew) never shown interest in a romantic relationship with anyone—"Severus!"—had kissed him!
The man paled even further (if it was possible) and bowed his head. "Headmaster," he blurted, and spun on his heel.
His heart raced. "Wait," he said, but the younger wizard was already gone.
In the quiet, the Headmaster put his fingers to his lips, felt the shape of them, and mimicked the momentary and unfamiliar press of a mouth.
Then Albus sat heavily in his chair, the notes crushed to his chest.
"I've been kissed," he said, and looked up into the eyes of the house elf clearing away the remains of tea.
XXXXX
"I've been kissed," he told the mirror over the sink.
"I've been kissed," he whispered to the dozing portraits in his office.
"He kissed me," Albus said. Fawkes shuffled on his perch and belched a thoughtful ring of smoke.
XXXXX
"You certainly seem chipper this morning," Minerva said.
'I've been kissed' was not what he said as he selected the gooiest cinnamon roll from the top of the pile.
"Only you would be cheered by the approach of exams. Vacation? I'll welcome that. But so many hurdles to clear before… Ha."
'Did you know, I've been kissed?' was not the question he asked. "Hm?"
"Don't look now. Our favorite colleague has once again slithered out of the wrong side of the bed."
Albus did look. He stared across the bustle of the Great Hall and watched the man in black slink from shadow to shadow, keeping his back to the wall and his scowl firmly set as he moved along the edge of the room, making his way circuitously to the Head Table. "I've been kissed."
A cough. "Excuse me, Albus, what was that?"
He looked away. "Pass the jam?"
She arched a brow. "You've put your elbow in it."
"Ah. So I have. Smaller jars are perhaps in order?" He did not look over when the dull scrape of chair legs cut through the din. He sliced into the cinnamon roll with the edge of his fork.
"Kissed, eh?" Minerva asked.
He grunted a response, scooping up a forkful of icing on a very small amount of actual roll.
"Anyone I know?"
"These are excellent. You should try them," he suggested, eating. A crumb tumbled down and landed in his beard.
"Merlin preserve us, Albus. …He didn't."
The Headmaster sipped his tea, thought, then added another lump of sugar.
"He is old enough to be your great-great-great grandson. You realize this."
"Minerva, have you pinned your hair back too tightly this morning?"
"Nothing good will come of it. You know that," she counseled.
Her words hung in the air over the table, and all the icing on three cinnamon rolls could not make them disappear.
XXXXX
The days slipped by.
He didn't mean for it to happen, really. Every morning at breakfast, he watched the wizard enter, watched Severus drop into his chair like a great crow, watched lines on his face grow imperceptibly darker and deeper.
"Good morning, Severus," he said. "Good afternoon," he said. "How does the day find you?" and "How are your classes?" and "Tell me about your research?" he asked.
Albus had faced more than one dark lord, more than one power-hungry meddler from the Ministry, more than one problem student. He had ended the lives of witches and wizards, had sent them to rot in cells. He was accustomed to facing fear. He was still a Gryffindor, in the bone.
And every day, he went to Severus, opened his mouth, and accidentally said, "Slytherin's chances at the cup are promising," or "Have you tried the strawberry tarts? They're excellent," and, "You are on the chaperone rotation to Hogsmeade this weekend, in case you'd forgotten."
"I make no predictions." "I don't care for strawberries." "Of course I didn't forget."
Severus was a quill—sharp and blacked with ink, and such a useful tool that one might never stop to consider its beauty. Severus was beautiful—the opposite of warm, fuzzy socks. He was the conversation piece that unnerved the guests. He was the garden overgrown with thorny roses.
The Potions Professor stopped washing his hair so often. On Fridays at breakfast, Albus watched him slink into the Great Hall with his hair hanging down, covering his face. Noses began to turn up at Snape's appearance even before they turned up at his comments.
Albus wished he'd kissed back.
A thousand days was like blinking.
Albus was not beautiful, war rumbled in the distance, and with such weighty matters in the air, there wasn't room—or courage—enough to speak of a kiss.
XXXXX
(He hoarded it. Like a student smuggling illicit sweets back from Hogsmeade, he kept the memory close, secret, and took a quiet joy in knowing it was there.
He tucked it under his pillow at night to keep it safe during the unconscious hours—
And then it was only a matter of time before the memory grew, blending with fantasy—only a matter of time before the feeling of lips and a hint of something more spread over the rest of his withered body, before his imaginary lover seemed to have been gifted with glittering black eyes and an unreadable expression.
"Headmaster," the phantom whispered first, and then, "Albus.")
He began to sleep on the left side of his bed, and had the house elves bring an extra pillow for the right.
Just in case.
XXXXX
"You are looking after yourself, Severus?"
"As best I can with these brainless, gormless idiots drooling into their cauldrons. Honestly—who doesn't know not to add distilled essence of—"
It happened so quickly that a lesser wizard would have second-guessed his own senses. But Severus noticed, and his speech tripped up. They lapsed into silence as they rounded the corner in the corridor.
"It needs to be washed," Snape blurted after a few moments.
Albus hoped his beard covered the blush.
"Not that there's much point in appearing a fashion plate. I wasn't hired for my looks," Severus snorted. "I'm well aware of that."
"Your hair is very black," Albus said carefully.
"It isn't a dye!" the Professor snapped.
"I didn't think it was."
"Then what exactly were you implying?" he demanded.
"It was just an observation."
"Just an observation—just an observ—in the way that, 'I believe young Harry may need some extra attention," is just an observation. It is not a charm, it is not a dye, I will wash it after supper," he spat.
When their paths diverged, Severus did not respond to the 'Good Afternoon' offered. Albus knew he would be sulky and stand-offish for days.
But now Albus knew what it would feel like to touch that curtain of fine, black hair.
He wasn't sure if he imagined the faint trace of oil on his fingertips.
XXXXX
There was a war on. Order, Ministry, Students, Voldemort, Death Eaters.
Severus was none too slowly falling apart, if one judged by hygiene and temperament.
So was Albus.
Severus was never the last to leave a staff meeting, an Order meeting. Their meetings alone were short, clipped, and professional—unless Severus was once more raging against the inevitable sweep of the tide; if so, Albus would let him pace the width of the office and wonder if the wizard was at all attracted to him any longer. If he ever had been. Perhaps it was simply a matter of Severus spying in him something needful and receptive.
Perhaps there had been more.
Perhaps Severus had been teetering on the edge of a decision to pursue some sort of a less-than-platonic relationship, and he'd gone and bollixed up the whole mess because the high and mighty Albus Dumbledore had been so busy running about and changing the world in his youth that he'd bloody well missed kissing.
And wouldn't it be a silly thing to set out tea and explain to a respected colleague and friend (who likely hadn't thought of him in that way for ages) that, after a hundred-odd years of virginity, one rather gets accustomed to it, even if one might consider changing—should anyone else show an interest in helping out in that arena…
It would be silly. So he said nothing. But he would say something—someday. He would.
The memory danced in his thoughts, a candle flame keeping his spirit aloft—a spot of warmth in the darkness.
XXXXX
Time went by. There was a war on.
Severus disappeared.
The candle went out.
XXXXX
The night it happened was special—Christmas Eve, when all good little soldiers were tucked in their beds.
Voldemort learned of the snake in his camp.
The snake, slippery to the end, slithered home.
Albus arrived at the Infirmary in his pajamas and robe.
"Cut it off," Severus gasped through bloody, bitten lips. Tears streamed out of the corners of his eyes, though he was not sobbing. The pain was enough to send him into fits. He arched off the infirmary bed, curling and uncurling like a worm after rain. "Cut it off," he said again, grasping his arm at the elbow.
The Dark Mark pulsed with a heartbeat all its own.
Remus, Kingsley, and Harry looked on.
"Hold him down," Albus said.
XXXXX
Poppy explained, to the best of her ability, prosthetic options.
Severus pointedly ignored his pinned sleeve, shook his head, and said, "I am not a starfish." He left the Infirmary. Albus followed.
By unspoken agreement, they went to Albus' office. The Headmaster poured two glasses of brandy.
Severus was very quiet. Then he said, "I suppose you'll tell me I should look into the matter. That I shouldn't draw attention."
Albus sipped. "Would you take that advice?"
"Probably not," replied Snape.
"…May I ask how you are feeling?"
The edge of a smile. "Very well. Surprisingly." He paused. "Or perhaps not so surprisingly. …I don't believe I want a prosthetic. Or to try the re-growing spells. I believe I will keep the arm as it is."
"More?" Albus offered, and filled Severus' glass again.
"Or perhaps a hook," Severus smirked. "Something frightening, yet functional."
"I'm sorry you had to lose it, Severus."
"I will adjust. I imagine," Snape said.
They drank.
"…We almost lost you."
"I am aware."
Albus spread his hands on the desk. "…This is perhaps not the best time to introduce the subject."
"Which subject is that?"
He swallowed against the lump in his throat. His palms felt a bit sweaty. "Ah," he began.
"If this is about Potter—"
"You once kissed me," Albus blurted.
Silence.
The Headmaster couldn't look at Snape. "Once. A very long time ago. You kissed me. After a staff meeting."
One of the portraits yawned.
"I regret that I did not—react—correctly. I was taken by surprise." He took a deep breath. "You see—it had never happened before," he said. "And—I would like you to know that—I am sorry for any distress I might've caused. Ah. If you are ever…" The words died in his throat. "I am sorry."
"…Let's see if I follow. You are apologizing for an incident that occurred years ago—in which I made inappropriate, unwanted advances toward my superior—"
"They were not inappropriate. And they were not unwanted." He gripped the glass hard, fighting a rising wave of shame. The urge to bolt from the room became unbearable.
An age of quiet. Finally—
"Why speak of it now?"
"I've never stopped thinking of it. I wanted to you to know, if nothing else. I wanted you to…" He shook his head. "I wanted you," he confessed. "I have for some time."
Silence.
"Isn't that silly," Albus said, rose, and left.
XXXXX
"In your own time, Snape," growled Moody from his perch near the door.
Albus watched Severus enter. His whole right arm dragged down the line of his shoulders like lead on a scale balance, calling even more attention to the empty, pinned sleeve. If Albus was surprised when Severus didn't rise to the jibe, he was not surprised when later he heard—
"Feeling a trifle insecure, are we, about losing our position as most-deformed member of the Order?"
There were yells, threats, and Kingsley obliged Alastor by holding him back.
Snape reclined in an armchair, his ankles crossed, his cheeks pink from the fire.
XXXXX
Finally, the meeting was finished. Those staying the night at Grimmauld Place retired upstairs.
Albus gathered his notes, and charmed them against stray eyes.
"Headmaster."
He froze.
The door clicked shut. "…I'm not… precisely what was offered… years ago." Severus cleared his throat. "However…"
He let out a breath and turned around.
Severus' eyes were dark. His lips were pink. His smirk was unsure. He shrugged his unweighted shoulder. "The offer is not withdrawn."
Albus was ready this time. He dropped his notes and stepped over the pile of papers.
"That was unnecessar—"
He kissed Severus.
Kissing, he discovered, was different than being kissed. Trajectory had to be considered, as well as the position of noses. He tried again, this time with a bit more control.
Long fingers curled into his beard.
The kiss broke. "You don't find it at all... repugnant?"
Albus drew in closer, chasing Severus' mouth with his own. He pulled Severus closer. "You could never be. Not to me, Severus."
He barked a laugh. "I think you must be blind." But then Severus returned the embrace as best he could, and kissed the corner of the Headmaster's mouth. "This may prove unwise."
Albus swallowed. "Severus, if you aren't--"
"Take me to your rooms," he said.
He cleared his throat. "I won't know what to do," he whispered.
"Yes, you will," said Severus, and kissed him until Albus believed it.
END.