Disclaimer: The characters belong to JK, you all know this by now.
Summary: HPSS. Severus is nagged by the boy from the hospital. Severus ends up in a Muggle hospital twice, and Harry's been there his whole life. It's been a while since Severus has seen the boy from the hospital, and even longer since he's seen misseltoe. Severus POV. For the record, Harry is eighteen now, and Severus doesn't know he's 'Harry Potter.'
A.n.: This is a sequel to the short "Old Scrooge" and will be about four parts long.
S c r o o g e V e r s u s T h e M i s t l e t o e
He hadn't changed. He should have changed. Why was he so... alive-looking?
Do not mistake me, I couldn't be any more pleasantly shocked, regardless of my scowling. Back again, old Scrooge, he had said to me just moments ago. Yes, I've returned to this Muggle rubbish dump, it's obvious.
Back again.
The only thing I'd missed was him. Not that I shall admit that to him, mind you. Should one be presented with the very rare chance to start again on new terms with a gorgeous, prospective companion, one does not give up his pride within the first five minutes.
I had better wait six, then, to tell him how much I've wished to see him these long two years.
Two years.
I shift up on my stiff pillows a little and he leaves his place in the doorway to stand next to my bed with a stupid grin on his face. It's as if he were happy to see me. There was someone glad to see the evil Potions master, bringer of detentions and sweat-inducing fear? What was wrong with teenagers these days?
As I sit forward a little, the boy reaches behind me and fluffs my stiff pillows, just as he had used to do the last time.
Last time.
Thinking of it, I notice again how much hasn't changed. The green, stretchy cap is still upon his head, pulled down to just touch the top of his eyebrows. The cap matches his sparkling eyes in color, but the thing makes him look a bit like an exotic fish with a head cold. It's just my thing, the boy had told me in the wariest voice I had ever yet heard from him.
My thing.
At the time I had not pressed any further with the matter, and I am reluctant to do so now after only just meeting him again. Speaking of...
"What brought you back? I'd thought you'd gone for good," says the boy to me as he's finished with the pillows.
He had taken the words right out of my previous self-pity session, and I glare at him a bit for predicting my thoughts.
"You posses two working eyes, see for yourself," was my reply in turn, and I gesture at my bandaged leg.
For some unknown reason, the boy blushes. The look is slightly strange for him, as he usually laughs at such a remark of mine. Not that I promote such idiocy, laughing, mind you. Not outside my own mind, anyhow.
"Got hurt again?" inquires the boy.
I refuse to answer such a pointless question, but he is used to that by now, and he takes a seat in the uncomfortable wood chair my bedside. All of the other rooms had large, fluffy armchairs for visitors. Scrooge bed, Scrooge chair... a very Scrooge room all together, I remember him saying on the second day of our acquaintance. My reaction hadn't been one of smiles and agreeing nods, but he still had come back the next day.
Come back.
"How have you been?" asks the boy somewhat timidly, and I notice how he will not quite meet my eyes.
The reply that I wasn't intending to give was interrupted by the nurse walking through the door and right up to me. She was a stern-looking woman and very irritating on the whole. You do deserve it, you know, for what you said, the boy had told me with a laugh. He doesn't like her either.
"You're well enough to take meals in the public eating area," informed the nurse with an almost-glare that was pathetic compared to my own, but showed that she still held a grudge against me.
As a general rule, I do not apologize to anyone, and I wasn't about to begin doing that now. Meeting her hard stare, I nod and the nurse turns away and leaves.
Not apologize.
"You can't walk on that," complains the boy, gesturing to my bandaged leg.
"Watch me," was my grumpy reply, and I shift as though to swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I had been laying in the same position for nearly four hours before the boy's arrival, and when I moved my feet to touch the cold floor, I hear something in my back crack loudly as a shiver runs down my spine.
The boy has gotten up from the chair and is helping me to stand, and I am loath to break from any of his touches. I allow him assist me without complaint, beside the usual scowl.
The walls outside my room are decorated for the upcoming holidays, and I glare at the offending hanging plant placed in the center of the walkway. The boy is beside me, holding my arm to keep me balanced, and I notice his cheeks redden again as his eyes drift to the mistletoe. I wonder at that, but do not comment with my usual sneer.
The mistletoe.
We reach the patient's public area, and the boy leads me to a comfortable chair in the corner, just where I prefer to sit.
"I'll get you a tray," says the boy, and he walks off without waiting for a response.
There is a moron wondering around the room, taking photographs of people for the upcoming holidays. I sink just a little lower into my seat and attempt to blend into the scenery as I know the man will take my photo without my consent anyhow. I most especially hate photographs with myself in them. I look positively ridiculous.
Hate photographs.
The boy has returned with the distasteful hospital food, and I just barely stop my stomach from rumbling against my will by holding my breath. Instead of making noise, I do something even more irritating. I thank the idiotic, lovely boy.
Lovely boy.
But he laughs at my outburst of thoughtfulness and sits down on the other side of the round table in front of me. He has brought himself some food as well, and we settle in for a light supper with the large hearth fire roaring at the other end of the public area.
The moron from before has just finished photographing a group of patients not too far away, and spots us in the corner. I growl softly, and the boy looks up at me. He sees me glaring over his shoulder and turns just in time to get a flash in the eyes. The boy blinks rapidly as I clench my fist at the side of my tray.
"Would you mind?" asks the infuriatingly gleeful man with the camera. I swear that the moron must be a relative of the Creeveys.
The boy turns back around gives me what I assume to be a placating look, or what might even be pleading. I cannot tell which one, but it is my undoing as he looks so wonderful in this light. I cannot refuse him, so I clench my jaw and nod tightly at the man.
The man grins so big that I am momentarily put off on my food at such cheer. But, that fades away when the boy comes around to the back of my chair and leans on it. His left hand has come down to rest on my shoulder, and I could have shivered from such a light touch. The man in front of me draws my attention again, though, as he is telling the boy to take off his cap.
Light touch.
The boy is hesitant, I can tell by the slight tightening of the fingers on my shoulder, but in the end he relents. I am too taken with his touch to be able to look up at him without giving myself away with my eyes. I do love those fingers of his. They're very nicely shaped, in my opinion.
Those fingers.
With the photo taken, we clear our places and set about returning to my room, the boy helping me as before. On the way, we again pass under the mistletoe, and I feel a very odd urge to stop under it and see what the boy did. I would not do that, of course, that would be childish and desperate, I know.
That did not stop the boy from doing it, however. I was so startled by the abrupt halt under the plant that, for a moment, I thought I'd gone insane and was actually up on ward three, screaming for someone's, anyone's, company.
Still holding my arm, the boy turns toward me with an unfamiliar shy look about him. I do not know for sure what the boy is asking, so I remain silent.
Remain silent.
Those lovely, sparkling green eyes are watching my own and I wonder if I am successful in keeping the longing out of them. Usually, I am not so unsure, but the realization that this wonderful boy is alive is still a bit of a shock to me. Even though I had spent nearly an hour with the boy, I still wonder if he is real, and if I am real.
So unsure.
I recall my own thoughts from my earlier self-pity round: could he think of me that way? Does he?
I am beginning to think that he could, and does, if it is not my imagination that he is moving closer to me.
Moving closer.
Not moving away, I glance down at his rosy cheeks and then at his gentle mouth. There is such beauty that I see there, and I want the chance to touch something pure, for once in my life. We are just close enough that I can feel his warm breath coming from his slightly open mouth, and I chance another glance at those lips. They are more inviting than ever, and I cannot stand to only look at them any longer.
Those lips.
The first brush of gentle skin is of my own doing, and it is barely a touch at all. My chapped lips are rough against his, but he does not pull away. To my surprise, he leans even further into me and does it again. Then, together I'm sure, we lean closer to the other and capture lips between lips.
It is short, but it is wonderful, and I can barely think beyond the person in front of me. Nothing else existed around us, nothing at all. It was me and it was him, foreheads leaning on one another and gazing into opposite eyes.
"Can I stay tonight?" softly asks the one before me, and I revel in the soothing sound of his voice.
There was something special about him, I am certain. No one had ever made me feel as comfortable as he does. But he did look a bit frightened, probably wondering if he would now get sneered at with his offer. I attempt a stern glare, and he seems about ready to run from me, so I bring a hand up to his waist to stall him.
A long moment passes silently. But then...
I nod, and he smiles.