Monday
After Voldemort's last horcrux had finally been destroyed and the last battles and skirmishes had died down, many of the death eaters had simply disappeared, not to be seen again for years – if ever. At first an effort was made to track them down, but Scrimgeour had decided it was a waste of time and resources and the general public had wholly agreed. Everything is just as it should be; just as it used to be.
Except, it's not.
Nothing's quite the same. Not since Ron lost his leg and Hermione lost the sight in one of her eyes. (Harry didn't give a shit that she had lost sight. He just couldn't stand the complete deadness of the other one.) Not like he's seen either of them in years, anyways. They had gotten married after Hogwarts – everyone was getting married as soon as they could because they knew they might not get the chance to, later – and ran away, away from the Burrow, away from Harry. He hasn't heard from them since his birthday three years ago, and hell if that wasn't the worst birthday he could remember.
He's in a pub now; he doesn't know what it's called because of the windows being boarded over. The bartender is standing next to him idly polishing a glass. He puts it down, and reaches for a new glass to clean, but his hand lands upon the same one. Without breaking his pace he grabs the towel once again and wipes down the very same glass. Harry buries his face in his hands and calls for another Firewhiskey. The man puts down the glass and produces the shot out of nowhere, which is apparently the only task he can still complete with lucidity. He drinks it down quickly, the liquid burning down his throat and lets out a quiet, rough moan.
Someone on the other side of the pub looks up as he makes this noise and Harry's breath catches in his throat because wow, it's Seamus. He hasn't seen him in years. Harry continues to hold his breath to see if Seamus is going to acknowledge him, but then he notices the dark glasses Seamus is wearing albeit the dark and realizes that he is blind. Suddenly overwrought with grief, he throws a galleon down on the pub and leaves, robes swishing near-preternaturally behind him.
He goes home and that night doesn't have another drink, doesn't even change, just falls onto his bed with his clothes and glasses on. He closes his eyes tightly and tries to convince himself that if he doesn't move then it's almost as good as sleep.
Tuesday
He's at the same place which now has a name, because he thinks he saw a sign outside before he came in. The Blue Boar, something. Tonight Seamus isn't there – thank god – but a new person is. In the dim, grungey light Harry can make out a sallow face and a telltale hooked nose. He clears his throat to get the barkeeper's attention and the man also looks up slightly. Harry sees a twitch at the corner of his mouth which might be a smile; a smirk, at least, close enough. Harry scowls and gets up, tossing a handful of change onto the bar and gets up, not nearly as drunk as last night, but much more tired.
'Potter!' He hears a voice from across the room and turns around. Snape is sitting there, appraising him. He nods his head, and Harry nods back.
Wednesday
This time when he comes to the pub it's all for the alcohol, not for Snape. Not at all, he tells himself, but when he walks in and Snape is sitting right there he immediately walks over and sits next to him. Ordering a Firewhiskey, Harry rests his elbows on the table and looks at Snape. 'Hey,' he says softly. Snape does not respond for a long while.
'Hello, Potter.' The voice comes from underneath the hooded cloak Snape is wearing. It is heavy and black and covers all of his body but his feet and his face.
'How've you been?' Harry asks awkwardly, and Snape exhales a laugh in reply.
'I've been fantastic. The war was just amazing for me, thanks,' he snaps. Harry looks away, chagrined. Snape sighs. 'Sorry. I think we are all just a little on edge lately.' Harry makes a soft noise of agreement and wonders if Snape really just apologized for something to him.
'I'd say so.' Harry's voice is the last noise either of them make for a long time.
'I never liked you, Potter,' Snape says, quietly.
'Same,' Harry replies.
Thursday
Harry opens the door to his apartment and is honestly surprised when he sees that Snape is standing on his doorstep, out in the rain. 'May I come in?' he asks, and brushes past Harry without waiting for assent. Harry, for the first time, is embarrassed about the state of disrepair his apartment has fallen into.
Snape sits in an old, overstuffed armchair in the corner and watches Harry from across the room. Closing the door slowly, a crack of thunder reverberates around the room and lighting it with an unnatural tint. 'Why are you here?' Harry asks, slowly.
Snape doesn't answer, just watches as Harry walks over to Snape until he is standing right in front of him, kneeling so he is at eye-height with Snapes knees. 'Why are you here?' he repeats, leaning forward and sliding back into a standing position. Snape looks at Harry, a cold, dead look that he doesn't know how to interpret. Harry stands there, looking down at Snape, and suddenly gets the urge to run his hand up Snape's leg.
He does it and even though he knows this is wrong it just feels right. Snape's eyes flutter shut for a moment and he scowls. 'I never liked you, Potter,' he repeats, as he grabs Harry's wrists and pulls him onto his lap, another rumbling thunderbolt jolting them slightly. They kiss and as they do, both of them realize and acknowledge that this doesn't mean anything. Harry still doesn't like Snape, and he's sure Snape feels the same way. But if there is a way, any way, that they can go one night without sleeping alone again, he is more than accepting.