"Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer."
House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski
There is a war on. It's different than he expected. He'd seen war movies on TV, gruesome yet romantic. People always seem to idealize war. It's nothing like TV.
There is no romance in this war. It is filthy and cold.
Harry shivers, the cold wind cuts right through his cloak and straight into his bones. He can't remember the last time he was warm. He can't use any magic, it will give away his position. It doesn't bother him like the others, he was a muggle long before he was a wizard.
Up ahead he sees the dilapidated shack, falling apart wet and alone in the woods. He rushes to it, maybe the rotting planks of wood will provide some relief from the wind.
They do.
He can't risk lighting a fire, not that any of this water soaked wood would catch anyway. He sits in an uncomfortable wooden chair at a lopsided table in the kitchen. Harry closes his eyes and listens. He listens to the rain fall on the roof, the wind howl through the cracks in the windows and floors, the leaves rustle in the trees. He listens to the sounds of the forest and he listens for anything unnatural.
He sits this way for an hour before he hears it, the wet footsteps over leaves approaching the shack.
The door slams open and the figure steps in. His face is obscured by the hood of his soaking wet cloak. His stringy black hair is clumped together in wet pieces.
Harry opens his eyes and Severus Snape stands before him, both men have their wands drawn. This is war after all.
"Snape."
"Potter."
"The addition of lavender to Wolf's Bane will turn the potion yellow."
"However, the removal of honeysuckle from it will turn it lavender."
As soon as their code phrases are uttered there is a crush of body against body. Lips against lips.
"I thought you'd never get here." Harry whispers in between kisses.
"Shut up, Potter."
What they share is red hot and violent. All teeth and nails. When they're done it looks like both of them have been through an attack. Harry blushes every time Hermione asks about the bruises.
And this is the routine they have. The war wages on. Witches and wizards die on both sides. Yet Harry and Severus somehow stay alive, meeting when they can for a night of lust filled passion. Neither of them really saying anything more than each others name and ever changing code phrases. A mutual respect and unspoken understanding is all they have between them, other than the sex that is.
On the eve of the last battle, at least he hopes it will be, Harry thinks about Severus. How they came to be and what will happen when the war is over. He'd always steeled himself to not survive the last attack, it was his way of coping. There was always a definite end in sight, a reason for all this bloodshed. A grand purpose to him being the chosen one.
But now all he could think about was Severus and the way his skin shone milky in the moonlight. The way he would hiss as he entered Harry or softly rasp out, "Harry" as he was about to climax. The way he would always insist that the code phrases be potions related because he refused to say anything inane.
Harry smiled to himself and wondered if Severus ever spared him a passing thought.
Harry thought long and hard that night. He barely slept, Order members thought it was because of what the next day would bring. Over and over each encounter with Severus played in his mind. This was passion and maybe even love. This, he thought, is what the love of two love-starved individuals would look like. Hungry and consuming.
Harry was resolved to live. For Severus and for their future, whatever that may be.