Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with Harry Potter. That happy power lies with the wonderful JK Rowling and her associated publishers, etc. I'm merely borrowing to suit my own happy little needs.
A/N: I expect to begin with this will be confusing. This opening prologue is set in what I'm going to call the Present, whereas the next several chapters will be in the Past. The Past is the timeframe directly post-HBP, taking all events into play to help create the present you are getting a glimpse of here. This will also be eventual both slash and het. Expect HarryxGinny, HarryxDraco, and HarryxSnape, as well as RonxHermione, though the latter won't feature predominantly. The focus of the story is not on the relationships, but they will be present, so expect them. If you're vehemently against slash or het, I suggest you look elsewhere.
Oh. And though I say 'bar,' expect something closer to the lines of the Three Broomsticks.
Now, onto the story! In the words of the great Albus Dumbledore, "Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak!"
It's interesting how much people are alike. Take away years of conditioning and environment, psychological walls and emotional barriers, and people are still people. That's something pureblood Wizarding society has never really seemed to grasp— though I doubt it has anything to do with the ability to. People are people, be they magical or Muggle, and people like to view themselves as important. Really, pride has dominated the Wizarding world for the past few centuries or so. But of course, it's not as if the Muggles have neither pride nor anything to be proud of. They've simply manifested their talents differently out of necessity. Yet even with those differences, a wizard bleeds as a Muggle bleeds, agonizes as they agonize over fiscal matters and the woes of domesticity…
And, a chuckle accompanied the thought, I find them both just as easily in my chairs, drowning their sorrows in various mixtures of ethanol.
"Oi, barkeep, give me another, will you?" Bleary, stubborn brown eyes lifted their gaze from the polished wood of the bar, fixing their wavering, inherently impertinent stare on the tall, slender figure before them. The man blinked, wiping at his mouth with the back of a thick hand before stretching an arm out, clinking a glass tumbler against the bar's solid surface, sliding the base about the small puddle of condensation that had collected. The slight squeaks the motions created seemed to please him as he stared at the wiry, youthful bartender, taking in the other man's pale, smooth skin, offset by his perpetually disheveled raven hair, bangs grown long to shield a scar whose traces he could just barely distinguish whenever the man moved, and the deep emerald green of his long-sleeved button-down, the color matched in the fathomless depths of the bartender's beautiful, but unseeing eyes.
"Now, Robert, Meighann would have my hide if I let you douse yourself any more than you already have," came the amused return, as those pale, calloused fingers closed about Robert's tumbler and deftly worked the glass from his grasp.
"I think you've had more than enough." Green eyes turned to the man perched on the barstool, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but never quite focused on the man himself. Sympathy joined the familiarity in the bartender's tones as he inquired, "Case not going well, then?"
Robert gave a dry sort of snort, running a hand through close-cropped, sandy brown hair as he resignedly watched the glass of liquid bliss disappear into the other man's swift, sure grasp.
"You could say that. Every time we think we've got the bastard cornered, in comes another paid witness or some other setback. He's guilty as sin, Harry, and I know it, the judge knows it, and the jury knows it. It's just becoming impossible to prove it. He's the cagiest son of a bitch I've ever seen, with enough money to pull it off. It's bloody infuriating, is what it is." Finishing the small rant, Robert wiped at his mouth again before eyeing the tumbler in Harry's hand with dubious restraint, a wry, faintly bitter and rueful smirk lifting one corner of his chapped lips.
"You sure I can't persuade you to fill it up again?"
Harry shook his head, chuckling in a patient, familiar sort of way as he put the used glassware away, feeling along the back counter for a rag before turning and wiping it with practiced ease over the polished grain of the bar's surface. It was perhaps not so strange that even without sight, he retained certain behaviors influenced by it, such as nodding a response.
"Positive, Robert. Besides, if you drink any more, I can't turn you out to drive yourself home, and God knows I don't want to put up with you all night." Though the words might have been harsh when taken out of context, when Harry spoke them, his tone was filled with the amused warmth of good acquaintance and good-natured teasing. Robert, obviously familiar with the young bartender, barked a short laugh before pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his brown trousers and retrieving a few bills from the leather depths.
"Robert…" came the warning tones from Harry, and the lawyer looked up at the disconcertingly unfocused, but brilliant emerald eyes, well familiar with the tolerant almost affection in the other man's voice. He laughed in response, shaking his head and correcting the amount of payment on the bar.
"One of these days, I will successfully fool you," groused Robert amiably, standing from the comfortable leather stool. He jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "And if you tell me it's 'blind man's intuition' one more time, I'm going to hurt you, blind or no."
And damn if the irritating man didn't smirk.
"All right, all right. I get it. If I don't want the answer, I'd better not ask." Still shaking his head, the lawyer turned to go. "Night, Harry."
"Goodnight, Robert."
There was a slight smile on the pale lips of the slender barkeep as he turned his head to the direction of the door, watching without seeing as his acquaintance stopped long enough to pull his hat, coat, and scarf from the rack near the exit before disappearing into the dark, frigid November night.
Robert, like so many of his Muggle customers, amused Harry in a patient, endearing sort of way as he listened to their woes and worries from his place behind the bar. They were so concerned with the small details of their lives----I forgot the milk! When's Nick's recital? This bill is late! ---- that they were completely oblivious to the world at large. But then, he mused as he turned back around, running his fingers over the smooth, wooden surface of the counter, wizards were not all that different… Harry pursed his pale lips upon discovering the surface sticky before wiping at the contaminant with a clean rag, scrubbing where necessary to remove the remains of whatever spill had transpired there earlier.
"Quiet tonight, isn't it, Persephone?" the young man hissed in a whisper, the subtle nuances of Parseltongue audible only to the small serpent hidden in the folds of his emerald green collar. With his back to the bar, none could see the slender, delicately scaled head and neck emerge from their warmed concealment, tasting the air with a forked tongue and slight, hissing intake of breath.
"There aren't many humans stumbling about," Persephone agreed, tilting her supple neck to look up at Harry's chin when the human gave a small snort of laughter. She was puzzled. As far as the young snake was concerned, she had been stating mere observation, not passing haughty judgment. Her warm-blooded friend knew this, but still found himself amused by her curious, unmeasured honesty.
"I suppose they do stumble often," Harry allowed, using a good deal of willpower to keep from laughing again, which prompted yet another bemused, concerned glance from the reptile coiled daintily about his throat. Wasn't that what she had said? Truly, there was no hope for humans, even those that could Speak as her Harry could. She, like many of her serpentine ancestors, believed the fault was an unfortunate byproduct of having limbs. As she had matter-of-factly stated to her human charge (for, truly, it was she who was taking care of him---humans were enough of a danger to themselves), human lives would be far less complicated if they merely removed those bulky arms and legs.
"There is no balance on merely two legs," Persephone conferred wisely on Harry, "Four-legged creatures have much more apparent grace. At least, until compared to a serpent." But not every animal could have the fortune to be a snake, she reasoned logically. Pity for those that did not. At that, Harry couldn't help but laugh heartily, earning himself a bemused stare or two from the few customers that remained at this late hour. Not, of course, that the blind young man could see them. Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingertips lightly over the large scales of her slender head discreetly, feeling the ripple of her lithe body against his throat as she shifted to conceal herself in his collar once more. He had rescued Persephone almost a year ago now, when the then infantile snake had nearly frozen to death in the snow for lack of a warm shelter, and she had been with him ever since. Harry certainly didn't mind the company; she held an intriguing point of view on many topics, and he enjoyed her conversation. She was also an invaluable help when it came to his lack of vision, helping him to find things or to beware of overfilling a cup or running into a table or pulled-out chair. There was no denying that, aside from his beloved Hedwig, Persephone was his closest companion and (though often bemused) confidante.
After the last customer had paid and left, Harry and Daniel, the bar's co-owner, began the arduous task of cleaning tables and putting up chairs, though Daniel disappeared a little while in to take care of the bookkeeping. Though with the help of Persephone there were many things Harry could do, the nature of his disability still kept him from being adept at just as many everyday tasks. It was frustrating, but in the seven years since he had lost the ability to see, he had more or less come to terms with himself. It wasn't as if there was anything to be done about it. As he methodically swept the clean, gleaming hardwood floors, Persephone hissing advice in Parseltongue, ("You missed a spot, Harry. Try there. No, not there. A little more to your left.") the jingle of the door's bells caught Harry's attention. Automatically, without even bothering to look up, he stated, "We're closed for the night, sorry."
When he heard neither a response nor the sound of the door opening and closing again, Harry felt a brief bite of irritation sweep through his body. It was, however, subdued quickly with a presence and skill that had taken years and multiple tragedies to cultivate. Leaving one hand wrapped about the broom's smooth, wooden handle, the green-eyed man ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, glancing in the direction of the door. He could still feel the presence there, and it was oddly familiar, which gave him pause. Were this figure to be one of his loved ones, he would have found himself wrapped in a friendly embrace immediately, despite whatever tidings were brought. Furthermore, the man's---it was a man, he knew, instinctively---aura was practically dripping with scorn and, strangely, discomfort. That puzzled Harry, and he pursed his thin lips, licking the bottom with his tongue to alleviate the dry, chapped feel about them. That particular combination of emotions was familiar, too, as was the man's scent. It was heady, woodsy, reminding Harry vividly of earth and scented smoke. In fact, it reminded him almost exactly of the smell he remembered clinging to Snape's dungeons, particularly in the Potions classroom. With that, the sense of familiarity to the man's aura sharpened into keen realization, and he widened his unseeing, but piercing emerald eyes, the intense gaze not quite focusing on the Potions Master's form, but conveying perfectly the young man's surprise before it was replaced by a pleasant mask.
"Sorry about that. Good evening, Professor." But what was Snape, of all people, doing here? Surely, if something were wrong, Ron, Hermione, or Remus would have come? Harry refused to believe it was mere coincidence that the tall, darkly imposing figure from his recalcitrant past was once more staring him down. A moment of dark humor caught Harry deciding that Snape's infamous glare and haughty sneer were far less daunting when one could not see them, even though the younger man was positive his former teacher was gifting him with such an expression now. Somehow, the lanky form of Severus Snape could exude a sneer in even his aura, Harry noticed with amusement.
"We are closed," he continued, "but I could pull a chair back down for you and you can say what you have to say, because I doubt that you would be here, gifting me with your soothing presence, purely for pleasure's sake."
Harry's mildly sarcastic cheek did not go unnoticed by the Potions Professor, in spite of the pleasant tone with which it was given. The brat was mocking him already and he, Snape, had yet even to speak! Yes, he decided, even at twenty-five Potter was still an impertinent whelp. It didn't seem that he'd changed much physically, either, with his messy raven hair, lightening-bolt scar, and gleaming green eyes, though they carried much more aesthetic appeal without the chunky, round glasses he used to wear. Briefly, Severus wondered where they had gone, before dismissing the notion entirely. Why should he care whether the Boy Wonder had removed his tacky black eyewear and thus did not quite look like the carbon copy of James he had when he was younger? And the fact that Harry was still rather slight of stature didn't hurt the physical dissimilarities now apparent in father and child. James had been tall and wiry, and had never removed his glasses. Of course, Harry was now about four years older than James and Lily had been when they had died…
However, Snape considered, if this is how the bo---man--- dresses without his glasses, it might be far more prudent for him to use them. The younger man wore a simple, dark green button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the collar just slightly undone, giving a glimpse of a supple expanse of pale throat, and dark orange trousers. Orange! His socks appeared to be in different patterns and colors too, as if he had thrown his hand in the drawer and dressed at random.
"Rest assured, Potter," he sneered in return to Harry's impudence, "that my being in this…establishment… is far from my own design, and rather at the Headmistress' insistence." Black eyes studied green, watching for any flicker of quailing in the man who had once been his most gallingly …volatile… student. Now that he thought about it, Potter's stare was strangely unfocused and entirely unnerving, and the hint of an amused smile that was playing across those thin lips was infuriating. Potter didn't seem to be fazed in the least by Severus' sharp tongue, appearing instead to be strangely, amusedly, tolerant. The expression in the boy's features, Snape thought sourly, reminded him far too much of Albus Dumbledore. Nevertheless, he flicked his wand, pulling a chair down in a display of hauteur before settling himself into it. Harry didn't seem to be in the least surprised or angry. If anything, the brat was still amused and oddly tolerant of Snape's behavior, and Severus found himself disturbingly reminded once more of Albus Dumbledore.
"I am here, Potter, because Filius Flitwick has recently died of the pains of old age, and Headmistress McGonagall has requested your presence at his funeral. Which, of course, you would have known days ago had you retained a modicum of the renowned Gryffindor courage and not run away from everything you purportedly loved." The sneer was highly pronounced in the older man's expression and aura now, as he crossed his arms across his chest, eyeing his former pupil with obvious disdain. The contempt in the angular features of the Potions Master only intensified at Harry's refusal to take the bait. Harry Potter was simply acting odd, and it was making Severus Snape angry and uncomfortable.
"And, furthermore, though I have always maintained that you have no sense of taste, it doesn't become you, Potter, to look as if you were dressed by a deranged house-elf." He cast another scathing glance over the youth's tacky attire, lip curled in an impressive sneer that had only increased in potency over the years, determined to dispel whatever lingering sense of discomfort he felt at being in the presence of this strange shade of Harry Potter. When Harry continued to be serenely imperturbable, calmly returning to the task of sweeping, clearing dust and dirt into a neat pile, Snape found his scowl deepening. The tension had been thick in the air from the moment he had walked in the door, before either of them had had the chance to speak. Years of shared history and multitudes of past encounters and experiences stretched between them, straining further the thin line of civility that had only barely existed. In fact, if he grudgingly admitted it to himself, Harry was being more civil than he, but the blasted Gryffindor had started all of it. He, Snape, was simply reminding the younger man of the proficiency of his acerbic tongue. At least, until the boy stopped with that eerily disturbing act of pleasantry. It was unnerving, and he didn't like it. Taunting the boy into a state of vicious anger and observing as his far too expressive face contorted with suppressed, self-righteous rage had been an entertaining constant in the former Death Eater's life. Back then, he would have never believed that Harry Potter might learn to control that infamous temper of his. But it would seem now that he had, and that, too, was a bit disturbing. He'd never really thought of Potter in an adult capacity, even if the boy had been of age now for the past eight years.
Harry did not immediately respond to Snape's acidic comments. Instead, he kept his reserved emerald gaze focused on the task at hand, sweeping the last of the dirt into the dustpan before settling both it and the broom against the wall. His expression was serious, but difficult to read when he finally turned around to face Severus, walking purposefully to the table. Only when he came directly close to it did he discreetly lift a hand in front of him to brush his fingertips along the wooden edge, establishing the boundary in his mind before lifting one of the chairs from the table and setting it back against the floor. He could sense the unease in his former teacher, and though he might have taken a great deal of pleasure in it years ago, now he merely found it faintly exasperating and mildly endearing. That wasn't to say he wasn't amused---he was, to be sure. He was also mildly annoyed by Snape's continued hostility, but, to be fair, Harry had opened their conversation with sarcasm, and the other man's caustic remarks were far less hurtful when Harry could sense the discomfort underlying the words. Snape was merely lashing out defensively, lest Harry take advantage of the Potions Professor's distraction. Not that he would, but Snape didn't have to know that. Nor would he believe it, Harry reflected wryly, with all of the past history between them.
"I don't like this man," Persephone hissed lightly, her irritation as obvious to Harry as his former teacher's. Discreetly, Harry turned his back slightly to Snape to seat himself in the chair, stroking the young adder's smooth scales in reassurance as Persephone continued, "He is very rude, and he smells bad."
Harry managed not to laugh, but he couldn't quite help the slight, indulgent quirk of his lips as he settled himself comfortably, hissing his response in a whisper too low for Severus to catch as he turned back to face his reluctant guest. "He is an ally, and his scent is that of potions."
"I still don't like him," came the stubborn, soft hiss, "I don't have to be able to understand HumanSpeak to know that he's very rude." Knowing that Persephone's stubbornness and rigidity of opinion outweighed even his own by far, Harry kept his thoughts to himself. There was no doubt that Snape was, by nature and years of long practice, a rude man. But he also was exceedingly honorable, in his own way. Letting the smile die on his pale, thin lips the younger man turned to face his surly companion, his features composedly bland. Had he been younger, the venomous jabs would have enticed a furious, righteous diatribe from his mouth, but so many years and so much pain later, Harry was bereft of any desire for conflict. He could feel his former Professor's discomfort with the situation, and resolved to withstand any verbal assaults the other man would instigate.
Whatever Harry had thought to say was cut off by the sound of a voice emerging from the restaurant's depths, followed shortly by the purposeful footfalls of a long stride. Daniel emerged from the back, casting a bemused, wary glance around the anteroom, taking in the gleaming floors and neatly stacked chairs on their tables before his hazel eyes alighted on the pair engaged in what appeared to be tense conversation. At least, Daniel amended mentally, the tall, dark man appeared tense. Harry appeared as unflappable as ever, calmly taking his companion's vicious comments with tolerance and a reserve that had become characteristic for the young man over the past few years. But he knew that even Harry's patience had limits, and that the young man's temper was notorious when roused, and there had been no reason behind the stranger's last comment.
Daniel had heard, and it had filled him with fierce anger. Was this man completely unobservant or simply unnecessarily cruel?
"Is there a problem here?" he intoned, stalking intently to the table and placing a hand possessively about the other man's shoulders. Hazel eyes blazing with indignant fury on Harry's behalf, the tall Muggle stared the form of the Hogwarts teacher down, not liking what he saw. The man was tall, Daniel could tell, with a thin, sallow face and high cheekbones framed by thick, lank raven hair that fell to his shoulders and sharpened the contrast to his pale skin. Black eyes stared back at him, derision gleaming in their onyx depths and a smirk playing over those thin, chapped lips. The tips of his fingers were stained as if by iodine, and his most prominent feature was undoubtedly his aquiline nose, seeming almost out of place for the otherwise thin face. His presence radiated a mocking superiority and arrogance as he slid his gaze from Harry to Daniel, and Daniel didn't like it one bit. Apparently, Persephone didn't either, if the slight hiss coming from about Harry's throat was any indication. Daniel couldn't understand her, obviously, but he knew that Harry could, one of the many strange things about his friend.
"Daniel, thank you, but everything is under control," Harry said gently, but firmly. Daniel was well aware of Harry's pressing need for independence and the freedom to take care of himself, but it didn't ease the urge to protect the blind man that all-too-often rose in his chest with an all-consuming intensity. He never took his eyes off the stranger opposite them, even as Harry lifted a hand to rest lightly on the one about his shoulders.
"I will close everything down tonight, and what I cannot do, Professor Snape here will assist me in." The man across the table snorted, as if thinking that he would do no such thing, and Daniel was inclined to agree. He didn't move, however, keeping his protective glare focused on Snape and his arm possessively about the smaller man's slight shoulders. He could recognize the appreciation, but firm dismissal, that underlay Harry's words, but he was still uneasy about leaving Harry alone in the man's dubious presence.
"Please, Daniel. I do appreciate your concern, but Professor Snape is an acquaintance from my past, and this conversation could likely last a while longer. I would hate to keep you out all night." Even knowing that Harry couldn't see, Daniel looked down at his friend, taking in the determined set to the familiar green eyes and fine jaw. If the man was from Harry's past, he was likely a wizard, and what they had to discuss was likely private in nature. He would do as asked. Giving the stranger another fierce glare and ignoring his smirk, he squeezed the hand atop his before straightening.
"All right. I'll see you tomorrow, then?" the sandy-haired Muggle prompted, shoving his hands in his pockets and still glancing occasionally at the thin, dark man he was leaving Harry with.
"Of course. Night, Daniel." Daniel knew not to be hurt by the slight edge of finality to Harry's friendly tones, but it was still there. He couldn't be of use to the conversation, and if the man was a wizard and a threat, he couldn't be of any use in protecting his friend. But Harry didn't seem worried; if anything, he seemed amused by this Snape character's taunts. He knew Harry had an uncanny ability to sense people, but Daniel was still anxious. Daniel was also already dismissed.
"Night, Harry." As he turned to leave, he gave the other man yet another look of unadulterated venom, saying quite effectively without words what he would do should he discover that Harry had been hurt. Narrowing his eyes at the smug smirk on Snape's lips, he picked up his own coat from the rack and disappeared into the night. Harry stood, following him with familiar purpose, only occasionally and subtly reaching a hand out to gauge physical boundaries he could not determine with his damaged eyes. When he reached the door, he pulled a key out of a pocket of his hideous trousers and locked it to keep any more unwanted guests from disturbing their conversation before returning to the table and to Snape. Daniel meant well, and Harry loved him as dearly as he did Ron, Hermione, or Remus, and though Daniel knew of the magical world and Harry's connection to it, Harry had no desire to continuously sense the taller man's protective anger and suspicion. He wanted to be of clear mind for the duration of this interview.
"Dobby is hardly deranged," Harry replied insipidly upon returning to his seat, ignoring the previous altercation with Daniel and letting the statement wash over his guest's consciousness for a heartbeat, feeling rather than seeing the sneer twisting the lips of that sallow visage, "and, as my friend, of invaluable help." The bland comment was delivered with minimal emotion, and Severus found himself ready to comment sharply, but lost his train of thought upon being once more skewered with the younger man's unfocused, but piercingly intense green gaze. As he studied that smooth face, features defined now by adulthood, the truth of the boy's movements, his unfocused eyes, and his strange mannerisms hit him in a stunning moment of realization.
"You're blind," he noted, managing to keep his tone even save for the first note of quickly masked incredulity. And, somehow, the words tasted foul on his tongue and Severus unwittingly found the acrid sensation of bile rising in his throat. He may have never liked the brat, but it did seem that Potter had no end of tribulations to endure, and permanent blindness seemed much too harsh a reward for the boy-hero who had accepted his fate and brought down Voldemort. Another realization occurred to the Potions Master then, bringing with it a twinge of emotion he detested---- mild mortification. Even for him, and even for the presence of Potter, there were certain lines not to be crossed in a verbal lashing. One simply did not insult the attire of a man who could not so much as see to dress himself, which was exactly what Severus had just done. Not that he would apologize----it was bad enough that the insufferable Gryffindor was making him feel discomforted simply by his presence and those damnable eyes that saw too much without seeing at all, but he didn't have to own up to it. It was a justifiable mistake: anyone could have made one similar upon seeing a man he or she had last known to be perfectly healthy dressed as Harry was now.
If one could call it dressed, Snape thought with an irrepressible mental sneer. This was, after all, still that arrogant bastard James Potter's famous, ostentatious offspring. As far as he saw it, Severus was perfectly within the bounds of propriety to indulge in mental derision of the unendurable brat. Of course, the fact that Harry Potter was now twenty-five and physically disabled was completely irrelevant. It was not, after all, his fault that the boy could not see, and he therefore had nothing to feel guilty over.
"Quite so," Harry agreed, far too calmly in Snape's opinion. But then, how long had the young man dealt with this newest unfortunate circumstance? Was it a result of the last battle with the Dark Lord? Or was it simply something stupid the boy had done? Not that he was curious in the least, Severus amended mentally.
As Severus continued to war with himself, Harry quietly observed the other man's aura. With the loss of his sight, his sensory abilities had heightened what seemed tenfold. Like in similarly affected Muggles, his hearing and other physical senses were much more sensitive than those of an average person. However, not only his physicality was affected by the loss of the ability to use his eyes; his magical senses, too, had strengthened. Harry now found that he could sense the auras of those around him, determining a general indication of where people were and their emotions so as to mentally categorize them as friend or foe. This perception was what he had trained on his former instructor now, watching without seeing as his companion processed the information with considerable intellectual prowess.
"I lost both my sight and the majority of my magic on Halloween seven years ago," came the solemn offering, the young man's tones quiet and serious as he turned his head away from Snape, unseeing emerald eyes seeming to almost focus on something in the distance, that undoubtedly only the boy could see in the depths of his mind. Briefly, Snape considered a light use of Legilimency, but quickly dismissed the notion. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what was in the other man's thoughts, even if only to assess the validity of the boy's previous statement. The loss of his magic? That would explain the Muggle-like lifestyle, but the idea seemed too incredibly ludicrous and abysmal… It was one thing to be born a Squib or Muggle, where one might feel jealousy but would not truly know what one was missing, but to be stripped of such an integral, intimate portion of one's being as his magic… the notion was beyond appalling. Surely, it wasn't true, and the boy was merely clamoring for attention again. Such an incident had never been recorded in the history of the Wizarding World! Shrewd orbs of onyx cast their glance on the seemingly serene figure of the youth before him.
But then, this boy has a predilection for defying previously held truths.
He'd never been expressly fond of the boy, that much was decidedly certain, but even Severus Snape found no small measure of horror at his enemy's son's current circumstance. But, being who he was, with all of the innate pride and bearing therein, Severus couldn't bring himself to apologize for his inappropriate criticism or offer anything resembling sympathy for his former aggravation's plight. It simply wasn't his way, and he considered the severity of his discomfort at this situation to be penance enough. Besides, this was Harry Potter. Surely Granger and Weasley at least, if not the rest of the Wizarding public, would have been waiting to answer to the brat's every beck and call. He had already intimated having a house-elf, even if he had called the creature 'friend.'
"And no doting populace?" came the drawling sneer, impossibly black eyes scanning the younger man's form impassively, pale lips drawn up in a smirk. "I would have pictured you soaking up the attention, consistently being coddled as 'hero.'" Snape paused for only a moment before adding, "Your father would have."
Harry didn't say anything, turning only to look at him with those infuriatingly knowing green eyes, as if he understood Snape's discomfort and galling unease. When had Potter's brat become so damn…adult? Snape could remember a time when the mere mention of James' name in a negative context could have induced an entertaining explosion of furious temper from the boy, but now…Now Snape seemed to not be able to get so much as a tightening of the Gryffindor's facial muscles for his snarky efforts, and it was beyond irritating.
For a few moments the silence stretched between them, Harry eventually turning those unnerving emerald orbs away from Severus as if glancing at the back of the room. Of course, now that he knew the other's handicap, the motion seemed superfluous. Severus chose not to think on that, trying vainly to dispel the heightening discomfiture he was suffering, even as the impossible figure slowly rose once more from the table.
"Would you like a drink?" Harry inquired coolly, his tone having lost some of its amused pleasantness but still absolutely in control as he smoothly made his way back to the bar, sidestepping tables and chairs by memory, Snape realized, rather than sight. Occasionally, if uncertain, Harry would lift a hand and hold it before him, but the younger man was obviously familiar enough with the room to do so only rarely.
"No. And, what, no hotheaded, asinine retort? Are you perhaps denying your need for attention by omission, Potter?" Snape inquired, his tone mocking and derogatory. Dammit, if he were to feel this bloody edgy, Potter should, too.
There was a slight snort from his green-eyed companion. "Hardly." Harry glanced back at Snape then, or at least appeared to, even if they both knew the boy couldn't exactly 'see' his former Professor. His mouth curved into a thoughtful line, accented by the shape of his dark eyebrows and the gently confident ease of his movements behind the counter as he pulled out two glasses and a bottle.
"Unless you truly want to see me angry?" the boy inquired softly, pausing with the bottle in hand.
Despite himself, Severus felt a shiver. Though if what Harry had intimated were to be believed and he had no magic, there was no apparent reason for the dread those curious words invoked. But yet, somehow, there was an eerie understanding in those green eyes and youthful visage that seemed to deny even Snape's considerable powers of Occlumency. It was strange, perhaps, that those almost chilly green eyes lacking the ability of sight held the sensation of seeming to stare straight to the soul.
"As if I need an idiotic, melodramatic display of foolish Gryffindor self-pity," scoffed the Potions Master, salvaging dignity and pride with properly delivered acerbic comments. But there was no denying the infuriating faint amusement in his younger companion's features, and it soured Snape's mood further.
Harry couldn't help the smirk threatening to engulf his thin lips as he deftly poured, recapping the bottle a moment later. "Because you've never been one for melodrama, right, Professor?"
Severus decided then that he must have been getting old, and therefore slipping with age. Nothing else could explain the opening he had left Potter to take advantage of. Scowling, he replied, "Be glad that I can no longer take points for your cheek, Potter. And I am no longer your Professor."
"A fact for which I am incredibly glad." There was definite amusement in the Potter offspring's tones as the blind youth expertly slipped the bottle back into place before gathering the glasses in hand. Despite the fact that Snape had declined a drink, Harry carefully made his way back to the table and set one of the tumblers in front of his former teacher anyway before retaking his seat.
Silence reigned once again for what seemed like many long moments, broken only by the sounds of the two men as they sipped the amber alcohol, savoring the taste and burn and the night sounds of an empty bar with their thoughts. With his understanding of Snape's emotions, Harry found himself comfortable, though he knew his guest was far from so. Hopefully the drink might help ease his nerves some until he asked whatever question was currently brewing in his mind and further unsettling his already-edgy aura.
"Potter…" Snape began after many more moments' silence, softly swirling the liquid in his glass as he did so, dark eyes studying the ripples of molten gold rather than the eerie gaze before him. He was far from comfortable, but, damn it all, he was curious.
"Harry," the bold child interrupted, taking a measured sip from his own glass. For reasons that were his own, the young man who had killed Voldemort did not particularly like being referred to by his surname. Snape, however, while having yielded the formality of his title of 'Professor,' was unwilling to make the jump to first-name familiarity.
"Potter," he stressed, focusing his piercing ebony stare on the youth who could not see it but would undoubtedly get the message, "if you don't mind my asking…if you are blind, how did you…?"
"Recognize you?" Harry anticipated, turning his face to Severus, even if his green eyes didn't quite focus on the tall man's imposing form. He seemed amused, which disgruntled Severus a bit but which he took as a good sign. At least the brat was not offended enough yet to withhold answers to Severus' questions.
"Excuse me for being blunt, Snape, but you have a distinct smell about you. It's not necessarily a bad one," he amended a bit hastily, knowing it was awkward but unsure of how to phrase an honest response without bringing offense. He knew that his former teacher understood, however, when he heard a slight noise of acknowledgement from across the table. Shaking his head slightly, he ran a hand through his tousled raven locks. "What I mean is, it reminds me of the Potions classroom, and even after all these years I could never forget that smell." A dry chuckle colored the words as he took a sip from his drink. "And I know that still sounds a bit unlikely, considering how many people could smell like Potions, but it's always been stronger on you. Plus, there's also the way you walk. I can recognize most of the people I know well simply by the sounds they make while walking. You, you're almost silent, and you almost never speak until you've had a thorough opportunity to survey the room and its occupants." Harry shrugged, letting Snape absorb the information. For his part, Snape thought that during that small exposition Harry had sounded more like himself than he had all evening. Perhaps it was the alcohol…
"But even then, I would always recognize your aura." With that admission, Harry's voice was so quiet and serious that Severus almost didn't hear him. As it was, if it weren't for his sharp instincts honed from years of subterfuge, he likely wouldn't have.
"Your aura is unmistakable, as is that of every other person." His tone had become musing, carrying a note that Snape had never heard in the soft nuances before. "In short, Pro---Snape, I simply knew." With that, the younger man finished his drink and set the glass back against the table with a soft clink. In disbelief, Severus stared at him, setting his own drink down in the process.
"You can 'sense aura'?" he repeated in almost-sneering incredulity. That seemed to contradict every other explanation the boy had given. Onyx eyes surveyed the green-eyed figure before him intently. "And why has no mention of this 'talent' been made before?" he drawled. Harry shrugged.
"If you'll remember, I said that I'd lost most of my magic rather than all of it that night. Best I can figure, and Madame Pomfrey agrees with me, is that, after the loss of my eyes, the remaining traces of magic in my body converged into a couple of single abilities to enhance my perception of the world instead of letting me retain the ability to do minor spells. Rather like the way a blind Muggle would find his other senses enhanced as he adapted; not that I don't have that too, of course…" His voice trailed, and he unconsciously reached up a hand to his collar, stroking the smooth scales of a creature wrapped about his neck. A serpent, Snape realized, recalling Potter's ability of Parseltongue. Apparently he had kept that as well. The boy's story did make sense, all things considered. Severus, however, still had no idea of how it had occurred, but then, he convinced himself he wasn't curious. The fact was that Harry was blind and without most of his magic. Beyond that, there was no need for understanding---at least, not by him.
"So, crippled," he took faint pleasure in getting beneath the boy's skin for the first time that night when Harry winced slightly at his harsh diction, "without magic and sight, you decided, with characteristic arrogance disguised as self-sufficiency, to ignore the plethora of aid that your adoring public," there he sneered, "would have undoubtedly offered, or at the very least the hovel of far-too-many Weasleys, to open a Muggle bar?"
Snape found himself satisfied by the tension now apparent in the youth's muscles and thin, terse lips. Finally, the seemingly imperturbable brat was becoming as ill-at-ease with this whole situation as he.
"The Weasleys were never an option, as you well know." Harry's voice was ice, and the expression in the emerald depths of those unfocused eyes was cold. He hadn't lost his temper yet, but Snape could see that it still lingered in him, simply buried beneath layers of control, and that heartened him. It would have been simply too much to think that Harry had changed so completely from the loathsome brat he had taught all those years ago, even if he had known from the start that the boy would have to learn to camouflage those earnest emotions if he would have any hope to defeat the Dark Lord…
"And the bar, though, really, it's just as much a restaurant as it is a bar, is Daniel's dream."
At that, Snape couldn't help the return of his customary sneer, recalling the tall, hazel-eyed Muggle who had wound his arm so protectively about the blind youth before him.
"Really?" he drawled boredly, lifting his tumbler to his lips and finishing off the amber liquid inside before setting it back against the table. "And just who is this charming Daniel that was so threatened by my presence?"
A flash of ire blossomed quickly in the emerald eyes of his host before being quickly subdued with calm control as Harry lifted a hand once more to his throat, hissing softly to Persephone, who uncoiled herself and slithered down Harry's shoulder to rest on his forearm, forked tongue tasting the air. Despite himself, Severus found that he was listening intently to the hissing, serpentine language,as mesmerized and fascinated by the tongue as he had been since the days of his youth. But all too quickly, Harry had stopped, and the adder coiled about his forearm rested, seemingly docile, but occasionally lifting her head to stare in Severus' direction. He couldn't be sure, and it seemed absurd to consider, but he had the distinct impression the snake didn't like him at all.
"Not that it's really any of your damn business, Snape, but if you are so absolutely bored and curious that you simply can't stand not knowing the intimate details of the Boy-Who-Lived's sex life, then yes, he is my ex-lover." Though the emerald eyes couldn't quite channel the challenge the boy was offering, the set of his jaw, neck, and shoulders told more than enough. Severus had struck a nerve. But, oddly, it didn't bring the satisfaction that perhaps it should have…
"I believe that information and your theatrics were completely unnecessary and, frankly, mentally scarring. I was merely inquiring after the esteemed Mr. Daniel's magical history and knowledge." Snape looked haughtily down his nose at his former pupil, mouth set in a derisive curl, though the effect was greatly reduced by the brat's inability to see the classic posture.
It was funny, Harry thought idly, that even so many years after being in the man's class, Snape could still induce such a reaction in him. He felt like a silly schoolboy, overreacting to his teacher's pointed inquiry. He was supposed to be an adult, not the child that had so often exploded in Snape's impossible presence. Oh, well. Open mouth, insert foot. It had been a common enough quandary of his youth, coupled with his fierce, difficult-to-restrain temper, and it would seem that Snape's presence was reviving his less-enviable traits.
"Though…" Snape drawled lazily, clearly enjoying the return of the upper hand of this bizarre interview, "I wonder how the late Miss Weasley would have felt upon learning that your relationships after her were predominantly with your own sex? Or, perhaps the reaction of the equally esteemed James Potter to the knowledge that his son was a pouf?"
There was a niggling little voice in the back of his mind that said he was going too far, that he was tormenting the younger man unnecessarily. It had been bad enough to make a tasteless remark on the boy's blindness, but to make two references, particularly such nasty ones, to the Weasleys did seem a bit much. He didn't speak without measuring the consequences, it wasn't his way, but he did enjoy distressing Potter. The brat had been so damnably calm throughout this entire conversation, and it had been more than enough to unnerve Severus. It seemed only fair to turn the tables a bit. He watched with mild fascination as the expression shifted on the boy's features: his jaw tightening, a pulse appearing in his tense cheek, and his muscles pulling taut. The brilliant green eyes before him no longer seemed to hold the dizzying quality of emeralds, but instead the harsh coldness of smooth, hard sea glass. He had done more than strike a nerve this time, and, despite himself, he was glad to know that the boy's power had sharply ebbed after the final battle. He had seen back then what the boy could do, and the thought that such fury and raw, unrestrained power might turn upon him…
"That was low, even for you." The younger man's voice was a snarl, low and quiet and undeniably deadly. If he hadn't been informed by the boy himself that he no longer retained his fearsome power, Severus might have found himself afraid.
"Never mention Ginny to me again. Ever." A fearsome chill seeped into the words, hatred and sharply contained fury coloring their sound in a way that Severus hadn't heard from Potter's lips since the final battle. The young adder that had been about his arm had obviously picked up on his fury and had lifted her head from her master's wrist, hissing furiously. Adders were not known for being deadly, despite the potency of their venom, because of the small amount they injected in a bite. Yet Severus had no doubt that if the young serpent were free to bite him now, she would pump him as full of deadly toxin as possible.
"Do call off your pet snake, Potter," Snape drawled archly, watching with disdain as Harry placed a hand on the creature's scaled head. He could have pressed still farther, drawing yet more blood with his acerbic tongue, but restrained himself. Potter did have enough to deal with without his adding to the boy's troubles. That, and as much as he hated it with every fiber of his being, he owed the boy. He owed him far more than his life, and his pride still suffered for that indignity. To owe anyone was anathema to the proud Slytherin, but he had found himself bound and indebted all of his years. First to Voldemort, then to James Potter, then to Albus Dumbledore, and, finally, in a culmination of bitter proportions, to Harry Potter: Voldemort's nemesis, James' son, and Dumbledore's protégé.
"In any case, as I'm assuming that you are intelligent enough not to have your home or this bar registered on the Floo network with so many of my former colleagues out for your blood, it must then be left to me to get you to Hogwarts." What a blow to the younger man's considerable pride that must have been…what every day must be, Snape thought. Oddly, he found no pleasure in it.
Harry listened as his former Professor spoke, still struggling to reign in his temper. He was more glad than ever now that he had sent Daniel away. With his abilities, it would have been impossible to keep any semblance of coherency in this situation if he had to deal with the force of his own anger and the Muggle's too. As it was, he was having difficulties with the waves of resentment and bitterness he was picking up from Snape, as well as the continued discomfort and unease. There was something else there, too, that he couldn't quite identify, lost as he was in the flow of emotion rushing over his senses and body. With years of long practice, Harry forced as much of it away as he could, managing through sheer force of will to keep his face as neutral as possible and his breathing even. All control had briefly seemed impossible with the mention of Ginny, her very name bringing with it a multitude of emotions he couldn't possibly name, much less begin to deal with. Luckily, Snape was too concerned with his belittling of Harry and arrogantly long-suffering planning, as if Harry's disabilities were a grievous inconvenience, to notice his former pupil's difficulties. Reining his emotions back under taut control, the young man consciously closed his expression, ignoring the brief bite of bitterness at Snape's curt tone. Inconvenience…yeah, well, they certainly weren't convenient to him, either.
Abruptly, he stood, cutting off Snape's further declarations of plans and complaints. Persephone coiled more tightly about his arm at the movement, slithering back up to her place about his neck, where she could whisper to him with far more ease should an inanimate object find itself in their way.
"Well, it's too late for me to leave right now, and I'll have to tell Daniel that I'll be gone for a while. My apartment is upstairs, and I have an extra bedroom. You're welcome to stay, since, as you pointed out, I will need assistance to Hogwarts, or you can Apparate back to Hogsmeade." His tone was as businesslike as his manner, and Snape could hardly believe that the offer was made out of anything other than pragmatism. And it was the more pragmatic choice, to stay, as late as it was. He didn't particularly feel like Apparating all the way to Hogsmeade to walk up to the castle for a couple hours' sleep when he'd have to repeat the process all too soon.
"I thank you for the dubious honor of your hospitality, Mr. Potter."
Well, there you go. The prologue of sorts, though it's probably far longer than most prologues would be. In any case, in the next chapter you will see the start of the directly post-HBP story, beginning the exposition of everything hinted at in this chapter, both past and present. The past-story will span for several chapters, broken by the occasional interlude into the present, until such time as the story can fully devote itself to the present's plot. Because, really, you can't understand what's going to happen in the present if you don't find all the clues hidden in the past. But then, the present gives hints of the past, too... -wink-
I am also on the hunt for a beta! Email is in my profile, feel free to apply. It's been quite a while since I've written for the HPverse, and this is definitely my first eventual Snarry, so I want to know how I'm doing. Also, if anyone would like to point out any research-inaccuracies or pesky Americanisms, that's appreciated too.
Harry het-fans, you'll get yours in the Past sequences, while Harry slash-fans, you'll get yours both in the later Past sequences and the eventual present. Enjoy the ride, folks. Read, review if you like with comments, questions, etc. I'll do my best to answer. Biggest thing is to simply enjoy.
Cheers.
Autumn Ruby