Disclaimer: They're not mine. I just knock them over and play with them, and dress them up in funny clothing and make them talk in high-pitched accents. They belong to J.K. Rowling and her gang of heartless publishers. (Just give me the fifth book and I'll forgive all past sins…until I'm finished with it.)
Warnings: Severus Snape/Harry Potter. That line between their names is a slash. It means they are together. They might hug, they might kiss, they might have hot, wild screaming monkey sex (Just not on FFN!). If this thought nauseates or sickens you…go away. If you chose not to heed my warning and send me nasty letters, all the more fool you are.
**
Okay, now some people might believe that this is an unnecessary chapter. I tacked it on for my own reasons, namely that no relationship can run on sex and the 'mysterious machinations of love.' Every relationship has its fights, or else the relationship's strictly formal and exceedingly stilted. Nothing works without conflict, it's what makes the sweet bits all the sweeter. So here is the last and final chapter of the 'Lesson's Trilogy'. (Chapter the Fourth)
The Fight.
****
The argument was begun over nothing, nothing at all. One moment they were fine, Harry was hauling around the chairs and tugging the furniture into place, happy as he ever got. Something slipped, the kind of thing that was generally glossed over, left behind. Suddenly everything was painfully, glaringly there. Seven years of enmity didn't disappear over night, not even over the three years since Harry had left Hogwarts. There was always bound to be something.
The anger raged up out of nowhere, age-old resentment coiled like poison at the back of his brain, flawed and nasty. Creeping. Waiting.
"Oh, hold it higher, you stupid child." Snape's voice was cold and familiar, sniping and sharp, tired. The man held his end of the couch with long fingers, hair in disarray, expression sour.
Harry Potter dropped his end of the couch, eyes were hard and angry. He didn't care that in dropping the couch, the weight shifted and whiplashed to the other end. Belatedly, Severus Snape put down his own end, wincing. Dark eyes took stock of Harry's anger and darkened with retaliatory hostility. Harry narrowed his eyes. "You fucking bastard."
"Potter," Severus said lowly, tone calm and deadly. "You are behaving like a three year old with your whining. Proof," he growled the word, "that you never did grow up from the insolent little brat you were when you were eleven. And still are." He shook his head once, a sharp movement that whipped his hair to touch the edges of his cheeks. "Just pick up the goddamn couch, you infant."
Harry stiffened, that had been utterly unnecessary. The fire in his brain darkened. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you. Seven years you carried on about some childish grudge against my father and your hurt pride over the Wizard's Bond." His mouth snapped shut, eyes narrowing at a thought. The couch was forgotten. "That's it, isn't it? The Wizard's Bond."
"Potter, I really don't see where—" Severus started, drawing himself up to his full height.
"Fuck off, Snape. That's it, isn't it? You're only fucking me because of the fucking Wizard's Bond. You feel you owe me, don't you?" Harry was quivering with rage, his eyes glittering Avada Kedavra green in the lamplight. "Well, let me tell you one thing, Severus Snape, the next time a Dark Lord rises, I'll ask you to save my life. Until then, you don't fucking owe me anything!
"I'll remind you, Mister Potter," and here Severus's voice was whisper-soft, icy cold, "that after the events of the war, the Bond goes both ways." Severus hissed out the last words, standing achingly straight, a black pillar in the room. The shadows made by the lamps seemed to cling about him. "What about you, Mister Potter? Is that why you're suddenly so defensive? Was it guilt? Pity? Poor Professor Snape all alone, and you decided to come and fulfill that Bond by fucking me?" An evil smirk slowly spread, like poison, across Snape's features. "Or were you just looking for a little misplaced paternal affection?"
"Oh," Harry murmured, his voice barely a whisper. The pain in his eyes was like broken glass. He'd lost three 'paternal figures' to the war, his father first, then both Sirius and Remus nineteen years later. Lips twisted with venom, he hit back. "And I suppose you weren't affected by the fame? Mister Potter, our newest celebrity." Harry's voice imitated the low drawl perfectly.
"That's what you said," Harry went on, "the first time I ever met you. You just wanted to fuck the scar, didn't you? Love it, hate it, want the fucking publicity for fucking the Boy Who Lived? The scar that saved us all from Voldemort," Harry hissed out the name with all the venom in his system. The sound cut the air, seemed to drain him just hearing it. Harry turned away, the anger sour in his stomach.
Voldemort. Voldemort was dead, dead, and what were they arguing about anyway? Harry shivered at the chill in the room.
"Harry…" Severus offered into the tense silence.
It was too much. Too fast. Too many grudges cluttering the air, too many hatreds still unresolved. War didn't solve everything. War didn't solve anything, it didn't solve personal problems, it just made everything more confusing. Flawed.
"Fuck, Sev." Harry finished. It seemed to cover it. There wasn't anything else to be said. Harry stared at the fireplace, the couch firm against his thigh. No flames crackled behind the grate, they'd only had time to light a few candles before they'd started moving the furniture.
"I…"
"What? You're sorry?" Harry couldn't keep the waspish note out of his voice, couldn't keep from hitting back. Wounded, bleeding inside, defensive. Too much had hit home, too many of Severus's barbs had stung. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault.
"No."
"Well, nor am I."
The argument hung in the air between them, sickeningly cluttered. The couch was firm against Harry's thigh, and he was leaning against it, the physical barrier between them that represented so much more. There was no way a relationship like theirs could work. There was too much distance between them, they'd known only hate for too long. Loathing. Anger. Resentment.
The argument had begun over nothing, a slip of tongue, a gasp of tired air. He'd worked too hard, studied too much, and his brain was cluttered with leeches and asphodel, onyx and witchhazel, swish and crosshatch, Latin and magic. He was tired. Truly tired. The war wasn't over, it was never over. The letters from Hermione were filled with pain, smudges of tears and blood—other people's blood. She was up to her elbows in it, swimming in it, still working to repair the damage that had been done. And never once did she ask for help, as he knew she so badly needed. That he should have been there to give.
The last skirmishes were over, the last Death Eaters imprisoned. But the casualties still had to be tended, and Harry Potter, hero extroardinare, was going to school. Studying. Working. Making potions and fucking Severus Snape. As if everything was fine. He'd saved the world, the rest of the damage wasn't his problem.
"Harry."
"Shut up." He couldn't keep the snarl out of his voice, the guilt. It wasn't his fault. He'd made potions and sent them, as had Severus. He'd cried until he was spent. He hadn't anything left to give the godforsaken war. Leeches and asphodel, dragons blood, unicorn fur, crosshatch and balestra, magic. He'd killed Voldemort, wasn't that enough?
"Harry." There was that note in Severus's voice, that calm note that Harry never heard. The emotion in his eyes that Harry could never read. Didn't want to understand. Why couldn't everything be easy? He'd done the hard part. Voldemort was dead.
Dead. Dead.
Severus moved, forward, folding up one leg and climbing up over the arm of the couch. Anyone else would have looked ridiculous. Severus managed to look dignified. He had dropped the shadows from his demeanor, one hand gripping the back of the couch for support, the other pushed down on the cushions for stability. He didn't repeat Harry's name again, but his eyes said it. Harry.
Dead.
The pillow took Severus by surprise, but he'd caught Harry's Seeker-quick motion and ducked just in time for it to sail over his head. He looked a little confused, and then a lot more confused when the pillow, spelled, looped back around behind him and slammed into his back. Harry threw another pillow, feeling its roughness against his palms before he loosed it at his…at his lover.
Love?
Harry threw the last pillow on his side with all his might, wondering if he really meant what his muscles felt. Wondering if he wanted them to be something harder than couch pillows. Severus ducked most of the volley, managing to not hex the bludger-enchanted pillow out of existence, and cast a suspicious glance at Harry's retreating form. The last pillow dropped to the ground, unenchanted, with a quiet thump.
"Potter?"
Apparently 'Harry' had become redundant after overuse without response. Harry stood by the fireplace, staring at the knickknacks on the mantle. He didn't poke the silver snake, and it remained curled and asleep. The fireplace was cold. With a soft 'incindios' Harry restarted the blaze, managing not to turn and look to see how much of Severus's dignity had survived being pelted with pillows.
A pillow fight. How childish was that?
"Harry," Harry corrected. "Call me Harry." His voice cracked halfway through.
**
Harry felt the heat of Severus's body behind him, not touching, hotter than the fire that burned behind the grate. "Harry," Severus repeated, the sound reverberating in the honey and razor-blades voice. The sound of it made Harry's knees want to melt. "What just happened?"
We just had a fight, Harry wanted to say. The words wouldn't come to his lips. It would imply too much, imply forgiveness that Harry wasn't ready to give. Accept his own part in the blame, accept the lies he couldn't bring himself to believe. He shook, a thin vibration in his frame, wanting to lean back into Severus's warm bulk, wanting to throw himself into the flames.
"That, Sev, was our first fight."
Was that his voice? It was all wrong. Harry winced at the sound, the way it rebounded in his ears.
A hand ghosted down Harry's spine, a familiar gesture in too few days. How many had it been since Harry had wandered in for tea? Too much, too fast, after too long of hating.
"Every relationship has to have its fights, Sev." Harry hung his head, planting his hands on the mantle to steady himself. He tried to believe whatever gibberish was pouring out of his mouth. "It can't all be perfect." His breathing hitched. "What just happened?"
"That," Severus breathed, a bare inch away from Harry's ear. "That was our first fight, Harry." He sounded ravaged, much like Harry felt. Broken and hurt and confused. He'd sounded like that after the last battle, Voldemort dead at their feet, eyes black like coals.
"Funny. I don't feel angry." He felt angry, it was roiling up from the pit of his stomach, making his eyes sting with tears. Too much, too fast. Their closeness had woken the tiny silver snake on the mantle, and it stared at them with unblinking emerald eyes, a bare inch away from the tips of Harry's fingers. He wanted to touch it, but he couldn't let go without loosening his grip on the mantle's edge.
"Every relationship has its fights," Severus mimicked, touching the small of Harry's back with a warm hand.
"Apology accepted," Harry whimpered, trying to hold the anger in, trying not to lash out and ruin whatever mood was playing with Severus's head. Whatever mood was holding him there when he should have been long gone.
Severus chuckled, a gust of air against Harry's cheek. The sound held no mirth, no amusement. "I didn't apologize, Harry."
Oh.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Severus offered. The rest was unspoken. It's not your fault. Voldemort is dead, dead, dead. The war's over. You aren't responsible for the fate of the world.
"I'm sorry, Severus." It's not your fault. Voldemort is dead, dead, dead. The war's over. You aren't responsible for the fate of the world.
"Apology accepted." Severus leaned in, and suddenly there was touch, pressure, and Harry couldn't help but lean back into the warm weight behind him. He wondered just who was holding up who, which would fall if either moved. He shivered, and Severus's arms wrapped cleanly around his waist. Forgiveness.
"Prat," Severus breathed, and Harry could taste the smile in his lips.
"Jerk."
It couldn't, wouldn't, didn't dare be that simple. Too much had been said that couldn't be unsaid. The Wizard's Bond? Voldemort? Trust, faith, hate, love, loathing. Flawed. Harry breathed a soft, hiccuping breath, feeling Severus's warmth and tried to erase the words still burning in his brain.
Forgiveness.