CHAPTER 20

A/N: Erm, please forgive me for the massive delay. Real life...but...the semester holidays are here! :-) Most importantly: thanks a million for putting up with the delays, all the best for 2010, and this will never be an abandoned story. Ever :-)

I could see that you did not know how to behave towards me after our consummation. I noticed you glancing at me frequently, whenever you thought that I wouldn't notice. Waiting for me to lash out at you or something. To yield to what you would have probably called Gryffindor histrionics.

When I woke up that morning, the blanket around me and the fire crackling softly in the hearth, I saw you sitting on the sofa opposite the one I was lying on, staring at me broodingly. You tensed when I woke up, rubbed my eyes and noticed that I was warm.

After the consummation, Severus was at a loss at how to behave towards Harry. No matter what Harry had told him and regardless of their circumstances – he felt like he had raped Harry. He clenched his jaw, trying not to think back to how he had pushed his way into Harry's body. The blank expression on Harry's face. Harry's hands tightening on his hips during penetration. The complete silence...and the complete stillness. Harry just lying there, waiting for it...for him...to be finished. The joyless dutiful climax, pulling out of Harry's body. Of course, Severus thought bitterly, it was a suitable punishment for himself considering what he had done to Harry on their wedding day. Guilt was something he hated. It was a Gryffindor quality and got in the way of cool-headed logic and efficient spying. He spent a sleepless night, buried memories resurfacing, interspersed with images of Harry. Harry as an eleven-year-old child. Harry, his husband. Severus felt sick. Somehow, having known – and despised –Harry as a child made him feel worse. If he had known back then that he would have to violate Harry in such a manner...Even then, as a spy for Voldemort, he would not have been able to show the slightest gleam of goodwill or sympathy towards Harry...Harry, whose life he had saved on more than one occasion...Harry, who had saved Severus's life...

Tired of brooding over such matters, Severus flung the bedclothes aside and got out of bed; it was impossible to sleep with his mind torturing him; even Occlumentic tactics were of no use; there was nothing, nothing at all, to assuage this horrible guilt.

It was only four o'clock in the morning when Severus headed towards his laboratory and shut himself up, preparing some potions. Somehow, the absence of his wedding ring only seemed to remind him more than ever that he was married – married to Harry Potter. He bottled the potions, stacked them away and slowly, reluctantly, entered the hall, where he knew Harry was sleeping. He hesitated for a few moments, then approached the sofa on which Harry was lying. He stared at his husband for a long time, standing next to the sofa, finally retreating quietly to the armchair opposite the sofa. He sat down and gazed at Harry's sleeping face. He could see a faint stubble growing on the youth's cheeks, the sign of newborn adulthood.

Where was he now in the land of sleep? Severus wondered.

Harry had been calm, disquietingly calm after the consummation. Would he rage at Severus when he woke up? Look at him with hatred and repugnance? Severus brooded and thought, and thought and brooded until a stirring sound from the sofa made him raise his head.

Harry was waking up, raising his hands to his face to rub his eyes. He yawned, dropped his hands, and opened his eyes fully. Their ever-startlingly green gaze met Severus's haunted stare. The Potions Master looked away from him determinedly. Harry, his hair sticking up more than ever with sleep, rose from the sofa. He made a gesture towards his room, and then another gesture indicating that he would be back. When he returned after a few minutes, he had changed, brushed his teeth and shaved. He folded the blanket neatly and approached Severus, who said nothing and instead only looked at Harry with his hunted haunted black eyes. Harry stood before him. Severus had already steeled himself mentally for a tirade, an outburst of accusations, an outpouring of hatred. Instead, Harry gave him a small smile and a nod, holding out the blanket to Severus. Severus took it and set it next to him, uncertain what to do next. His hands were folded tautly in his lap. The silence between them was very thick. Finally, Harry did something shocking. He sat down next to Severus, took Severus's hands and held them in his. Severus had the impression that it was he, Severus, who had been in Harry's position – quite literally – during intercourse. Why was it that Harry was trying to – damn him! – comfort him? How come Harry was not accusing him of rape and avoiding him with disgust and loathing? Strange whispers around him. Disjointed words echoing in his head...followed softly, gently, by Harry's telepathic voice; so gentle that it was not invasive; on the contrary: it was soothing.

/You are not guilty./

"How can you know what I am thinking?" Severus asked, his voice cold, devoid of any emotion.

/I can hear some of what you are thinking. I just can. Like whispers. Can you hear mine, too?/

Severus studied the handsome young face.

"No," he said flatly, lying. And of course it was so like Harry Potter to persist and insist, to not give up, repelled by his tone, but to persuade.

/That's because you don't want to hear...or don't want to admit that you can hear,/ was the next statement; then a look of malaise passed over Harry's face, and he gripped at Severus's hands and frowned slightly, dizzily.

"You are not used to conversing with me, or with anyone, for that matter, via Telepathy; you are a pupil who has yet to master the finer arts of mental magic and who will have to use writing utensils for a while," Severus remarked, snapping back into the role of the detached analyst, not realising that he had impulsively wrapped his long fingers around Harry's, responding to his husband's grip.