Chapter 21: Solace. December 2001.
To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.
A storm is raging outside but Snape's house is all quiet, like an abandoned library packed into space far too small for its dust and its volumes. In the corner, a fireplace crackles, the flames casting fleeting shadows onto the walls with the faded, peeling wallpaper. The candle lamps in the corner are dim compared to the fireplace.
"So George and I...," Harry says, his hands fisted over his knees. "It's over. It really is."
Snape's eyes flash, or is it just a trick of the light? "I am sorry," he answers.
It's a good day, relatively speaking. For the first time, Harry's tried on a Muggle-made contraption - binder - and it works better than his charmed shirt. There's that dull pressure against his ribs still, but a comfortable sort of pressure. His chest is flat enough that he has the confidence to put on a brighter shirt. It's dark green instead of his now-usual black.
Snape doesn't rush to show Harry the door, for what it's worth. Like an exotic bird of prey hiding in the shadows, he wraps his cloak tighter around himself and nurses his drink.
A brief glance at Harry and then an empty glass is summoned from the kitchen, and Snape pours some warm dark liquid out of the bottle, sending the glass floating toward Harry.
"Tell me about Regulus," Harry asks in the moment of quiet. Dares to ask, even though there's no telling what Snape might do, probably throw him out on his ear, for all Harry knows.
All Harry knows of Regulus is one note signed with R.A.B. That note shaped all of his understanding of the man. It left quite an impression.
"He was a young man with grand dreams. You would have liked that part of him, I imagine. But enough about that. Tell me, what is it you saw in Mr. Weasley."
Harry winces. This is personal. Vulnerable. Nothing he hasn't subjected Snape to, so it's only fair to answer. "George is full of life. He's proud to be himself. He was my strength, an equal, as we grew closer. I survived because he didn't give up: on himself or on me. I trusted him fully, and he never betrayed that trust. George is... a hurricane but that's what makes him George."
"Mr. Weasley always had a fondness for the extremes." Harry reckons it's as much of a compliment as Snape can muster when it comes to George Weasley.
"Um, Snape, may I ask you something?"
"Well... go on."
"You fell for Regulus. But I saw memories of you with mum." Harry frowns. "How does that... work?"
Snape's expression turns sombre. Wistful. It's an expression of vulnerability, the fact that Harry can actually read and recognise these emotions on Snape's face. It's also a display of inner strength. "She was my best friend. My only friend. Better than I could ever hope to have. Do you not have good friends, Harry?"
His name spoken so freely takes Harry off-guard. Puts him in the spotlight. All right then. "Ron and Hermione are mine," he says. They've always been his rock. His strength. He is lucky to have more than one true friend.
"So... Have there been others? Like Regulus," Harry asks then, timidly, knowing he is trying Snape's patience. Besides Regulus. Have you loved anyone? Anyone at all. Were you loved in return? He's trying his best to honour Snape's loss but the thought of lifelong loneliness is such an unsettling, tragic image.
Snape shakes his head. "Once is enough."
Harry frowns. It doesn't sit right with him, this mindset of once. "You can't just give up on human connection, on love," he insists.
"Love?" Snape sneers. "Who said anything about love?" But his face assumes that hollow, neutral mask far too quickly for the emotion to be genuine. "This was a bout of teenage lust, ill-advised."
"What about the rest of your life?" After all, Snape is far from a teenager now. Is he planning to die alone? He... of course, he is. Fuck.
"What about it? I began teaching at Hogwarts. The board may have tolerated a Death Eater who was Dumbledore's protege, but adding queer to the mix, around precious children? Perish the thought!" Snape's lips thin in something akin to disgust. "I couldn't risk it. It was impossible. You won't have to worry about that. Rules do not apply to a war hero."
"You are no longer teaching, and you are as much of a war hero as I am."
"We'll see." With a rueful smirk, Snape raises his glass. "Here's to the privilege of living as if the rules do not apply."
"To no rules!" Harry echoes, tasting the scotch, earthy and heartwarming, like a concentrated lungful of wet soil and electric charge right before the storm hits. It warms his very core, these private moments of one-on-one (man-to-man) interactions. He will cherish it - whatever it is - forever. These visits to Spinner's End make his heart sing, they make him want to take a leap of faith and do something completely irrational, but no, he has to let Snape take the lead on this and decide how this... mutual connection will develop for both of them. Harry looks over to Snape, a wizard that's profoundly lonely and proud, and grieving still. Such a sight he makes, though! Harry doesn't want to look away, doesn't want to control his own curiosity at the mere idea: What would happen if Harry, for once, just once, tried something quite... foolish. It's useless to wonder.
He could try something simple instead, like reaching out with his glass to touch the rim of it to Snape's. Blokes do that sort of thing all the time, don't they? Sure they do, in the pub, at any festivities where alcohol makes an appearance. And yet instead, Harry chooses something different, something queer. He sets his glass aside. Approaches Snape, cautiously, slowly, treating the matter with all the respect it deserves. He gets on one knee to bring himself to the same level as Snape, reaches out to cover Snape's free hand on the table with his.
"I want to be a friend to you. I know I'm not my mum, but..." Underneath his hand, Snape's fingers twitch like a spider, shivering awake after a long winter. "I'm here."
Harry knows full well now, from the example of a broken heart with George, that lust is fleeting. Lust cannot be promised to last. Besides, if anything were to happen between them, if there was a chance of a spark, well... Snape's queer and I'm stuck like this, in-between, an unwanted body for any gay bloke, an incompatible mind for a straight one. But friends? Friendships have no such limitations. There's stability there, one Harry is prepared to offer.
The only thing he has to offer, for now. Right here and right as he is.
Snape's stare reminds Harry of the darkness inside the deepest of closets, of a cage about to crack open. Something Harry is so reluctant to witness. He's not worthy of this.
Snape's lips twitch and then his hand turns, palm upwards, and grasps Harry's, in a handshake of an Unbreakable Vow, and then he's pulled to his feet, as Snape rises, and their chests meet, their stares meet. And Snape's other hand moves, past Harry's shoulder, to warm his cheek.
"To no rules," Snape echoes, quietly. And his stare is so intense, so questioning, as if daring Harry to step away, this instant, to give up on the impossible and move on. "Harry."
Harry remains, taking up space and standing tall, as he doesn't dare to yet elsewhere, in so many spaces meant for men to inhabit. Dizzy with his own daring, he slides his hands over Snape's forearms. Snape's fingers on his jaw are a cold point of contact, but an oh-so-welcome one. Is this really happening? Snape's touch is electrifying, striking, and so impossible.
"You may call me Severus," Snape rumbles. And as Harry watches those thin lips form every syllable: it feels as intimate as a first kiss.
"Severus," Harry echoes.
There's a welcoming twist to Severus' thin lips. A tilt of a proud jaw, a feathery rustle of the black curtain of hair revealing more pale skin. Harry is so, so tempted to press his lips against those thinner, twisted ones. Would it be a violation of trust? Would it be unwelcome? Would it be the end of everything? How can he tell?
"All right?" Harry prompts. Not quite a question. A request for help.
His reply is an arched eyebrow, a dare as much as a voiced 'are you man enough to follow through?' would have been.
Oh.
He expects me to kiss him. He wantsme to kiss him. Fuck, I hope I'm reading this right. I hope I'm not making a giant mistake. Drawn in, Harry allows himself to be mesmerised by that dark, heavy-lidded stare. He's daringme to!
I've got no idea how to do this, not with him. But this is it. Confused and desperate all at once, Harry leans forward, reaches up, and presses his lips against that thin, dry, teasing goal. He's got an armful of Severus, for that moment in time, and only because Severus allows him to. And, oh god, Severus' arms wrap around him, steady and large, Severus' lips part against his, softer than expected, and Harry's, quite possibly, made the right choice. We both need this.
Who would've thought it'd be like this, gentle and just right. Harry nearly sobs his relief into the kiss. And it is a kiss, an impossible one. An impossible dream dragged forth into reality with every shared breath.
Time and space still around them: Severus holds him. Harry holds on. A fever-dream of forever-after condensed into an echoed heartbeat.
Harry's reality shifts once more, unbound by the laws of physics. An impossibility manifested into being. Severus and him.
He gasps for breath as Severus pulls back, a warm dark stare meets his. All right?
Harry's more than all right. He's perfectly fine. Better than what he's been for so long through so many worried nights. At this particular moment, with Severus by his side, in his reach, in his arms, this is. Fucking. Perfect.
At that moment, the only measure of himself Harry needs is to see himself reflected in that dark, mesmerising stare and that glimpse of him is no longer a reflection that is full of flaws. He is just a man. He is Harry in Severus' eyes. He is real. As real as it gets. As real as the vision of a stranger - Dad! Then not. - glimpsed in the dark of the Forbidden Forest, lit in the dim glow of the stag Patronus before the Dementor fog overtakes Harry's conscience. As real as a youngster, staring down a thousand reflections and rejecting each one again and again until he finds himself. As real as a fighter in constant drag, in daily disguise, in a painted shell of a costume, hating being paraded in front of the reporters for the sake of publicity. Doing what's necessary anyway until something snaps, and shifts, like a dragon egg hatching in the hot water of a solitary bath and releasing a creature capable of flight into the world.
Harry's not a coward. (He's as much of a coward as Severus.) And perhaps now they can both be brave together when it counts most.