What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
— Kindness (part 2)
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Harry lands in the past much smoother than he had any right to expect.
It's easy, almost. He turns the time-turner, the clock, the hours and years, and suddenly there he is, in 1976, breathing the very same air as the man he's trying to save.
A man who is sixteen-years-old, at the moment.
Six-fucking-teen.
Awesome.
Harry goes to Hogwarts first. It makes sense, really. All the people he wants to see are currently there, and patience was never Harry's strong suit. He travelled all the way back to see Snape — he's not waiting a minute longer.
Unfortunately, Albus is still the same fucking meddling old coot, and thus, not five minutes after stepping inside the wards of the castle, Harry is tracked down by a very persistent phoenix who seems happy to peck him in the head until he follows it back to the Headmaster's office.
As it's usually the case with Albus, the conversation goes off track in the blink of an eye, and Harry stupidly finds himself admitting to being new around and having no place to live or employment. After that, the offer was almost inevitable, really. Harry only has himself to blame.
He knew how Albus could never see a mystery, an odd case, and not get his hands in it. It's who he is — Harry is glad to notice that he does know the old man, after all.
It doesn't change the fact that it's a horrible idea. An awful one, truly. He had been many things in his life, but a Hogwarts Professor had never been one of those — the whole time-travel bit only served to make matters even worse.
When Albus dares to suggest it, Harry snorts. He can't help it. "You don't want me to be a teacher here, old man. Trust me; no one wants that."
If anything, his blatant disinterest only serves to delight Albus. "Do you not enjoy children?" He asks, casually popping a lemon drop into his mouth.
"I don't dislike children," Harry admits with a tinge of reluctance. "They are not the problem, though. Seriously, if you're having trouble finding someone for the position, I'd be happy to help. I wasn't even aware this school had a Dueling Club."
In fact, he's pretty much sure it had never been a thing in 1976.
"I believe you," Albus says, unfazed. "But to be honest, it would be no trouble for me to find a suitable teacher for the school, Harry; I merely trust you to do a better job than anyone else I could find."
Harry presses his lips together. "Well, you're wrong."
"Why are you so against the idea of staying here?"
"Oh, I have no qualms about staying here. On the contrary, I'm not going anywhere, at all. This is exactly where I wanna be," Harry hurries to correct him. "I'm simply not fit to be a Professor."
"Why?"
"I wouldn't be able to distance myself, to be impartial," Harry admits, hoping the harsh truth would help to sway the old man's opinion. "There are zero chances of professionalism where I'm concerned, and I can't be bothered to care about it enough to pretend otherwise."
Dumbledore studies him for a moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know some of the students here." And it's not a question.
"I do," he agrees evenly. "Many."
"You don't care about many," Albus affirms, still weirdly unaffected by the whole exchange.
"No. No, I don't. I care about a few," Harry says, and his grip on the armchair tightens until his knuckles turn white. "One, in particular, would be… He's… I couldn't. I couldn't."
Teaching Snape would be impossible. Acting as though he hasn't travelled back in time to save him, to protect him; keeping his distance while trying to teach him stuff he probably had already mastered years ago; pretending to care about him only in a professional manner, taking house points, keeping him in line? No, that was a recipe for disaster if Harry had ever seen one.
It's much more likely that Harry will horribly embarrass himself in front of a full class by acting like a fool in front of his former professor. Better to all involved that he rejects the offer now.
Unfortunately, Dumbledore is undeterred by Harry's explicit admission that he'll blatantly favour some students in detriment to others. Which, yeah, a little weird for a headmaster. Not unheard of when it came to Dumbledore, though.
"All teachers have their favourites, Harry. I do think that you belong here." He pauses, and his smile grows. "Besides, the position will require you to interact with all the students in the castle. I believe you will enjoy this opportunity."
And that's the end of it. Harry knows it's an awful idea, and that he probably should say a polite, but firm no and get the hell out of that office, but it's Albus, who Harry has missed dearly, and it's a chance to stay closer to Snape.
So he says yes.
Who knows, maybe he would enjoy the opportunity.
It's breakfast time, and Harry is ravenous.
His greedy eyes instantly lock on his target, bypassing the other students with almost practised ease and landing on the Slytherin table, filled with young, and even younger students eating their breakfast, reading their books and overall focusing on their own, insignificant lives. However, near the end, sitting very close to the teacher's table is the person Harry is looking for.
Snape's head is buried in a large tome, his long, greasy hair falling like a curtain around him, only his crooked nose visible from Harry's place, but still, it is him. Severus Snape, sitting on the Slytherin table, ignoring the food surrounding him as well as his fellow housemates in order to focus all of his attention to an old book, fingers twitching ever so slightly as his eyes scan the pages.
Harry takes a breath, then another, holds the air in and tries to ignore the way his nails are trying to dig a hole into his trousers. He can hold it together. He can, and he will. Under no circumstances will Harry get up from his place and storm to where Snape is sitting to demand the young man's attention, to grip his chin and nudge his head up until their eyes could meet and—
No, Harry will not do any of it. He's an adult, a teacher, a fucking time-traveller, and he has better control over himself than that — or at least that's what he chooses to believe at the moment.
He can look, though. Looking is fine — as long as it's not overly apparent to the rest of the teachers that he's obsessing over a minor he's supposed to teach — so Harry looks, ignoring all pretenses and focusing all of his attention on the man who saved his life, who bargained away his freedom, his own chance at survival, to defeat Riddle, but seems oh so young.
And then, as if hearing Harry's inner chants for a glimpse, some other student calls Snape and his head snaps up from the book he's reading, and Harry breath catches in his throat. Snape's hair falls back and his entire face is visible and Harry cannot do anything but gaze upon it, mesmerized.
There's no softness, no goodness or gentleness of which to commend him, only a hard mask of scorn as he meets the eye of the poor sod who dared to interrupt his morning reading. Even at a distance, the pools of onyx of Snape's eyes still manage to speak full monologues for him, transmitting and hiding at once, showing only a fraction of what Snape is truly thinking.
It's nearly too much; the way Snape's mouth open and suddenly he's speaking — much too low for Harry to discern among the sea of voices drowning the Great Hall. It makes Harry's hand twitch as if reaching for something — someone — and his magic trashes inside him, wanting to snap, to be free.
Oh, Harry wants. Wants to allow his magic free of its confinement to see what would happen, what it would search for in the ample space, if it would, much like it's master, ignore all others to touch the young Severus Snape who sits in his place, unaware of the in-depth scrutiny he's under. It's not hard to imagine that that's precisely what it would do, who it would reach for — Harry's magic has always been susceptible to his basic needs and emotions.
The allure is growing strong, and the possibilities begin to cloud Harry's mind. He could — just for a second — let his magic loose to watch the scene playing on his head unfold right before his eyes. There's no doubt in his mind that it would be impressive — the sight of it roaming free, flowing towards Snape, touching him, his own magic, and seeing the young man's response.
Yes, it will be much like a welcome, a greeting, a caress, and Harry wants it, craves it—
"—Mr. Peverell," Minerva interrupts, drawing Harry back to the present. She means him — that's his name now. He shakes his head, trying to disperse the fog in his brain and clear up his ears at the same time, knowing he has probably missed a great deal of what she's said.
"I. Forgive me," Harry says, turning to face the smooth-faced Transfiguration teacher. "My head was… elsewhere."
"Are you quite alright, Mr. Peverell?" she asks, a frown forming on her face.
Harry tries to smile in a way that doesn't betray his disconcerting thoughts. "Yes. Of course. My mind tends to wander before at least two cups of coffee in the mornings."
It must work, 'cause her face clears, and she smiles back, looking amused now. "I see," she says amicably, although she couldn't be further from seeing anything. "I'm afraid Flitwick is much the same — useless without his daily dose of caffeine. Especially on Mondays."
"Nothing like the beginning of a new week to remind you of the beauty of the weekends, hun?" Harry jokes lamely, keeping his eyes from straying back to the Slytherin table by pure force of will. It's too early, and Snape is much too close.
Then, from over Harry's shoulder, comes a lively "right you are, my boy" from Dumbledore, as the man sits in his place, calling his attention, and all plans of getting back to his study of Snape fall through.
All throughout the meal, Harry tries to engage, to pretend he's interested in what's being said, to act like a newcomer should among his peers, and yet all he can do is grip his thigh hard enough to feel the pain in the knuckles of his fingers and pray it's enough to hold him together until the start of morning classes.
Fuck.
It takes three long days for the sixth-year, Gryffindor and Slytherin class to arrive. It feels like an eternity — the waiting. The Dueling Club is only open to the sixth and seventh-year, per Harry's insistence, but still, somehow, it felt as though he had endless classes to teach and names to remember. It seems like every student in this goddamn castle is excited to curse one another, for Christ's sake.
Nevertheless, the day does arrive, late as it is, and Harry is doing his best to keep his composure as he tries to teach Remus, his godfather, his father, his mother, and Severus all at the same time, without giving himself away.
In the back of his mind, though, Harry is already waiting for the other shoe to drop. With such a group, he would be a fool to expect things to run smoothly from the get-go.
Who thought it would be a good idea to give teenagers access to wands and powerful hexes, anyway?
It feels very much like courting danger. Some shit will happen, it's just a matter of when, Harry thinks.
And it does. Half-an-hour into his class.
It happens fast. Harry is walking around the room, correcting the posture of some students and praising the ones who got the spell right with minimal coaxing, when something in the corner of his eyes catches his attention.
Lucius Malfoy and Snape are engrossed in their own practice, taking turns at being the one casting the spell, and thus, far too unaware of what's happening around them; which, in turn, creates the perfect opportunity for somebody else to take advantage of their open backs. It galls Harry beyond comprehension that it's his father — James Potter, his mind corrects — who chooses to raise his wand against a fellow student inside Harry's classroom.
Worse, still, is that James' wand is pointed straight at Severus. Behind him, Sirius is grinning in anticipation, celebrating their victory too early, too foolishly. The scene is foreign and uncomfortably familiar at the same time, and something in Harry's blood boils to the point of irrationality, triggering the sort of protectiveness he's only now discovering to be possible within him.
So, yeah, it happens fast. Harry takes notice of the entire scene in mere seconds, and just as James opens his mouth and breathes a curse, he throws himself between the two boys, stepping in front of the bright red spell intended for Severus.
It's not even a choice. Harry has to protect Severus — he needs to. No one is going to hurt him, not while Harry is still living and breathing and definitely not in his damn classroom.
The protego erupts from his empty hand wordlessly, strong enough to draw the attention of every single student in his class and to not only deter James' spell but to make the boy lose his footing and trip, falling to the ground on his arse. The shield holds, and James' tripping hex fades away into nothing.
Silence holds.
Harry spins around in his place to face Severus, who's looking at him like he's a certified nutjob. "Are you alright?" He asks, knowing he's being both ridiculous and inappropriate and yet way past the point of giving a shit. His eyes run up and down Severus' body, searching for a wound he knows is not there.
"Me? Of course," Severus confirms, sounding unsteady for the first time since Harry arrived at Hogwarts. "I doubt any spell could've crossed that shield." And it's a jab, a prod to see the reaction it evoked.
On any other day, Harry would've indulged him. Perhaps he still might, later. But not now, though, not when he's still close to bursting with unchanneled adrenaline, and the whole class is watching his reactions, whispering about it under their breaths.
"Good," he says, forcefully. It's all wrong — a deep, sharp voice he never used with others, never mind with sixth-years.
Harry needs to get his shit together. Now. Severus is fine — nothing happened. James is a dumb child, a bully who's been allowed too much leeway by Dumbledore, yes, but he's still just a sixteen-year-old student, who could pose no more of a threat to Severus than any of the other kids.
He's not a death-eater, he's not a killer, he's not a danger. He's not Voldemort.
Allowing his training to take over, Harry turns back to face the Gryffindor. The boy is patting some imaginary dust off his uniform, already back on his feet. "Mister Potter, can you explain what just happened?" Harry asks — demands — as he stares at him, sending a sharp glare in Sirius' direction when he opens his mouth to help his best friend.
Young James cowers. "Sir, I— I was just playing with Sirius," he stutters pitifully. "I'm sure it was a mist—"
"You would do well not lying to me, Mr. Potter. I believe I pay enough attention over my class to see what might be a wayward spell flying off course and what's a purposely cast hex threatening the safety of one of my students," Harry says, and his voice is a whip, cracking the air with its force. "Do you disagree?"
"No! No, sir, of course not," James hurries to appease him, and it's in that moment that it becomes clear that he's actually afraid of Harry. His body language speaks volumes, transmitting all of his fears loud and clear to anyone paying attention.
Harry closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He won't lose it — he's okay. Severus is fine. "Thirty points from Gryffindor for trying to harm another student. And detention," he sentences, although he knows better than to put the both of them in the same room so soon after today's disaster. "Report to Professor McGonagall tonight at eight for it, Mr. Potter. The rest of you, class dismissed for the day. Go."
There's a beat of silence, and then, as his words sink in, everyone rushes to grab their bags and runoff out the room, speaking way too loud about the shitshow that had just went down in class. Harry remains where he is, struggling even to open his eyes and watch the room getting progressively emptier.
He almost convinces himself that this is it — that he's done — when James Potter reaches the doorway, but before he can stop it, his mouth open and the words cross his lips.
"Mr. Potter," he calls, making several students halt mid-step and turn in his direction. Near the window, still packing his bag, Harry takes notice of Severus raising his head to watch the scene. For reasons he rather not examine too closely, it makes Harry's voice go frighteningly cold. "Do not let me catch you attempting to harm someone in my classroom again. I will not be so lenient, shall this happen again. Do I make myself clear?"
The boy visibly gulps and takes a step back. "Yes. Crystal clear, Professor. It won't happen again. I'm sorry."
Harry believes him. "Good. Now go," he says, dismissing him with a wave of a hand. The sooner the room is empty, the sooner Harry can grab a glass of whisky and drink his shit away.
The room never gets empty, though. Severus is still there, waiting, when the last student leaves his class.
Of course he is.
Harry doesn't think before he wards the room — basically locking them both inside — and strides forward until he's standing in front of... Severus? Snape? Fuck.
He's running on adrenaline, on fire and magic. He looks and he sees the boy and he loses whatever last grip he might have had over his questionable sanity.
And so, unceremoniously, Harry grabs his left arm and shoves the sleeve of his robes out of the way until Snape's forearm is exposed. He ignores' the boy's attempts at getting away, easily holding him in place, his focus all zeroed in on the smooth, unblemished skin that's revealed to him.
The relief running through Harry's body is so sharp that his breath hitches, getting stuck in his throat between one inhale and the next. Merlin, he's not marked yet. Harry's not too late; Snape won't have to waste his life being a prisoner to a sicko, having to face every day in the mirror his worse life choice.
The mark isn't there, and Harry wants to weep.
"I can't believe it," he murmurs, eying Snape's limb in suspicion, as though it could be tricking him. Giving him hope only to squash it later on.
At his words, Snape goes quiet. He had been saying shit — probably threatening to hex Harry into oblivion for daring to touch him without consent — but the second Harry speaks, giving voice to his incredulity, the Slytherin stills.
"Were you so certain of my affiliations?" He questions, voice low and full of hidden meaning.
Harry knows he should release Snape. The whole interaction is beyond improper — the longer he allows the moment to stretch, the heavier the atmosphere grows. The right thing to do would be to step back, apologize profusely for his actions, and forget the whole interaction ever happened in the first place. That's what Harry should do.
What he does, however, is tighten his grip on Snape's arm, holding the boy's wrist with such strength, it will surely leave a mark. When he speaks next, Harry doesn't raise his eyes, doesn't move an inch.
"I know," he says. And Harry did know — about Snape's intentions, about his friends, about the spells, the potions, his need for approval, appreciation. "I needed to be sure. To see it for myself. I needed it."
Snape frowns. "We have never met before, Professor. You know nothing about me and my life."
Oh, how wrong he is. Painfully, achingly wrong.
Harry steps back, pulling his hand back. "I believe I know quite a lot, actually," he says, like the fool he is.
"You know nothing!" Snape sneers, eyes narrowing in disgust. "Don't presume to act so familiar with me, Professor."
Harry doesn't know what to say. He knows what he wants to say — but hadn't he done enough for one day? He shouldn't have touched him, grabbed him and acted as though he has any right to do so. Harry understands how confusing this must be for Snape, who believes he's only another adult, another nobody.
In the end, Harry says nothing. He stares, eyes shifting between the still exposed arm and Snape's slitted eyes. He drinks in the sight and tries not to give himself away with his facial expression.
Snape face sours even further at his silence, as though it personally offends him, so he grabs his bag and leaves without another backward glance, stomping away with far too much grace for a teenager.
On his way out, he slams the door.
Harry would never admit it, but he flinches at the loud noise.
And there Snape goes, walking away without a single care in the world, eager to get back to his dormitory and get a decent night of sleep, having no clue on the storm brewing inside Harry's mind. Snape goes, taking his book, his questions, his presence, and Harry can do little else than to drop his weight on the chair behind him and close his eyes.
Snape is so hateful, so full of anger, and disdain, and disgust for the world at large, with the biggest possible chip on his shoulder, always so quick to believe the worst about others and, worst, about himself. It's clear to Harry that Snape doesn't have a good opinion about him. But then, why should he?
He's sixteen. Fucking sixteen, and already so goddamn jaded. Harry wants to hit his head against the wall.
This is gonna be so much harder than he predicted.
There's a strange feeling pooling in his gut as he keeps staring at place Snape had been standing, which feels vaguely like guilt and too much like regret and loss. Harry is frozen in place, staring and looking and watching and trying so damn hard to see, to understand where it had all gone wrong.
Had he lost it already?
Is it far too late to save him, to show this teenager just how badly he's screwing up his life, to open his eyes to the hole he's digging with his own hands and from which he'll never crawl out of once he reaches the bottom? Is it?
What if it is?
Has Harry really travelled so many fucking years into the past only to get stuck watching Severus flow adrift, lost and hopeless as he tries to deal with the shitty hand fate handed him?
What if, in the end, he's made a huge mistake? What if he gave up on his house, and his belongings, and, shit, his friends, and his entire goddamn life just to get a front-row seat to the train wreck that is the 'Severus' Show'?
It's entirely possible. Maybe even likely. Who knew? Harry certainly didn't. Couldn't, no matter how well prepared he had considered himself to be when he embarked on this crazy journey a few days ago.
All that's left now is a whole bunch of waiting around and trying to come up with some brilliant idea on how to soften the edges of the most hardened man Harry had ever met in his unfortunate life — all without giving away who he is and why he's doing that.
Harry pours himself another glass. His fifth.
He feels untethered — weightless as he drifts away.
God, what is he doing?
This is wrong. Wrong beyond belief, all of it. Harry shouldn't be singling him out from the other students, blatantly protecting him, touching him, acting so goddamn involved in the life of a sixteen-year-old. Harry is twenty-eight — more than ten years his senior.
Beyond the obvious earthly possessions Harry had to throw at his feet, what else could he give the boy? His growing obsession, his guilt, his constant vigilance, his overwhelming desire to fix anything bad that could ever happen to Snape's life? No, of course not. Who would want that?
Staying in Hogwarts had been a mistake, agreeing to teach a fucking Dueling Club an even bigger one, Harry thinks, knowing that there's not much he can do now. He's chosen his path, all he can do now is play with the cards he has and hope for the best — or, at the very least, that he doesn't screw this up badly enough to have Aurors knocking on his door one of these days.
Author's Note: Oh, Harry... So very oblivious.