Author's Note: Hello, beauties! I'm terribly sorry for the wait, but I've been in an accident and I'm only now starting to get better. As it is, I'm stuck on forced bed rest, so at least I'll have loads of time to write and edit. lol. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
— Kindness (part 3)
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Harry doesn't give up. Can't give up — not after everything. He already knew it would be difficult; stopping because of that — or imagining Snape should welcome him with open arms on the first day — would be ridiculous.
So he tracks him down. It barely takes any effort — it doesn't surprise Harry that the boy spends most of his free time in the library, searching for new books, studying, writing, reading.
He's not doing any of that at the moment, though. Instead, Severus is glaring at a particular shelf, looking as if the books there had personally offended him and his entire family. Harry knew that look very well because he had been on the receiving end of it more often than not while at Hogwarts.
"What did the poor books do to you?" He asks with a smile, leaning against the bookcase. It's good to see him again, Harry finds, even after the disaster that had been their last time together.
Severus' head turns sharply. "Professor," he hisses between grit teeth, as though it pains him to be polite.
"Hello, Mr. Snape," Harry greets, also a little weird out by the formal title. God, what the hell? "I'm not teaching anything at the moment; you can call me Harry if you want," He offers, knowing better than to expect the Slytherin to accept it, however.
Severus quirks an eyebrow. "I don't believe that would be appropriate."
Harry shrugs. "I don't mind," he says. "But suit yourself. Now, would you care to explain why you're standing here, glaring at the books?"
"It's none of your business!" Severus snaps, all sharp tongue and heat, but then seems to realize who he's speaking to and his eyes widen. He opens his mouth.
Before he can take it back or — god forbid — apologize, Harry waves it away. "It's fine," he assures. "I'm just trying to help, though. If you tell me what's bothering you, I might be able to help."
Harry's easiness unsettles Severus for a few beats, and it takes him a while to find his footing and sneer again. "I doubt it," he says, dismissively.
"Try me."
Severus pauses. "I'm searching for a Potions book," he says, mentioning to the section of the library he's in. "The school doesn't have a copy, though. Madam Prince said I should search for an adequate substitute here. Obviously, I wasn't having much luck in my endeavour."
Ah, of course.
"Let me guess," Harry teases. "You're looking for an obscure book from centuries ago. Probably falls within Dark spectrum of magic, too."
At his words, anger flashes behind Severus' eyes. "Oh, yes, it must be Dark magic because I'm a Death—"
"Please." Harry raises a hand to stop him. "I don't care if you choose to read about Dark magic. To be honest, most of what the Ministry classifies as Dark magic is bullshit, anyway. I didn't mean to insult you."
"You have a peculiar way of not insulting someone, Professor."
"Human interaction is not my forte," Harry admits, somehow amused by Severus crankiness. "Please, forgive me." He grins. "So, this book. No substitute?"
Severus rolls his eyes, quickly forgetting about the expected polite behaviour. "As I've said."
"That's a pity." Not really, to be honest. Harry wants to do a little victory dance to celebrate the perfect opening. "Fortunately, I may be able to help you."
"Is that so? How?" He drawls, still unamused.
"Well, I happen to have a vast collection of books sitting and collecting dust, right now. Vast enough that I'll bet your book is among them," Harry offers, hoping the opportunity to get his hands on valuable books was enough to tempt the Slytherin.
It does. Black eyes shine with unrestrained desire.
Still, suspicion is Severus middle name. "And I'm supposed to believe you'll let me borrow it for no good reason?"
"Isn't knowledge the best reason there is?" Harry cannot help himself, although he tries his best to say that with a straight face.
It works, thankfully. The corner of Severus' mouth twitches, and he has to fight back a laugh, so Harry mentally pats himself on the back for the good work.
"So it is," he agrees. "Very well. Should we arrange a suitable time for me to visit your office?"
Oh, like hell that Harry is letting him escape this easily. "Why not now? No time like the present, right? Let's go."
"Now?" Severus asks, taken back. But he turns back and a quick accio leaves his mouth, bringing his heavy-looking bag to his hands.
"I can teach you a spell for that," Harry says, pointing to the overflowing bag. Like Severus' robes, the bag looks old and used, despite the many layers of magic Harry could feel coming from the items. He had a solution for both, as well. Later.
"What spell?" Severus demands, walking alongside him as they leave the library.
"You shouldn't carry all this weight around, it's bad for your shoulders. A spell to give you more room and make it weightless." Hermione's spell. Hermione's perfected Undetectable Extension Charm. "It's a hard Charm to master, but I'm sure you're more than capable of learning it. If you wish, though, I can cast it for you in your bag in the meanwhile. It's undetectable, so you don't have to worry about others noticing — if that's a concern."
"Undetectable? How? I've never heard about such a spell."
"It's not the sort of magic adults want to teach children," Harry explains gently. "It can be used for rather nefarious purposes, I guess. And since it doesn't really fit into the curriculum of any of the subjects taught here, there's no real reason to bother."
"But you'll teach it in your class?"
"Heavens no. Like I said, it's a trick piece of magic and I have no wish to spend days teaching it around. I'll teach you — that's it."
"Doesn't that constitute favouritism?"
"Albus knew who he was hiring when he offered me this job," he assures with a grin. "He'll understand, don't worry."
Harry opens the door to his private rooms, letting Severus walk in front of him so he can see the bookcases covering all the walls of his living room, filled with books from the ceiling to the floor.
It's impressive if he says so himself, and from way Severus draws a sharp breath, he probably agrees.
"Feel free to search for your book," Harry says, drinking in the sight of a speechless young Severus Snape. "I would begin from the back; it's where the oldest ones are."
"This is…" The words die out in his mouth.
"A lot? Don't worry about it. They are not going anywhere," Harry says. "You may read any book you please. I only ask that, if you decide to read the ones at the top shelves, that you do it in here — where I can keep an eye on you. They are… dangerous, and it would make me feel better to know you're within eyesight."
"The others?" Severus asks, nodding in understanding.
"Do with them as you want. If you want to take them to your dormitory, that's okay, too."
"Take them?"
"This isn't a library, Severus," Harry says, mentally wincing at the casual way in which he uses the boy's name. From the look on his face, Severus definitely takes notice of his familiarity, but he says nothing about it. "I don't care if you want to keep reading in your room."
"Why do you have so many, in the first place?"
"Family inheritance." Harry looks away, trying not to think too deeply about it. "These are not all of them. Many are in my vaults."
"There's more?" Severus questions, both eyebrows raising in surprise.
"Sure. Loads more, actually. We can go see the vaults one of these days, if you want — check if any of them interest you. It would be good to see them put to good use."
"I. That would be appreciated," Severus agrees politely, but the way his hands are twisting in place betrays his excitement. He's too polite to say so, but clearly he wants that a lot more than the bland tone would suggest.
"Okay, okay." Harry laughs. "I'll arrange a visit, greedy. Take a look around, for now. I know you're dying to — I'll just be here, planning my lessons."
Severus looks guilty for a flash. "I don't need to—"
"Don't bother," Harry waves away the apology. "I don't require tending to, Severus. Go to your books, I'll be fine."
A week later, Harry finds Severus at the wrong end of James Potter's wand. Again.
Young James is about to curse Severus — and he's proud of it, too. Running his mouth about his own superiority, his supposed skills, his spells. It's nauseating, and in a flash, Harry starts to tremble with barely contained anger.
Christ, this foolish boy.
This arrogant, stupid boy who doesn't know a thing about the cruel, adult life waiting for him outside the protection of Hogwarts walls. Who hasn't faced a single struggle in all his short years and yet feels entitled enough to roam around bullying others.
James Potter. The sole heir to the Potter's fortune. A rich kid who, instead of enjoying the freedom of his youth, is too busy tormenting Severus — who had done nothing to him, really, other than having Lily's attention when she wouldn't give James the time of day.
It's infuriating. Maddening. How dare he? How dare James behave as if he's above the rules of the school to take out his frustrations on Severus.
Harry tries to breathe, but the air gets stuck in his throat, and suddenly, the wide corridor starts to feel small and claustrophobic. It feels cloying, the damp, cold air hitting Harry's skin, freezing his body.
That's when he realizes he's seconds away from snapping.
Merlin, he's going to lose it.
Harry is going to lose hold of his magic and attack this sixteen-year-old kid right there, in plain sight to whoever might be passing by, and he's going to enjoy it.
C'mon, a dark, twisted voice whispers in Harry's mind, sounding almost eager for the violence to come. How good will it feel to take the boy down a notch? Won't it be glorious, to wipe the floor with his smug face and watch as the first signs of terror seep into place, overtaking that crooked, pitiful smile?
Shit. Harry breathes, trying to relax, to let it go, to ignore the urges, to be the better man in this situation.
He's an adult; they are teenagers. He cannot afford to let his magic loose on them — not right there, not now.
To distract himself, Harry barks. "What is going on here?"
They both jump in surprise, clearly not having noticed his presence before.
"Professor!" Severus says, shock written on his every line.
"Holy fuck!" James curses. "Merlin. What the—"
"You would do well watching your tone with me, Mister Potter," Harry interrupts. "I am, after all, very much still your teacher."
But the boy doesn't learn. "You let Snape say whatever he wants!" He proclaims, all self-righteousness and entitlement.
"Is your name Severus Snape?" Harry asks dryly.
James frowns. "No."
"Then mind your tone," Harry tells him. "Twenty points from Gryffindor. And go to your room. It's almost curfew, and you have classes in the morning."
"This is so un—"
"You cannot possibly be giving me backchat after I've just caught you harassing a student, Mister Potter. Surely I must be hallucinating, yes?" He asks, and he's not proud of it, but his voice goes a touch lower. "Otherwise, I would be glad to escort you to the Headmaster for a proper explanation of tonight's actions and the fairness of them?"
At that, James lowers his eyes. "No. I. I'll just be… going to my room. Goodnight, Professor." And he leaves, without waiting for a response.
Harry turns to Severus, who had regained his composure in the meanwhile. "Come with me."
"You had no right—"
"I have every right to intervene in any situation I feel necessary, as part of the staff of this school. Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do to protect," you, "my students."
"I wonder," Severus sneers, but falls into step with him. "Would you have the same for any other student, though?"
Harry leads them down the stairs, taking a shortcut without thinking about it. He needs to deliver Severus to his dormitory — this instant."What do you want from me, Severus? Should I've allowed him to hex you, is that it?"
"Do please give me the courtesy of believing me to be a better dueller than James Potter."
"I do," Harry agrees, sighing under his breath. "Mr. Potter wasn't playing fair, however. Trust me."
"What?"
Harry stays silent until they reach the entrance to the Slytherin's common rooms. "Pettigrew was hiding behind a statue a few steps to your left. I doubt he would've stayed out of it should the situation escalate to a proper fight," he finally explains. "I don't question your abilities, Severus. The situation… well, annoys me."
Underestimation of the century.
Without giving him the opportunity to say something back, Harry all but shoves him to his dormitory. "Go. It's very late, Severus, and you have classes in the morning," Harry says, watching as the boy narrows his eyes in suppressed anger, but gives in, nodding his assent before whispering the password.
Harry stays to make sure the boy goes inside instead of trying to run off once more. Then, after he made sure Snape was safe, Harry finds the first empty room in that corridor and trash it until it's impossible to discern what its former use had been.
Harry is late.
Three minutes late, which, for him, is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things; however, even before arriving at his destination and meeting the boy, Harry already knows his lack of punctuality will not be appreciated. Time had no bearing on Severus strictness with himself and with others.
Harry turns the corner, and there he is, fidgeting with the sleeves of his robes and scowling at the general area for no apparent reason, as though the whole world had done him a great injustice only by existing. It shouldn't be amusing, nor should it force the corners of Harry's mouth upward, but unsurprisingly, it does, and Harry has no time to mask his mirth before Severus spots him.
"You're late," he informs as soon as their eyes meet, the frown on his forehead deepening. It's clear that Harry has already begun the day needing to make up for something.
"I'm aware," Harry agrees. "I'm sorry. I'm quite the mess in the mornings — it wasn't my intention to leave you waiting."
Severus' eyes narrow, but he seems to accept the apology. "It's visible," he drawls. "Your hair is unbelievably messy — do you not own a comb or a mirror?"
He speaks the words, seemly not aware of what he's saying at the moment, but then, as soon as they are out, hovering on the air between them, his eyes flash with regret and what looks to be resignation, like he understands how open he's left himself with that remark. Severus clearly expects Harry to take advantage of his openness to say a cutting comment or two.
For that reason alone, Harry takes great pleasure in allowing his smile to widen, taking the critic without a flinch. "Ah, this?" He asks, reaching up to ruffle his unruly hair. "I've given up, to be perfectly honest. It's impossible to get it to settle down, and I can't be bothered to keep trying." Harry shrugs. "Not like it matters; it's just hair."
His words seem to confound him. "Why are you doing this?" Severus demands, and it is evident that he's unused to being offered any kindness without some kind of price attached to it.
Just to be contrary, Harry quips. "Why not?"
"People don't throw their money around for random students," he stresses, pursuing his lips. "I don't need your pity."
"Pity? Now, why would I pity you?" Harry asks. "And you are not a random student; surely you know that. Stop looking for the negative side in everything, Severus; you are much too young for it."
"I'm sixteen," Severus protests.
"As I said, much too young," Harry repeats, delighted by the almost pouty look on the Slytherin face. "Anyway, aren't Slytherin's supposed to enjoy seizing the opportunities presented to them? Lighten up. Maybe I just want to help my favourite student. How about that?"
Several emotions cross Severus face as he speaks, and for a minute it looks like he will comment on the Slytherin jab, but then his shoulder sag a bit, and he cocks his head. "I'm your favourite?" he questions, incredulous. The idea of being anyone's favourite seems to boggle his mind, and Harry wants to burn the world for what it's done to him.
"Yes," he says straight away, leaving no doubts about his meaning. "You think I open my private rooms to just any student?" The 'to any other student' is left unspoken but heavily implied.
Severus looks so unsettled, searching for the right words to say, that Harry can't help but tease. "Surely you are used to being favoured?" he continues. "I can't imagine Slughorn doing anything but singing your praises."
At that, the young man walking beside him tenses. "I'm afraid I'm not… distinguished enough to be among Professor Slughorn's special little group."
And Harry cannot believe it. "What?" he snaps, and it comes out much more forceful than he meant to, but the momentary anger clouds his mind enough that he forgets to keep hold of his temper. "Did he— Severus, are you telling me that he hasn't asked you— are you not in his Slug Club?"
Severus only shakes his head, and that's when Harry realizes that they've stopped moving and he's gripping Severus' arm with way more force than is appropriate, demanding answers of him in a way he has no right to. Harry has no rights to any of Severus personal life, no matter how much he wishes to infiltrate himself in it.
In a flash, Harry releases the proffered arm. He doesn't take a step back, though, as he should, remaining very much in Severus' personal space. He can't move, not yet. "Forgive me," he rasps, closing his eyes, trying to rein his emotions back together. God, who is the teenager between them? "I didn't mean to…" Suddenly, Harry's eyes snap open. "Did I hurt you?"
Did he?
Harry studies Severus face, his arm, as though he can see the damage done under his robes, as he tries to gauge how tight he had been squeezing, but it's impossible to know for sure.
His panicked tone seems to drawn Severus out of his daze. "Don't be absurd," he says. "I'm not made of glass, Professor. Do stop treating me as such."
In another situation, Harry might've cracked a joke at those words, something light-hearted to lighten the mood and steer them back to save grounds, but it's early, far too cold, and Severus is standing much too close for comfort, and Harry's magic is pulsing brightly.
"Are you okay?" He insists, raising his hand to touch Severus' shoulder but re-thinking the wiseness of the action and allowing it to fall before it reached its target.
Severus studies him quietly for a long moment, then he raises his own hand and lets it settle on Harry's shoulder, lightly and hesitant. Waiting for the touch to be rejected, clearly. "Harry, I'm fine," he assures, soft and quiet.
The name crosses his lips with an easiness that had no right to being there, on the mouth of a person who had never spoken his first name before, but it is, and Harry draws a sharp breath.
For goodness sake, it shouldn't sound this intimate, this good to hear his name leaving Severus' mouth, and yet it does. He's waited so long for this, for the chance of having the man right in front of him, but nothing could've prepared Harry for this, this closeness, this energy crackling between them.
Fuck.
Harry nods his head in greeting as he enters the shop. "Good afternoon. We're here for some robes," he informs, mentioning to the young man next to him.
"Of course," the woman behind the counter says, eyes scanning Severus from head to toe in an examining manner. "School robes?"
From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Severus opening his mouth to agree, so he jumps to correct her before he can limit his options in such a way. "To begin with," Harry says, walking to the comfiest looking chair by the central mirror of the store and sitting down, crossing his legs. Getting comfortable. "Please get him whatever he asks for."
Which is the wrong thing to say, of course.
"I don't require you to dress me, Professor," Severus drawls with an offended air, straightening his back.
"It wasn't my intention to suggest you did. It's a gift — it's meant to be seen as one."
"It's not proper to spend so much money on a gift to a student."
It isn't; he's right. Harry wishes he could be bothered to give a fuck. "Sue me," he teases, shrugging. "Thinking of it as a gift to me, if it pleases you."
A brow raises high. "Dressing me is a gift to you?"
God, there are so many ways that sentence could be interpreted. There are about nine inappropriate responses Harry wants to give, but if showering his student with new clothes is bad, flirting with him would be infinitely worse. He bites his tongue, barely.
Harry chooses to keep it short and sweet. "Yes."
And thus, it begins. Seeing her opening, Amy — Harry later finds out her name is Amy — takes over and starts digging clothes from every corner of the shop.
It's a slow, maddening sort of torture. Shirt after shirt, trouser after trouser, robes and ties and coats and scarfs and a parade of endless clothes that the woman keeps throwing on Severus' lap.
She insists Severus try them all out, obviously. And, for some unfathomed reason, the Slytherin actually follows her instructions, going in and out of the dressing room as requested, each time wearing something new.
Until he steps out wearing a set of black robes that make the air catch in Harry's lungs.
"What do you think?" Amy asks, as she has done for each item, only this time Harry doesn't have it in him to answer.
Merlin, these robes.
The trousers are black and sleek and soft-looking and they hug Severus' legs in all the wrong ways. Harry is torn between wanting to rip them out of the man's body with his hands and falling to his knees to beg Severus never to take them off again.
"Tighter," Severus requests without mercy, nodding in agreement when she clips more of the fabric together in her hands, and Harry considers how likely a heart-attack is to a man his age.
Twenty-eight is not so young anymore; maybe he is dying. Maybe this is how the boy-who-lived will meet his end: watching the tailoring of a pair of trousers. It seems only fair — if Harry could choose, he'd be okay with that.
"Perhaps another colour?" She suggests. "Red would suit your complexion."
Severus pursue his lips, unwilling to compromise. "Black will do."
And Harry should keep his goddamn mouth shut, he really should, but he's a bastard who's going to hell anyway, so ignores his internal voice screaming in protest and says: "Maybe something green?"
It's barely a suggestion; more like the whisper of a guilty desire.
Severus turns at the sound of his voice — probably shocked that Harry is saying something after such a long silence — and their eyes meet. Harry is painfully aware that his own eyes burn green, so fucking green after he ditched the glasses.
"Green?" She asks, cocking her head as she considers the suggestion and completely ignoring the tension rising in the room. "I suppose it would be acceptable. Not a pastel, however; maybe a darker shade, a jewel—"
"Emerald," Severus interrupts, eyes locked with Harry's still.
"Hm. Yes, emerald will do just fine," she agrees.
Harry wants to protest, to say that he meant a deeper shade, something like a Slytherin, forest green, but Severus looks far too intense, and the words die on his lips.
The woman is right. Emerald will do just fine.
With a nod of the head, Severus goes back to the dressing room and Harry takes a much-needed breath. God, he wants a drink, but at that stage, a glass will do nothing for him — he will need a whole fucking bottle to try to forget how good Severus had looked wearing those robes.
Harry turns to face Amy. "Separate anything he wants," he says, giving her a pointed look and hoping the woman will understand his meaning without further words.
She does, thankfully. "Of course, Mr. Peverell." She considers him evenly, lowering her voice so that the words stayed between them. "Perhaps some new shoes would be appreciated?"
The words sparkle a feeling that nearly overtakes Harry in its intensity, and he wants to shower Severus with all the things he never had, all the things he secretly wants but has already given up on the chances of having. He deserves all of it and more.
Harry has the money, and he'll spend 'till the very last knuckle on Severus. Gladly.
Maybe it's because Harry had a similar childhood, where he wanted things well beyond his possibilities, but the thought of Severus hesitation and incredulity tugs at an old feeling of inadequacy Harry has never quite overcome, and he wants so much better than that for Severus.
"Yes," Harry hurries to say. "A couple, at least. A good boot, too. He spends a lot of time with his potions."
She smiles, a knowing look on her face. "I'll see that he tries some different pairs."
"Thanks," Harry mumbles, embarrassed.
Amy leaves to fetch more stuff, and Harry shifts in his place, trying to get comfortable again. He knows they are in for a few more rounds of torture, at the very least.
In the end, he's wrong. The rest of the afternoon is surprisingly pleasant. There's a true, gratifying feeling in watching Severus trying on expensive clothes he had always wanted to wear but could never dream to afford before. He looks both amazed and a touch incredulous, as though he can't quite bring himself to believe it's actually happening.
There's an embarrassment on his part, too. When it comes the time to select the things he wants to take, Severus seems to silently struggle with his better sense, watching the piles upon piles of fabric with an alarmed look on his face. His fingers curl around the pair of shoes he's holding on to.
"Merlin, Severus," Harry grins, exasperated. He hopes the light tone will ease the tension a bit. "Just get it, alright? I've already said I'm paying for anything you want."
Severus swallows. "I'm aware. But this is a lo—"
"It's fine," Harry says, waving the concern away. He looks over Severus' shoulder and locks eyes with Amy, who's already silently folding the clothes into neat squares. "We're ready to go."
As he speaks, Harry tries to plead with his eyes for her not to make a big deal out of the final price. The last thing he needs is Severus getting overwhelmed with the numbers and freaking out.
Thankfully, his concerns are for nought; the woman is a pro. Wordlessly, she slides a discreet piece of paper for him to sign with his vault numbers and, once he's done so, is equally as silent when he all but shoves the paper back into her hands when he sees Severus approaching them.
Harry decides to stop by at a later date to thank her for the help and leave her the biggest tip of her life.
All in all, it's a good day.
"It's late. What are you doing out of bed?" Harry asks Severus when he finds the Slytherin roaming around the castle after his curfew.
"What are you doing in the dungeons?" Severus snaps back, with the sort of tone that Harry would've never allowed any other student to get away with.
As it is, he merely raises an eyebrow at the rudeness. "I'm a teacher; it's part of my job to patrol the school. All parts of it, I'm afraid."
Severus has the grace to glace away. He doesn't say anything, though.
"Go back to your room, Severus. It's far too late."
"I can't," he says, struggling to get the words out, pass his tight lips, and his voice falters as he speaks, betraying the level of his inner tumult. Harry wishes it took more than that to crack his professional façade.
"What happened?"
There's a long pause.
"Nightmares," is all Severus says, and it's enough.
"I see," Harry says, and he does see. By then, he probably could write a dozen books on nightmares and their consequences on the human body. "Walking alone on this damp corridor will do little for your mental state." He pauses, considering the wiseness of his next words before deciding he doesn't give a shit anymore. "Follow me."
Without waiting for a response, Harry turns and begins the walk back to his room, knowing by instinct alone that Severus will follow along.
They walk in silence, and when they enter the room, Harry grabs and hands over the book he had found and put aside to give to Severus the next day.
"Harry! Do you even know what—This book is invaluable!" Severus states, caressing the spine with the sort of reverence that Harry never quite managed to have for any kind of book in his life. It's a kind of desire and longing that speaks of a thirst for knowledge that he'd only seen in one other person before, and she's no longer around to caress his books. "Where did you find it? Our library doesn't have a copy — not even at the restricted section."
It doesn't surprise him. Any book owned by the Blacks had no place in a school for children.
"It was in my family's vault," Harry lies, stoping behind Severus to glance at the cover and feel the magic emanating from it. Hm, not as bad as it could be. "You may read it if you wish. Here, of course. It wouldn't be wise to take it outside my quarters." My wards, he completes in his mind but doesn't dare to add out loud.
Severus twists in place, eyes widening in shock. "You can't be serious."
Harry takes great pleasure in poking at Severus earnest expression. "I am serious; therefore, you must be wrong."
"Harry! This is a family heirloom — how can you just give me this sort of access?"
"Well, I don't give a shit about family inheritance, so there's that."
Something dark flashes behind Severus' eyes. "It's easy to say that when you have all this at your disposal."
"I wasn't born with all this, Severus," Harry shares, feeling a sudden need to explain himself, to show him that he understands how shitty life can be and what it feels like to long for things you cannot have. "In the end, these are all just things. It won't change your life."
"What will?"
"Nothing. You either choose to change, or you'll remain in the same path for the rest of your days — there's no cop-out, no safe answer, no saviour to save the day. Always be wary of people who offer you an easy way out," he says, a bit heavy-handed at the end, yeah, but unable to resist the opportunity of planting the doubt in Severus mind.
He has such little time. Every second must count.
"Are we never going to talk about it?" Severus asks on a thursday night.
"Talk about what?"
"Your magic."
"What about it?"
"Are you being purposely dull? The fact that you constantly cast wandless, wordless magic as if it's nothing. How you don't even reach for your wand most of the times. Maybe the fact that you keep such a tight hold over it that your magic is almost untraceable?"
Harry hides a wince. "Any wizard or witch can cast wandless or wordless with enough practice, Severus," he says, bending the truth slightly. "It's not exactly a trick I'm inventing."
"No. Most of the wizarding population will never be able to cast either wandless or wordless, no matter how much they may try. Most lack the precision, focus, visual intent, or raw power to do so." Severus stops, then adds with a pointed look. "You do both, at the same time."
"I am a teacher. It makes sense that I'm slightly above average, no?"
"I wouldn't call it slightly. I've seen you cast a Patronus without your wand, Harry."
"Are you trying to flatter me, young man?"
"Don't deflect," Severus snaps, relentless. "What about the way you keep your magic tightly under wraps? I pray you are not hoping to conceal it, because it simmers under the surface, no matter how much you try to suppress it. There's too much of it to keep on such short leash."
Harry sighs. "I do it because I have to. Believe me when I say that you wouldn't like to be present when I lose hold of my magic."
"Lose hold? What are you, a toddler? Adult wizards don't lose hold of their magic. Not unless there's a reason for it."
"As you so wisely pointed out, my magic is unlike most. Magic reacts to intent, to the will of the wizard, to their words and spells, right?"
"Of course."
"Well, mine is tied more to my emotions, so it responds to whichever feeling I'm feeling at the moment. That's why it's unpredictable — because it grows out of control too fast."
Severus' eyes narrow. "I don't imagine you mean happy emotions."
"In a way, I do. As you said, I can cast a Patronus with more ease than most, and that's because my magic reacts to my happiness more readily than it would if it weren't so connected to my emotions." Harry pauses. "Those are not the kind of magic that I'm concerned about, I'll admit."
"So, if you get angry...?"
"Or mad, or frustrated, or sad, or anything negative, really, the consequences are a lot grimmer, yes," Harry completes, nodding. "It took me years to perfect the control I have today."
Severus tilts his head in contemplation. "How powerful are you?"
"There's no measurements to magic, Severus."
"Is there any kind of magic you can't do?"
"No," Harry admits bitterly, wishing he could have a different answer to that question. It's disgusting, how his magic ends up adapting and transforming, how he left the war with kills to his name and a track record for unforgivables and even worse hexes and curses.
Severus is relentless. "What did you do before coming here?" He demands, leaning forward in his seat.
"I did many things." Too many, in fact. "But to answer your question, I was an Auror for a few years."
"That explains a lot."
"It does?"
"Yes," Severus says. "The terseness, the vigilance, the way you constantly scan the room, and the thick layer of glamour that I can sense clinging to your skin."
Harry winces. He never wanted to speak about his body. "I need the glamours. Trust me."
"Battle wounds?" The Slytherin guesses.
Harry barks out a laugh. "Yes." More accurately than Severus would ever know.
It's almost sweet, the way Severus' eyes soften a bit at that. "They hardly define who you are."
If only Harry knew how to deal with softness. "Thank you, Dr. Phill," he jokes. Deflects.
"Who?"
Harry waves a hand. "It's a joke, nevermind."
Severus pauses, then goes back to his line of questioning. "But why does it feel different?"
"How so?"
"It feels like it's buzzing. Like it's electric, somehow," he says, trying to explain. "Whenever you cast something near me, I feel the electricity of it touching my skin."
Harry stares. Well, that's a new way to describe his magic. "It doesn't feel like that to most people."
"No?"
"Definitely not," he assures, thinking of all the people who had acted scared whenever they so much as felt an ink of Harry's magic permeating the air. "It has been described to me that my magic feels cold, threatening, and oppressing, actually. Dark. People tend to shy away from it."
Severus obviously does not feel that way. "People assumed you were a dark wizard?"
"It's that so hard to believe?"
"Obviously."
Harry cannot help but feel a small burst of affection at the poignant tone. Severus looks so offended on his behalf. "Why?"
"I don't believe you could scare a single person if your life depended on it," he says with absolute certainty.
Oh, the irony.
"Just 'cause I don't scare you, Severus, does not mean I cannot scare anybody," Harry gently corrects. "Given the right circumstances, I assure you, I can be very frightening, indeed."
"Surely you jest. You're harmless."
"To you, absolutely. Not to everybody, though."
Severus stops, a calculating glint in his black eyes. "Have you ever harmed a person?"
Harry's mouth twitches, and he nearly flinches. "I have, yes."
Severus seems so shocked, as though his worlds perceptions are changing right there and then, and Harry cannot help himself.
"If you'd like to run now, I'll even give you a head-start," he jokes, biting his bottom lip to prevent a bubble of laughter from erupting from his chest.
If he has to dodge from a nasty stinging hex in response, well, Harry is totally fine with that.
"Give me that," Severus snaps, taking the kettle from Harry's hand without any ceremony and moving to serve them both, just like that. Effortlessly.
It's such a domestic scene — Severus moving around the table, pouring the tea exactly as Harry enjoys it, a scowl in place, marring his face, despite the overall sense of calm settled around the room. The feeling rising inside his chest is foreign and warm, and Harry wants to drown in it.
"You're staring," the Slytherin points out as he returns to his seat, raising an eyebrow and giving Harry a rather significant look.
The last thing Harry wants is to deny how he's feeling, though. "So I am," he says, agrees. Their eyes meet, and lighting strikes. "Thank you for the tea."
"You haven't even touched it yet."
It seems like a request, almost, so Harry promptly picks up his cup and takes a sip, unsurprised with how good it is. It only makes sense that Severus would know how to serve Harry's tea almost better than him.
"Should I ask how you know how I drink my tea?" Harry questions over the rim of his teacup. The warmth from the liquid is pleasant against his cold hands, so Harry keeps holding the porcelain, hoping it's not painted all over his face how protective he is of the damn cup of tea Severus poured him.
Severus' mouth curves upward, his eyes shining with poorly concealed satisfaction. "Seeing as lately I spend my nights here more often than not; it shouldn't come as a surprise that I've observed something as simple as how you take your tea, Harry." He pauses. "Do you not know how I drink mine?"
And it's a tricky question, both because he's very much aware that Harry has served him tea about a hundred times by now and because it has to be obvious how obsessed Harry is with knowing everything there is to know about Severus. At the top of his head, he could tell about fifty food-related quirks Severus had, without breaking a sweat, and if that's not a concerning level of observation for a professor to have with a student, then Harry's not sure what is.
Still, he chooses to go with the truth. It would be pointless to lie, in this case. "You know I do."
Almost as if he's reading Harry's thoughts, Severus cocks his head slightly to the side and asks, "How much do you know about me?"
"Not nearly enough."
The words slip out — thoughtless, carelessly — before Harry can get a hold of his loose tongue. It's a loaded confession, made worse by the serious tone in which he speaks it, without any teasing edge.
It's a slip.
Another one.
Severus' forehead scrunches in concentration, and it's clear that he's trying very hard to come up with the appropriate answer to the question, as always, unwilling to accept the possibility of not knowing something, and it's all Harry can do to keep himself from reaching out and smoothing the soft skin over with the trace of his fingertips.
Merlin, he's walking such a fine line these days.
He wants closeness, and when he gets that, Harry wants more and more, wants to keep erasing the lines separating them until it becomes hard to tell where one begins and the other ends.
It's a heady feeling, and more often than not, Harry ends up with a headache for his efforts to remain casual, distant. He wonders what Severus would do if he knew how much leeway Harry would give him if he dared to reach for it. Wonders just how far Severus would feel tempted to push, to blur the lines on the sand.
Danger, that's what Severus is. Danger of the highest degree and Harry is nearly begging to get burned.
Severus doesn't even bother to knock on the door anymore. Harry has already keyed him into his complex warding system, and even the snake guarding his door knows how much of a sucker Harry is for the young man, so there's never really anything stopping him from doing just that — walking inside Harry's private quarters, unannounced, whenever he desired.
By then, Harry's way past the point of caring.
"It's late," Harry says in lieu of a greeting, raising an eyebrow. It's less to do with propriety and everything to do with his understanding of Severus' personality.
Whereas Harry couldn't give a shit about proper boundaries, Severus still liked to maintain an image for others. He never drops for a casual visit at 3 a.m in the morning.
"Is he your boyfriend?" Severus asks acerbically.
Harry pauses, and his hand stills mid-air. He knows exactly who his supposed boyfriend is, and it's pathetic. Kingsley — newly graduated Auror, for fuck's sake — came to visit Dumbledore for some reason and they had bumped into each other outside the old man's office. It was far too tempting, and Harry never knew when to keep his distance.
They chatted for half an hour — if that.
There's absolutely no reason to believe they have anything going between them. None.
"That's an inappropriate question," he points out, inwardly wincing at how mild his tone is, delivering the sentence in a way that's much closer to an inquiry than an objection. God, it's like he's not even trying anymore to pretend, to act like a fucking responsible adult.
"That's not an answer."
Harry inclines his head, conceding the point. "He's not. My boyfriend, I mean."
"Good," Severus says. Satisfied.
Fucking satisfied — happy, even.
What a mess.
What a fucking mess.