Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
— Kindness (part 4)
by Naomi Shihab Nye
It's the day before Severus' seventeen birthday. Perhaps not the best day to finally have this conversation, but Harry has postponed it long enough and he's had enough. There are some things Severus has to know and to keep prolonging the inevitable would only make Harry second-guess himself over and over again.
"So, are you ready to be an adult?" He asks once they are seated in his living room. Serious, this time. "To make adult choices?"
Severus is equally as serious. "I believe I am, yes."
"There's something I need to speak to you about," Harry admits, already aware that his body language is giving his nervousness away.
"Speak, then." It's all Severus says in response.
"It's about the war... Actually, no, it's about blood purity. More than that, it's about the choices you have from now on." Harry pauses, wondering is he's screwing this up already. It's about so many things, really. "I know you have a skewed vision of muggles because of your father, but, Severus, being an abuser, an aggressor, someone who diminishes others to feel powerful, that's not a muggle thing. Wizards are just as capable, if not more, of taking advantage of those in a vulnerable position."
Severus doesn't even blink, he's so tense. They've never explicitly talked about Severus' house life before. Not like this. "I am aware, Harry," he drawls, bordering on offended.
Shit, this could go wrong so damn fast.
"What I'm trying to say is: be careful," Harry says, trying to inject the appropriate level of truthfulness to the words he's saying. "The Dark Mark is not something you can undo — if you decide to take the mark, you'll have to live with that choice for the rest of your life, no matter how much you may come to regret it."
Harry pauses. Breathes. "I knew a man much like you," he continues, starts again, thinking about the Severus Snape of his time. A dead man. "So much so that you might've been the same person. He made the wrong choice — I don't want that for you." He closes his eyes, feels his hands closing into fists. "Do you even know who the Dark Lord is? Voldemort? Tom Marvolo Riddle? Do you? Or are you blindly following a man who promises to give you power, money, and recognition even though he sees values only in himself and what he creates?"
"Do you?" The Slytherin asks, his voice full of edges. He's sitting at the edge of the couch, almost ready to spring up and leave. "What do you know about the Dark Lord?
Well. Way, way more than he ever wanted to — that's for sure.
"A great deal more than most people," Harry informs sardonically, opening his eyes and wishing it were different. "I can tell you everything you wish to know about him. Ask me. I want you to make an informed decision. Although I wish I could, I cannot choose for you."
His words only serve to confuse Severus even more, it seems, because he tilts his head and a line forms in between his eyebrows. "You can— Are you ever going to tell me about your past?"
About his past. The future. Another future entirely — one that doesn't even exists anymore, thanks to Harry's efforts. Could he tell that to Severus? Did he even want to go digging through that pile of crap?
"No. I don't think so," he says after a moment of consideration. "I would only serve to haunt you." Harry pauses, searches for the right way to say the things running around in his head. "I imagine you've already come up with a scenario close enough to the truth that it might as well be it. I was born in the middle of a war — one that people insisted that I should fight at all costs."
Black eyes narrow down on him, dissecting every single word he's speaking, searching for the hidden meaning behind them, and Harry wonders just how much Severus is actually picking up. How much he's giving away. Which dirty parts of his soul he's baring despite his best intentions.
He doesn't interrupt, though, so Harry carries on speaking. "I lead the resistance. Or I tried to, at least," he says, wishing his voice didn't sound so goddamn bitter. Fuck if thinking about the war didn't still hurt like hell still, though. "My mentor was the leader for many decades before he died, and after his passing, it was up to me to end it. To finish it, once and for all."
"Finish it?" Severus repeats, arching a brow. His voice is a touch incredulous — like he kind of believes that Harry will admit that it's all a joke at any moment now.
Too bad that he's not planning on doing anything of the sort.
"Yes, Severus. Finish it," Harry confirms. "And all I can tell you is that there is no glory. There's no great feat and no heroes and no everlasting fame to be had in the middle of a war. It's horrible, and every day I wished it would be over while at the same time dreading to see the crumbles that had remained of the world that I loved."
The words start to flow from his lips, and Harry starts to go off the script, speaking the shit that has been stuck in his throat for years, lodged in his windpipe for god knows how fucking long, only waiting for a chance to come out.
"Whatever it is that you think Riddle is giving you — whatever revenge you believe this will give you — give it up," Harry says, demands, asks, begs, tells. It's everything and nothing at all. It's the words of a desperate man who's willing to do whatever to get what he wants, what he needs. "Give up on this poisonous dream before it swallows you whole. Dark magic always comes with a price, and trust me when I say that this is not a price you'll be willing to pay."
And Severus starts to look unsettled by the words, as if caught by surprise by Harry vehemence, but he also looks scornful and perhaps a bit astonished — most likely at Harry's daring.
"Don't all things have a price in life?" He asks wryly, darkly. Jaded.
So damn jaded for someone so young.
And it triggers that part of Harry's instincts that seem to want to protect Severus at all costs. "I know that it has been bad," he says, his voice going soft. "In many ways, the wizarding world still has a lot to learn when it comes to dealing with half-bloods and muggle-borns, and unfortunately, I cannot change your past. You must learn to live with it, in your own time. However, this isn't because I'm weak or because I do not wish to help you, Severus, it's 'cause there's nothing to be done. However much your father has hurt you, and no matter how badly Dumbledore's permissiveness tastes, only you can help yourself, and I promise you that the answer is not written in a dark arts book."
"You can't promise me that. You can't promise me anything," Severus protests sharply. "You talk about the Dark Lord, and you talk about Dumbledore, any yet you explain none of it. How can you know any of this?"
Harry leans forward in his chair, wishing to close the distance between them, to get close, to reach out to the person he swore to take care of.
"Riddle sells lies," it's what he ends up saying, shaking his head. Sidestepping the question, the prod. Merlin, to this day, it still boggles Harry's mind how Riddle fucked over generations of witches and wizards. "He knows they are lies, but his anger blinds him as much as it does those around him. He's a half-blood, and he hates his parentage. Hates who birthed him, and how. This is his revenge, his masterplan. Don't think for a second that he means to help anyone else but himself."
Severus looks so severe, so serious, so grave. He's clearly hanging to every word Harry is uttering, listening with the kind of attention that's almost daunting.
And he's still there. He's still hearing, still giving Harry a chance to change his mind.
"It's all just a whole bunch of lies," Harry says, digging his nails into his thighs to try to keep himself from reaching out and touching. Soothing. "It's your call, though. It will always be your choice. I will not inform Dumbledore; I will not warn the Ministry, I won't move a finger. You gotta decide for yourself, Severus."
Their eyes are locked together, and they are barely breathing, and Harry wonders if Severus is secretly a Legilimens already, but then mentally shakes his head. No, he knows better. Harry knows precisely who taught Severus Legilimency and who later taught him Occlumency — both moments are still far from arriving.
And if Harry has anything to say about it — which he insists on having — then they never arrive.
The last thing Severus needs is to have people poking into his head only to teach him how to poke at others'.
"Know this, though: The second that Tom brands you as his, you are beyond my help. I won't leave, and I won't let you got through it alone, but there won't be a thing I can do beyond that," Harry says, and the words burn in his tongue. It's the truth, after all. He can do many things, but undo Tom's mark isn't one of them. "If you choose to be his, you'll have to live with the consequences."
Finally, after a long moment of silence, Severus presses his lips together in a nervous gesture, blinking fast. "Don't we all?" He questions simply. Only three words.
Three small words, but it's enough. Harry sees the cynicism, the doubts, the fears, the dozens of unanswered questions swimming in his gorgeous eyes, and it breaks another piece of Harry's already torn up heart.
He's trying so damn hard to fix up Severus' life, to be there, to get to know him, to be a part of the Slytherin's days, but still… There's so much shit hidden underneath that are yet to come up between them, so many secrets they are both keeping from the other.
Harry cannot help but wonder if it will all come back to bite him in the arse when he least expects it.
With their combined lack of luck, it seems foolish to expect anything else.
In the end, Severus' birthday comes and goes without much fanfare, which is precisely how the Slytherin had wanted it to go, so Harry tries not to feel too bad about it, even though there's some persistent feeling — which he refuses to name — clawing at his insides demanding for more.
It's one birthday, Harry reasons with his own damn mind. There will be others — many others, if he has any say in the matter. Forcing the issue now would only upset Severus on the last day of the year he should be bothered by Harry's issues.
So, yeah, the day passes as though it's just another random day of the week, with classes and meals and students and grades and the whole list of shit that happens every day at Hogwarts.
With only one exception, however. Just one. A minor one, honestly.
Curfew.
The curfew doesn't exist for Severus on that monday night. Instead, he goes to Harry's room and they spend time together, doing nothing, really. Severus reads one of the more obscure books on defence from Harry's collection, lazily sitting on the couch, and Harry answers his questions on the better ways to cast the spells. That's it.
There's no fuzz, no sentiment, no declarations, nothing. Just a soft-spoken conversation, and pages being turned, and waves of hands, and cups upon cups of hot tea.
It's closer to dawn when Severus gets up and announces he's going back to his dormitory to shower and catch a couple of hours of sleep. Harry just nods, agreeing, before all but shoving his present into the Slytherin's surprised hands, refusing to hear a word about it and waving away any attempts of demonstrations of gratitude or appreciation.
It's a bracelet. A leather and gold bracelet, handwoven into the most beautiful, delicate lattice. Small and heavy. Simple and functional. Encrusted with enough protective spells to save his life, should it come to it. Carrying enough of Harry's magic to almost have a presence of its own.
It's so significant and obvious and meaningful that Harry cannot bear to be present when Severus opens it. He doesn't want to know, to see what the reaction will be.
It comes as a surprise, then, when Severus shows up the next day in class subtly wearing it around his right wrist. His wand hand. It comes as even more of a surprise when Severus never bothers to take it off again.
"You know, you can scream if you want to," Harry finally says.
Severus stops pacing. "What?"
"Well, you've been rambling about James Potter for about half an hour, all wound up and shit, going on and on about how he threw a tantrum about his father's letter," Harry explains, shrugging. "It seems to me that the problem is not that he had a meltdown, but that you can't have one too." He gestures to the free space separating them. "Go on, then."
"I don't need you to mock me—"
"I'm doing nothing of the sort. You don't feel like you have a space to let loose — well, you're wrong. If you want to scream, and shout, and break stuff, be my guest," Harry says calmly, taking his time to enunciate the words carefully to show he's quite serious. "I'll even watch; if you'd prefer."
Severus' eyes widen and his cheek begins to turn a dark shade of red. Embarrassment pours out of him in waves, as though he cannot believe that Harry is talking so normally about it — like it should be a taboo or something.
"I. You can't possibly mean that." He frowns, protests. "I don't want to behave like a toddler."
"It seems to me that you do, though." Harry sighs when the boy scowls harder. "Honestly, Severus, this is unnecessary. I don't care if you want to be a brat for a day. You hold yourself to impossible standards — no one is in control 24/7."
"I am."
"No, you pretend you are. Very well, I'll give you that — but it's still a façade, nonetheless." Harry grins, predatory. "Why don't you give it a try? Maybe recklessness will taste sweeter than you may think."
Severus' only response is to storm out of the room, slamming the door behind him in quite a dramatic way, and Harry can only smile fondly. If Severus thinks desire wasn't etched on every line of his line before he left, then he's sadly mistaken.
They'll get there.
Without even bothering to ask for permission beforehand, Severus hops onto the countertop, letting his legs swing in the air, and Harry has to bit the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from stretching across his face. That's the exact sort of casual confidence that Severus never had with him the year before — the freedom to act as he pleased, unguarded.
Eager not to draw attention to it, Harry asks, "How are your classes?"
"Boring," Severus admits with a shrug. "Time-consuming, yeah, but boring still. It would've been easier if I hadn't decided to take eleven N.E.W.T.S. next year."
"I still don't get why you chose to do so many. Honestly, you could have picked the five you'll need for your mastery and spent the rest of the time dedicating yourself to independent studies." With me, Harry doesn't add, but it's heavily implied.
A dark look crosses the boy's faces quickly. "You know why," he says, avoiding Harry's eyes.
"You have nothing to prove, Severus. Absolutely nothing."
"I'll always have everything to prove to the students here."
They don't matter, Harry wants to say. I think you're amazing, incredible.
But he understands how deeply Severus was — is still — affected by the low opinions his peers have of him, especially when it comes to the Marauders. He needs to prove that he's better than them, smarter in every sense, and Harry cannot resent him for it. If anything, he's sad that Severus can't see how much he's losing by giving others such amount of power over him when it's unnecessary.
"Okay. And how about Potions? Better than last week?"
"This castle is filled with imbeciles," Severus sort of mumbles under his breath, still upset by the disaster that his Potions lesson had been.
Harry smiles, indulgent. "You're a prodigy, Severus. It would be unfair to judge others by your personal standard."
"A prodigy," he repeats, testing the word, wondering. He raises his head and meets Harry's eyes. "Were you a prodigy at my age?"
"Me?" Harry asks, mentally considering the question. "I suppose some might've said that, yes. Probably more of a weird combination of dumb luck and extreme circumstances, in my case."
Severus raises a brow. "Should I ask?"
Harry shakes his head. "Let's just say I have a tendency to draw crazy people in," he explains, knowing it's not much of an explanation at all.
"I'm undecided whether to be insulted or concerned," Severus says, his voice heavy with sarcasm and Harry cannot help himself.
He reaches forward to ruffle the Slytherin's hair, ignoring the indignant noise of protest and the hex building in those severe lips. "You're too young to be so cranky, Severus," he jokes, chuckling at the way he's being glared at. "Anyway, you don't give yourself enough credit. Potions is an incredibly tough field — to navigate through it at such a young age… it's impressive, to say the least."
"Other students brew the same potions as I do." It's what he says, scooching back to step out of Harry immediate reach.
"Don't be obtuse, I know you better than that. Yes, they may be in the same class as you, trying to create the same potions, but let's not pretend they know the subject as you do. To understand the theory behind the creation process of it is an impressive feat, no doubt."
"Or perhaps I'm simply less inclined to delusions of grandeur than Gryffindors."
"Oh, don't start with that. Slytherins basically created the concept of personal delusion. Gryffindors may believe in luck and facing your problems head-first, but Slytherins?" Harry says, rolling his eyes. Even after all these years he still can't quite figure out the headspace of most Slytherin students. "They are too busy believing they know more than enough to fix whatever it is on their own."
Clearly, it's not the right thing to say. Severus loses some of his good mood and his dark eyes go even darker with barely concealed anger.
"Slytherins know that, in the end, everyone is out for themselves," he spats out, as though Harry should've known that. And maybe he should have. "It's survival."
And, yeah, Harry should've known that.
It's past midnight when he receives a summon to the Headmaster's office. Instantly, Harry's on his feet, grabbing a handful of floo powder and jumping into the fireplace. At this hour, nothing good could be waiting for him on the other side.
What Harry hadn't expected, however, was to see Dumbledore watching as Minerva and Slughorn scream at with each other, gesturing wildly to the two bloodied boys sitting on the cold floor, who were too busy glaring daggers at each other to be bothered.
Severus and James Potter.
Of course.
For fuck's sake.
Harry clears his throat loudly, and suddenly everyone has their eyes on him.
Harry stares at Severus. His broken nose, his torn robes. Fire ignites. "Get up," he orders through gritted teeth. He's trying to get a hold of his temper, but it's not working.
"Harry, I," Severus starts, obviously embarrassed to be caught in such a position, but Harry is past the point of listening.
"Don't. We'll discuss this later." Harry rubs the bridge of his nose. "I won't ask again. Get up, both of you."
"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore greets, far too happily in face of the situation. "Thank you for responding to my call so fast. Lemon drops?"
"It's almost one in the morning, Albus," Harry deadpans, ignoring the candy. Albus' eyes twinkle in response, amused. Harry doesn't have time for pleasantries, though. "What happened here?"
"A rather ugly fight, I'm afraid. Both boys were caught past curfew by Minerva near the entrance to the Slytherin's common room," Albus explains, gesturing to the two Professors by his side.
"Fighting!" Minerva adds, pursing her lips. "Screaming at each other, too. Probably waking up all the portraits in the castle with their actions, too."
"As Albus pointed out, dear Minerva," Slughorn argues. "They were caught near the Slytherin common rooms. What could a Gryffindor student be doing in dungeons at such time?"
"Indeed," Harry drawls, looking at the boys, scanning their wounds. How he wants to wipe Severus' face clean of all that mess. "And my presence is required for what reason? I imagine those two have a somewhat... extensive track-record of breaking school rules?"
Albus — the insufferable fool — has the gall to give him a small smile. "I thought a neutral third party might prove to be helpful in this situation," he explains, like a fucking asshole. As though he doesn't know that Harry is anything but completely biased. "As you've pointed out, Mr. Potter and Mr. Snape have an extensive history of transgressions."
Harry draws a deep breath and promises to himself that he will not, under any circumstances, lose it in the Headmaster's office.
"Very well," he says, turning to face Severus. Harry sits down on a random chair and beckons the boy with his fingers. "You, come here," he orders, patting the chair beside him and waiting until Severus wordlessly sits down on it before turning to James. "You. Speak. What were you doing in the dungeons?"
Not waiting for him to comply, or even bothering to face the kid, Harry begins to examine Severus' face, wordlessly vanishing the blood and pressing around his nose the check the wound.
It's definitely broken, but it's a clean break — easy to fix. A mild episkey and the bone snaps back into place.
Severus hisses in pain, and Harry frowns.
"That's what you get for getting in the middle of a fistfight," he admonishes with a pointed look. "You know better than that. Did you not have your wand on you?"
"I did," Severus whispers, lowering his eyes. He looks tense, frustrated.
"Is there a reason why you failed to use it?"
A pause.
"I—"
"He bloody well tried!" James interrupts, deciding to speak his mind. "Would've hexed me if I—" The boy seems to catch himself mid-sentence, snapping his mouth closed and his eyes going wide and frightened.
Harry goes still. "What?"
"Nothing, Sir."
But there's a thought nagging at the back of Harry's mind, and he can't let it go. "Severus, where's your wand?" He asks, demands.
"Potter has it." Three words. Only three words and Harry loses his senses.
"James Charles Potter!" Minerva calls, outraged.
Without a pause, Harry summons it from inside James' robes, watching as the familiar wand flies into his waiting hand. His fingers curl around the wood, gripping it a lot harder than he ought to.
Harry hands it over to its owner and stands. Severus mirrors his movements, opening his mouth as though he wants to say something.
The room starts to feel small, restrictive. Magic runs through Harry's veins.
Hot. Burning.
Harry steps in front of James. "Empty your pockets," he orders.
"Maybe that's—" Slughorn tries, but Harry ignores it. Ignores them all.
There must be an ouch of sense left in the boy because James does as he's ordered, handing over a lot of shit, which Harry casts aside without another look, holding only the empty piece of folded parchment in his hands.
He waves his hand over it, examines it, but it's for show. He knows precisely what he has in his hands.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he says, spits, watching as the map comes to life.
"You— you. That is. Wh—how?" James gapes.
"Mr. Potter, I'm your Professor," Harry grits, barely keeping it together. Merlin, this stupid kid. Harry wants to skin him. "A former Auror and a Curse Breaker. I would like to believe any magic performed by a group of sixth-years is not beyond me. Wouldn't you agree?"
James nods, in a trance. "Of course," he agrees.
"Stealing another wizard wand is a grave offence, Mr. Potter," Harry tells him, his voice going low and threatening. Absolutely inappropriate, given the circumstances. "Be thankful I'm not the Headmaster of this school, or you would be expelled for your transgressions."
And he would, too. Enough is enough.
"Harry…" Severus tries from behind him, touching his back.
Harry flinches. He flinches, and there's no way anyone missed it. God, what a fucking night. Harry is so messed up, so screwed up beyond belief. How else could he stand there, barely restraining himself, wishing he could hex his own student to an inch of his life for daring to harm Severus. For thinking he can bully him without consequences.
It's ridiculous.
Harry should have more control than this. Needs to get a grip before he becomes a threat to others.
"Albus," Harry says, shaking his head, facing the Headmaster and showing all of his displeasure, his disapproval. He throws the map on the man's table, open for them all to see what it is. "This is unacceptable. Your favouritism towards Gryffindors needs to have a limit. You can't keep telling yourself that this is some sort of schoolboy rivalry any longer."
With that, Harry turns and leaves.
Opens the door and gets the hell out of that room, ignoring everyone inside it. Ignoring Severus' eyes burning holes into his back. Ignoring how non-professional his behaviour was. Ignoring how he didn't help, at all, in the end. Ignoring everything.
Harry focuses on getting control of his magic. He breathes and nearly runs to his bedroom and drinks whiskey straight from the fucking bottle, swallowing the liquid as though it is a medicine, a cure.
It takes him a while to notice his fingers are stained with Severus' blood.
It takes him even longer to clean it.
A lot longer.
Harry tilts his head to catch the title of Severus' tome.
Moste Potente Potions.
Nice. Seems like a light, family book.
"A little recreational reading before bed?" Harry teases, sitting on his usual chair.
Severus hums without taking his eyes off the book, clearly too engrossed in whatever it is that he's reading to pay attention to anything else. Harry smiles, charmed despite his better senses by the hyper-focus — it reminds him so damn much of Hermione. Merlin, he misses her like crazy.
Harry tenses. "It's getting late, Severus. Shouldn't you be getting to bed?"
Severus blinks, raising his head slowly. It's so endearing, the way he seems to almost come back to his body, as though he had been too busy floating away in Potions ingredients and formulas. "I. What time is it?"
"Ten minutes to your curfew," Harry informs, relaxing once more. It wouldn't do to get lost in the past, anyway.
"Already?" Severus complains, eyes quickly shifting back and forth between the door and the open book in his lap. "That can't be. I just sat here a few minutes ago."
"Pretty sure it's been a couple of hours, at least."
Severus pauses, then turns his eyes to Harry, an almost guilty expression on his face. "I just— I gotta— can I just finish the chapter? It's only—" He checks, quickly counting the pages. The many pages left. "—hmm… thirty-three pages?"
Harry should at least try to be a responsible adult, right?
"Severus…" He says, trying to come up with a good argument to convince Severus to go to bed but nothing comes to mind.
Honestly, Harry doesn't give a shit. Severus is not a child anymore — he's responsible and a fucking amazing student. There's no reason for him to have a curfew in the first place. Surely he's old enough to take care of his own bedtime without the Hogwarts staff to reinforce it.
However, Harry's still part of the said staff and, as such, should at least try to uphold the rules of the institution, right? Never mind his personal opinions on the subject.
Only Severus knows Harry by then, and he easily smells weakness in the air.
"If I go now, I'll only pick another book to read in my bed," he reasons with an eager expression. "You said I can't take this one to my dormitory. I'm being considerate of your rules."
Harry can't help but be amused. "Is that so? How thoughtful of you."
He nods in agreement, the little shit. "I really am."
"I should send you to bed," Harry says, but it's as good as giving up and they both know it.
"I can't see why."
"Oh, don't get clever with me, Severus."
"I have no idea what you mean."
By then, they are both smiling at each other, knowing that the argument is over and Severus has won. It was the most probable result from the start, anyway.
"Whatever," Harry mumbles, summoning a glass of whiskey and taking a sip. "Today's youth just doesn't respect their elders anymore. It's quite sad, really. No respect whatsoever. I fear for our world. Truly."
"Since when did you become a bitter, old man?" Severus questions, a brow raised. He's pressing his lips together to repress a smile, though, so Harry forgives the insult.
"Since you stopped even pretending to respect me, Severus," Harry faux complains, groaning dramatically. "When was that, anyway? I'm pretty sure you used to look at me with admiration, with longing, with awe, with—"
"Please stop sharing your delusions out loud, Harry," Severus cuts, voice dry as the desert. His mouth is twitching, barely staying down. "It's an embarrassment for all of us."
"You see?" Harry groans, pointing at him. "There, right there! You used to be so sweet. Tsk, tsk. I guess hormones corrupt even the sweetest of kids."
Finally, Severus laughs. His eyes sparkle with mirth and he laughs — a full belly laugh, throwing his head back and exposing his pale neck. His flawless, unmarked neck.
"I do believe I'm far too old to blame hormones changes for my actions," he says once he's calmed down a bit. "I'm afraid I must take full responsibility for any loss of— what was it that you said? Awe?"
"You truly are a horrible student," Harry proclaims, shaking his head.
Severus grins teasingly. "Me? I've been told I'm a delight."
"Lies. Lies, I say!" Harry declares, getting up from his chair. "I'm going to take a shower, demon spawn. Do refrain from settling my room on fire during my absence."
"I make no promises," Severus teases, eyes already drifting back to his book. He's still smiling, though, clearly entertained by the whole exchange and Harry cannot help but feel a bounce to his step as he heads to the shower.
God, he's in so deep already.
Slipping, that's what he is. Slipping so goddamn fast for Severus.
.
Hours later, Harry finds Severus fast asleep, snoring softly on his couch, and somehow still holding that damn book in his hands. He looks so relaxed and peaceful — vulnerable in a way he never permits himself to be while awake. It's a good look on him, Harry decides.
As before, there's a proper response to the situation — one which Harry should do. As before, he promptly ignores it. Instead, he grabs a quilt and tucks Severus, gently prying the book from his hands and setting it on the table behind him. Then, for good measure, Harry casts about seven protective barrier spells around Severus' sleeping form, watching as his magic encases him in a vigilant bubble.
After making sure that nothing will disturb him, Harry kills all the lights and goes to bed. He's done enough for one day.
"This is horrible," Severus says, picking up the mug Harry's using and staring at it with undisguised disgust. It's chipped and quite the awful shade of yellow, to be honest. "Did someone sell you this? Honestly, Harry, I hope you didn't spend much money on this truly horrendous piece of crap. "
"I didn't. And for the record, I don't measure the value of the things that I own by how much they cost," Harry corrects. "This was given to me by a dear friend, who is no longer around; therefore, it's priceless — its value is immeasurable to me, regardless of its price."
"Oh." Severus pauses, considering, putting the mug down. "So if I gave you…"
"You don't have to give me anything. Trust me; you give me plenty with your presence alone." Harry places his hand on Severus' shoulder, giving a light squeeze. "But yeah, of course, if you truly desire to give me something, then I'll treasure it. Honestly Severus, how vain do you believe me to be?"
"In my experience, men who were born into money place little value in mundane things. In this case, though It was not a judge of your character alone; I simply believed you to be above such things as trinkets."
"Above such—You know what? Perhaps it is time that we had this conversation. I can no longer postpone it, no matter how much I want to. Please, sit down." Harry watches the Slytherin obey, sitting down on the chair behind him. "Severus, would you like to listen to my story?"
His brows raise in protest. "Do not feel obliged—"
"I feel nothing of the sort. I asked you a question; please, answer it."
"If you'd like to tell me, I'd like nothing more than to hear it." And he sounds sincere.
"Very well," Harry starts, sitting down as well and getting comfortable in his place. "Let me start by disbanding this notion you have that I was born into money. I was not. I was raised by muggles who hated me and, more importantly, hated magic, above all else. My parents died when I was very young — a baby still. Their will was disregarded, and I was sent to live with my mother's sister — left at her doorstep in the middle of the night, with little more than the clothes on my body and a short letter explaining who I was. I very much lived as a muggle for the first eleven years of my life, without a single clue as to who I was and what powers I had inside of me."
"As a muggle?" Severus questions, incredulous. "Did you not have bouts of accidental magic?"
"I did, of course, as do most children, but it's easy to sweep things under the rug when it's convenient, and at the time I was hardly at a place where I could speak to anyone about it. I ignored it; my uncle and aunt hated it, punished me whenever it happened, even though I had no idea why anything had happened in the first place."
There's a knowing glint in Severus' eyes even as he asks: "Punished you?"
"You don't need to tiptoe around it; I had time to make peace with my past. Yeah, they were abusive. They never hit me, if that's what you're asking, but they were plenty abusive verbally. They had their means to make me suffer for being what I was, what I am."
"Is that why you— do you know— my father…"
"I do know about your father. You know that. In a way, we also share that. What I do know, however, is very little, I imagine, compared to what you suffer at home. Why didn't you tell someone?"
Severus stares, slightly judgmental. "Did you?"
"No. I didn't have anyone to tell, though. I didn't have friends or other adults I felt connected to, and everyone else around me seemed aware of what was happening and content to let it carry on. In many ways, I thought that was how it should be. I hope you know differently."
"I'm already so different." Severus sighs, as if frustrated by Harry's inability to understand that without needing words. "A half-blood, a Slytherin, without a galleon to my name. It seemed shameful to purposely add another taint to my already black background."
"So you'd rather suffer in silence?"
"Yes," Severus answers, not bothering to pretend otherwise.
"There's nothing wrong with being a half-blood, or a Slytherin, or poor. They're just titles, Severus. I have it on good opinion that when stripped bare, none of that matters a single bit. We're all just trying to make the best we can with what we have."
"That's the Gryffindor idealism speaking for you," he chides gently. "No one can escape the grips of society."
"Your life is not a plaything. You're not a piece in a chessboard, and the things that happen in your life are not meaningless tragedies to be left forgotten. Do not diminish yourself by trying to become someone else. Someone who's seemingly more suited to play the high society game. You're worth more than that."
"For Circe's sake, don't pretend to delude yourself or me with this pointless pep talk," Severus says, exasperation sitting heavy on his tongue, and it looks like he's keeping himself from rolling his eyes by mere force of will. "I do not require a charming prince to save me from my dark, tragic past. I'll deal with my father exactly as I have dealt with all my other problems."
"By ignoring them?"
"By thriving despite them," The Slytherin corrects. "I shall not allow my father to dictate how my life will be like, and that will have to suffice as a big enough, metaphorical flip off."
"And yet. You shouldn't have to put up with it; you should have space and resources to thrive in peace, not like this."
"As I said, things are more complicated than that."
"I'm aware." Harry pauses, trying to keeping the words from leaving his lips, knowing it isn't a good idea to offer something like that all of a sudden, but it's useless. He wants it. Harry can barely pretend to think about it before opening his mouth and pleading. "Stay with me."
Severus gapes. "Have you lost the last of your grip on your sanity?"
"Do I strike you as an insane person? Wait, don't answer that. What I mean is: you don't have to go back to them, if you don't wish to. I could sign the papers and list myself as your magical guardian, and thus you'd be permitted to stay right here, where you are."
"Are you suggesting that I disappear and leave my father?"
"Yes. Basically, yes. I want to remove you from that environment as soon as possible." Harry stares, serious as he can be. "The school year will be over pretty soon, and the last thing I want is for you to spend the whole summer alone with your father."
Severus looks unbalanced, shaken by the blunt words. "I need to think about it," he says weakly. "I can't simply—"
"Of course," Harry agrees. "Take as long as you wish, Severus. It's your life — your decision. Just… I hope you know I'll make anything happen for you to be safe. Anything."
There's a long pause after his words, and after a few minutes, Harry begins to wonder if he had finally crossed a line with Severus. Danced over a limit the Slytherin had without knowing about it. However, before he can do something foolish like rushing to take the words back, Severus speaks.
"It's not my safety I'm concerned about," he says gravely, a look of old pain slowly crawling over his face.
And Harry is quite ashamed to admit, but it takes him much too long to understand what Severus meant with those words.
Harry stares at his reflexion in the mirror, studying his figure with the kind of intense perusal he usually avoids at all costs, for fear of what he might stumble upon hidden in the edges of his battle-hardened body. Now, however, Harry purposely goes against this ingrained instinct and takes his time going over every patch of skin, every bulge of muscle, every protuberant bone and harsh line.
Most of all, though, Harry's eyes linger on numerous the scars scattered all along his body, painting a brutal trail of his near-death experiences. It's useless to deny; they mar Harry's figure.
Harry had never considered himself to be a cute child, an attractive teenager, or even a handsome man. With his shaggy, unruly hair, his pasty white skin, the dark trails of black hair running down his limbs shining in deep contrast, the stretch marks on his arms and back from his Aurors days where he had been forced to build layers and layers of muscle nearly overnight… none of it fit together to form a cohesive picture, something delightful to stare at.
No, Harry knows just how average he already would've been had his life been ordinary since birth. However, what seals the deal, knocks the last nail in the coffin, is the collection of scars he has — so spread out across his body, indeed, that not even the most conservative of robes stand a chance at keeping them all out of sight.
By now, Harry's used to wearing a glamour 24/7, and it's not something he's ashamed of, necessarily. Harry used his body as a tool for many years — it was bound to come with a steep price. Which begs the question: why is he now, at twenty-eight, as a fully grown fucking adult, frowning at his image in the mirror, like an insecure teenage girl?
It's not like Severus Snape is any more of a charming prince at seventeen than he had been at thirty-eight, and he hardly seems the type to search for a pretty thing to hang upon his arm, so why, goddammit, is Harry wasting his time in this ridiculous self-flagellating exercise?
Maybe, his treacherous mind whispers, it's because you are an old, war-veteran, with more triggers than happy memories, who cannot give Severus a third of what any other student his age can.
He may not be rich, well-kept, or handsome in his own right, but it's clear to anyone who might pay attention that Severus is a prodigy, a Potions genius who only has to choose the right path to lead whichever life he pleases.
"Fuck!" Harry curses, punching the mirror in a fit of anger with all his strength. The glass shatters beneath his hand, cascading down to the floor in big, sharp chunks, and sliding everywhere.
Tiny pieces are embedded in his hand, sunken deep into his knuckles and fingers, and pain is jolting up his arm, and the mirror is broken, and blood is dripping into the floor, and, shit, his magic is spinning out of control. It responds to his pain, his confusion, his pain, and spreads all over his body, sending deep, blue sparks everywhere, sizzling, burning.
"Get your shit together, Potter," Harry murmurs under his breath in a tone that sounds suspiciously like a scorning drawl from a person who doesn't even exist anymore. The books fall from their selves, and his teacup is sent flying across the room where it smashes against the opposite wall, leaving a trail of cold tea along its trajectory. "You're losing it."
And he is. Harry's losing it.
Harry grabs the bottle of whisky by the neck and eyes it, watching the amber liquid moving inside, wondering if he should pretend he wasn't about to drink all of it. If maybe he should grab a glass and pour himself a reasonable amount, perhaps even put a couple of ice cubes with the fucking liquor.
He should, Harry thinks distantly, already aware that he won't do any of that. He should, though. At least to try to preserve a lick of his dignity — if such a thing even existed anymore.
It's a friday night.
Harry is a twenty-eight-year-old man, sitting alone in his living room, black staring at a bottle of booze, mentally arguing with himself about whether he should or not bother to keep pretences of the shreds of his sanity. And it's a friday night, on top of that.
Merlin. Harry hates fridays, and weekends, and holidays, and any day, really, where people pretended to be happier, more resolved, more involved than normal. Hates the days where his loneliness appears more sharply in the mirror of his bathroom.
Fuck it, Harry decides, twisting the cap of the bottle off and swallowing as much as he can at once, barely tasting anything past the bitter taste of frustration sitting on his tongue. He'll drink this whole damn thing, and maybe he'll open a new bottle as well and toss that down too. It doesn't matter.
He's in the past. Harry' teaching at Hogwarts. Goddammit, he's a fucking teacher. He's teaching his own father, his mother, his godfather, every single person who will matter to baby Harry Potter in a few years. And, somehow, he's supposed to do that without showing a flick of emotions towards them, without showing his pile of regrets and sorrows and questions he has, all weighing down on his chest.
Harry needs to be Harry Peverell — someone who doesn't give a shit about Potters, and Blacks, and Lupins, and Evans, and Pettigrew. God, Harry needs to keep his wits together and not slip and kill the damn rat one day as he walks across the castle.
It doesn't sound feasible. It doesn't seem possible — not when he desperately wants to scream at his father, and hug his mother, and smile at Remus, and fall to his knees in front of Sirius and beg for forgiveness, for redemption, for love, for a new chance, for the opportunity to get to know the man who once represented everything Harry had ever wanted in relation to family.
So Harry drinks. He throws his head back, and swallows past the lump in his throat, and hopes to Merlin that the weekend passes in a fast sort of haze so he can go back to his classroom and do what he does. He holds the heavy bottle, and shakes the expensive liquid, and fills his mouth until it overflows. Until there's whisky trailing down his chin, his neck, his chest.
It's friday night, and Harry's alone.
It's a fucking friday night and Severus doesn't bother to visit Harry, to show up for a quick talk, to stroll inside to steal a book, to throw the door open and pry the bottle from Harry's cold fingers.
No, of course not. That would be ridiculous, 'cause Harry is twenty-eight, and he's a teacher, an adult, a former Auror, for Christ's sake, and he's the one who's supposed to have his shit figured out.
Not a troubled teenager.
Not Severus Snape.
Harry smiles bitterly at the carpet. That's right, he thinks. That's the reason he travelled back into the past in the first place, wasn't it? Because people told him that he was meant to be a symbol, a hero, a leader, a vague mould for society to fill up with whatever served them, and he isn't. He never was.
Harry is only a fucked-up mess. Christ, he's just a man. Just… one man.
A man who's far too busy drinking his liquor to chase after the student he's falling in love with.
Author's Note: *grins* Progress? Yes?
Gosh, I'm so excited for the next chapter! They are such fluffy balls of confusion and unresolved tension. I love it! lol.
Anyway, I know that some of you guys think that this is progressing rather quickly, so I wanted to address the issue. There are two major points to think about:
1) Time is passing in between each scene. I'm not showing y'all every interaction Harry has in the past — just the ones I believe are more relevant to the plot and the construction of the relationship between Severus and Harry. So, yeah, as you may have noticed in this chapter, the sixth year is nearly over and summer is about to begin.
2) As I explained in the first chapter, this story was my Camp Nano project this year, and I wrote the vast majority of it in a single month. Yes, I have continued to add stuff afterwards and it has turned out to be much longer than what I had previously intended, but, nevertheless, it is still a somewhat 'short' fic. I have divided it into six chapters, and I still plan to end it there. I never meant for this story to be a huge, in-depth piece showing all their lives.
Anyways, this is just to clarify a few things. I have been considering writing an epilogue — something soft and peaceful to wrap this entire thing together. Maybe 'cause I want to, maybe 'cause I still think Severus deserved his own happy life after the war. So, yeah, this is where I'm at, with this fic.
That's it. I'm done with my rant, for now. lol.
Please, don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you thought of this chapter and everything that happened. I love hearing opinions about the stuff I write. Love you guys. Xoxo.