Author's Note: Guess who isn't dead? Yep, me.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
— Kindness (part 5)
by Naomi Shihab Nye
"You should go. You don't wanna be caught out after curfew."
Severus studies him. Slowly. So, so slowly. "You could write me a pass."
"I could," Harry agrees, saying nothing more. It's late, and they're alone, and he wants to see how far Severus will go.
Severus pauses, obviously waiting for Harry to either offer to write one or to reject the idea entirely, but when neither happens, black eyes narrow in concentration. It's clear that Severus has read the mirth and curiosity dancing in Harry's own eyes.
"Will you?" He asks tentatively, tilting his head ever so slightly.
That's not what Harry wants, though.
"I don't know. Should I?" He teases, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
It's a mistake. The whole thing is a mistake because Harry has no idea where he's stepping or who he's dealing with. In his mind, it is but a harmless joke, teasing banter, a curiosity he wants to sate, but Slytherins are calculating and when they play, they play to win. Unlike Gryffindors, they have no trouble sidestepping their pride to get what they want — if it's to obtain a desirable goal, they can get filthy-dirt without a single blink.
And Severus Snape is a Slytherin through and through.
Seventeen he may be, but he's also much smarter than Harry and less afraid to use his powers for evil.
Severus moves. He nearly floats until he's entering Harry's personal space and their eyes are locked and their magic meets all around them and the air feels saturated with more than oxygen and silence. Harry shivers before he can control it, his arms falling to his side.
Wicked eyes hold his captive.
Harry regrets everything.
"Harry," Severus purrs — fucking purrs — dropping his voice to something close to whisper. Intimate. Private. "Do you know what time is it?"
Time? Harry is quickly losing track of where he is, nevermind the time. He shakes his head, feeling his eyes drying — isn't he blinking? Why isn't he blinking?
"It's late," Severus informs, breathing the words into Harry's face. "Way past my curfew, I'm afraid. If another member of the staff catches me wandering around so late, I'll have to have to serve detention. Which would be unfortunate."
Harry wants to kiss him. To grab Severus' face in between his hands and smash their lips together and kiss him until they both run out of breath and are left panting, gasping for more. At the same time, he needs Severus to keep going. To speak. To keep speaking. To never shut up.
That voice — so close, so low, so fucking deep. Harry thinks he could come from the sound of it alone. Without a single touch. Like a fucking teenager.
"Do you know why?" Severus keeps going, correctly assuming that Harry is in no condition to participate in the conversation at that point. "If I have to serve detention somewhere else, I won't be able to be here. It would be a shame if I couldn't come here tomorrow because of something like detention, wouldn't it? To practice, to read. To see you."
At the last words, Harry freezes. God, he's so gone on this man, it's not even funny anymore. Like a complete idiot, he's pathetically wrapped around Severus' little finger. He doesn't want anyone else disturbing their time together — their private hours, at night, when they hang on Harry's private rooms and do their thing without others to interrupt.
It turns out, Harry is protective of their time together. Considers it an almost sacred part of his days, he realizes. And therefore, he's reluctant to allow anyone to disturb it, to keep Severus from joining him for whatever reason — even if it is for detention. Even if it is for anything.
Harry wants to hoard Severus all to himself.
Selfishly.
Greedily.
Suddenly, a pass doesn't seem enough. It doesn't guarantee anything.
"I'll take you," he says, informs. His voice is raspy. "I'll walk you to your rooms."
Severus blinks, taken back by the offer, by Harry's voice, by the change in the atmosphere. He loses his seductive air and seems confused, instead. Almost hesitant.
"You don't need to," he assures, but he's still so damn close, their chests nearly touching, and Harry is about to do something foolish, so he interrupts.
"I know. I want to. It's better than a piece of paper, anyway," Harry admits. And he can't resist the urge to reach and tuck a strand of Severus' hair behind his ear, allowing the touch to linger for a lot longer than was proper between a teacher and a student. "Let me walk you back, alright?"
This time, Severus is who seems stunned still by the situation. It takes him a minute to nod in agreement, and he only starts to walk when Harry places a hand on his back and leads him outside.
For the rest of the way, they are both silent. Considering. Processing.
Trying to resist the urge to do it again.
To touch. To blur the lines.
"—and now I'm testing to see if crushed knotgrass, instead of diced, works better with the other ingredients. Given its properties and the high temperature necessary to blend the—"
It's a quiet wednesday evening — and as a rule, nothing significant happens on a wednesday. All the classes are done for the day, and the curfew is fasting approaching, which means that the hallways are getting progressively deserted and the only sounds coming from the window are the usual noises from the forest.
As soon as his office hours ended, Harry had retreated to his private rooms, having no wish to prolong his availability to the brats roaming inside the school. In his mind, he had envisioned ending his day with a hefty dose of whiskey by the fireplace, maybe with a good book from the Potter's vaults in his hands to peruse for new spells to teach the older students. That had been the plan — nothing terribly exciting, true, but then, like he's said, wednesday weren't meant to be anything other than a slow day to bridge the beginning of the week and the end of it.
His plans, however, never amounted to anything because, not ten minutes after Harry arrived at his rooms, Severus strolled inside, brimming with poorly contained enthusiasm and stomped all over Harry's calm wednesday.
As a matter of fact, without even a word of greeting, Severus starts to go on about the potion he's creating and how difficult certain ingredients are to mix together and how he's trying to chop instead of dice, or crush instead of mincing — honestly, Harry lost track of the whole thing about twelve minutes ago, and it's now simply relaxing in his chair, listening to the young man go on and on about his tests.
Unsurprisingly, this is so much better than whatever stupid plans Harry had thought to waste his time on. Even though he doesn't have a clue about what's being discussed or how to offer a suggestion to help him, Harry could hear the words being spoken, could watch as Severus paces back and forth in front of the bookcase, gesturing with his hand with ardour about his passion, and Harry feels something inside him melting at the sight.
Merlin, hadn't that been the exact reason why he came back, why he travelled back in time? This — the chance to give Severus a life beyond being a spy, a sacrifice, a pawn in Dumbledore's fucked up chess game?
Somehow, it all feels justified right in this moment, on a wednesday night, with Severus safe and sound and healthy and so damn excited, pacing across Harry's rooms as though they are his own, taking Harry's attention for granted, like he knows he'll have it for as long as he pleases — which he will. He does.
The train of emotions takes Harry by surprise, stealing his breath out of nowhere, which is probably why it takes him a while to realize that Severus had gone quiet. Blinking, Harry takes in the scene in front of him. Lost in his thoughts, he had completely missed the moment where Severus had stopped talking and was, instead, standing still in the middle of the room, eyes narrowed in slits.
"I. I'm—forgive me," Harry mumbles, shaking his head to get rid of the fog in his mind. The last thing he wants is for the Slytherin to get offended by his lack of response. "I got lost for a minute here."
"I noticed," Severus says, and he doesn't sound offended at all. He sounds confused and a touch... pleased?
"Please, carry on. I'm sorry I zoned out on you — I want to hear all about your tests."
"I'm sure," he agrees, not without a hint of sarcasm. Then, he smiles — a small thing, barely more than a tug at the corner of his lips. "Are you aware that you are looking at me as though I'm Merlin's second coming?"
Silence holds. Harry blinks.
"Well. I. Does it bother you?"
"Don't be absurd."
"I happen to think— Severus, you must know how I feel, by now. I'd like to believe I'm not that transparent, but I do know better than to pretend I can hide anything from you for that long."
"It's good to see that your self-awareness is in working order. It would be idiotic to think you are anything but the most Gryffindor, wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve, obvious person to grace Hogwarts halls."
"Please, don't hold back on my account or anything."
"I won't."
Harry laughs. "Good God. You're something else." He pauses. "I trust you would let me know if you were uncomforta—"
Severus rolls his eyes. "Do shut up, Harry."
"Okay, okay."
"C'mere," Harry calls, moving until they are standing face to face in his living room. "There's something I want to show you. The fact that you are creating your own spells at seventeen is very impressive — phenomenal, to be honest. You are phenomenal. But, I want you to know that this is serious. Weaving magic, the whole art of spell crafting, is not something to be taken lightly. I don't want you to get lost in the process or you may end up creating something that you'll regret."
Severus watches, curious. "Do tell."
"Magic, well, look, we are made of magic, it's embedded into every pore of your body. Look. Watch. Observe. This is important, but we must start at the beginning. You're in a school, and although Hogwarts is great, you are only learning the very basic here. And to craft your own spells you'll need to go much deeper than that."
"In a way, what your teachers don't want you to know is that magic allows you infinite possibilities. The charms and spells you learn here are but a small foundation upon which you may keep building for the rest of your life." Harry smiles at him. "As a Potions fanatic, surely you've realized that in here you're only grazing the surface of what's possible? With hexes and spells is the same thing; you're being taught a general base — things everyone should be able to cast regardless of their magical aptitude."
"Unfortunately, with being as gifted as you are, this regress to the middle leaves much to be desired. I can teach you whatever else you want to learn, and I'll show you how best to work on the arithmancy necessary to create the spells. With one condition. You let me show you true magic. Real, pure, untempered core magic."
"I believe it's important that you see it, that you know how it feels," Harry says. "The way it should feel."
"Please don't start preaching about the services of Light magic to me," Severus says, rolling his eyes. He's clearly not impressed.
"I'm not a defender of separating magic into Light and Dark, as though one can draw a precise line and all spells will necessarily fall to either one side or the other. I do, however, understand the need to steer clear of some sorts of magic, and it's exactly that kind that I want you to not dabble with."
"Dark magic always came more easily — naturally, I suppose — to me than Light magic." Severus presses his lips tightly together. "I suppose you'll tell me all about the law and—"
"I want you to know pure, core magic because I want you to know the opposite. Right now, yours is pure. That's what I'm going to do — I'm gonna teach you to feel it, to see, to access your core as easily as you want."
Severus' expression changes and he stiffens. "Let's not pretend you don't know the sort of curses I've cast already. If there was a chance for my soul, my core, then it has slipped past me a long time ago."
"You're wrong. You'll see. I want to show you mine. So you'll see the difference." Harry swallows. "Mine is different, Severus. Tainted, I guess you could say."
Severus shakes his head. "You cannot mean that. I feel nothing wrong with your magic, and I've seen you cast wandlessly and wordlessly."
"Once you've dipped your fingers into certain kinds of magic, you can't undo that. There's no cleaning ritual, no spiritual rising, nothing. And I've dipped my fingers, sunk my whole arm and torso in it, bathed and rolled around and tried to come out clean on the other side. As such, fate laughed at me. Spat on my face and laughed." Harry shrugs, shaking his head lightly. Feeling something close to embarrassment for his own old foolishness. "I fought a war. That leaves a mark, no matter what became of my life afterwards. And it's not about Dark magic, okay? Light magic messed me up just as much. It's about intent, purpose — about what kind of energy you're drawing from when you cast whatever spell you're casting.
Harry exhales deeply. "If it feels wrong, if it's demanding a piece of your goddamn soul, if it comes from a place of hatred and pain, then give up. Don't. Just... don't," he says. "Even if it doesn't seem as though the price is too high at the time... trust me, it is."
"Have you considered that perhaps I'm beyond your help?" Severus asks after a moment of silence, sounding slightly pained. "That there's nothing for you to do here?"
"No," Harry says firmly, feeling the truth in his words even as he speaks them. "I don't believe that for a second. I know you, and I know who you are, and I know that you are one of the good guys, even if you'd rather swallow one of your poisons then to admit to it."
Severus frowns. "How can you know that for sure?" he presses, the line in his forehead turning deeper by the second. "How can you…" He stops, swallows dryly. "How can you say that when I don't even feel sure of myself?"
Harry can only shake his head and say: "I see you. I see you, Severus — that's all."
"How?" Severus demands. "I need to see. Show me. Let me see you, too."
Harry smiles. He has prepared for this, for this moment. "Alright."
And he does. He unveils his magic, slow and steady, wanting to show and to be seen in a way that he hadn't ever before, and instead of feeling frightening and unbearable, it feels right.
He wants to understand Severus Snape better than anyone else ever did and ever would. Surprisingly, Harry discovers that he feels just as strongly about being known.
They need this.
They do.
A flash of green. A shout in the distance. People running everywhere. Dust in the air. Harry needs to run, only his feet are stuck to the ground and the only thing he can do is watch his friends die and listen as—
Harry hears the shift of fabric, a movement near his left side, then a hand lands on his shoulder, and he's off. Before the person can cast whatever they are planning on him, Harry elbows them on the stomach, already twisting in place to grab the wrist of the hand touching him and still it in place.
There's a welp of surprise followed by a groan of pain, none of which Harry pays attention to, focusing, instead, on his surroundings, searching for other threats, taking in the scene as his eyes snap open in a flash.
"Harry!" The person calls, trying to wiggle their wrist free from Harry's grip.
It's not even a challenge to tighten the hold and keep them where they are — the person is not trained, not strong enough to make a valid attempt at getting away.
Access the threat, contain the assaulters, confiscate their wands, immobilize them, check for reinforcement.
His training awakens instantly, pressing him to act — fast. In a flash, Harry is out of the couch and throwing his attacker on the floor, on their stomach, digging his knee on their back. The person struggles and curses, obviously taken by surprise that Harry is reacting violently.
Why, though?
Who would get pass his wards, invade his room, try to harm him as he sleeps and still be taken by surprise when he reacts badly to it? It doesn't make sense.
Something is wrong.
The thought nags at the corner of his mind, but it's easily dismissed by the dominant part of his brain, which is demanding that Harry acts, that he curses whoever dared to try to kill him, that he unleashes the eleven hexes building at the tip of his tongue.
It would be effortlessly. He has the person at his mercy, immobilized and obviously cowering at the way Harry's magic is looming hugely over them, filling every corner of the room and buzzing with a bright electric current, begging to be unleashed.
Harry blinks and suddenly, like a ball of cotton has been removed from his ears, the person's voice rings clear and loud.
"—have to snap out of it, Harry—" The man — it's a man, Harry realizes — begs, his face turned as far as it can go as he tries to meet Harry's eyes. "It's me. Severus. You know me, remember? It's time to wake up, Harry. You're hurting me."
Severus.
Hurting me.
Severus Snape.
Hurting.
Harry is hurting him.
Of course he is — isn't that the point? This man had tried to hurt—
Harry blinks once more, and the scene slides into focus, as though a curtain of fog is dissipating in front of his eyes. Harry is in his room, by the couch, where he had taken a quick nap before dinner time, and he's kneeling over the body of the person who had awoken him from a nightmare.
Harry is holding and threatening his assailant, his...
Severus?
"Shit!" He screams, abruptly releasing the boy and jumping up, putting as much distance between them as he can.
Fuck. Shit. Goddammit.
From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees Severus scrambling to his feet, straightening his robes and shaking his head, obviously shaken by almost being hexed for no reason at all. Because Harry is dangerous and out of control and fucked up and too fucking used to being at war and has no idea how to behave like a goddamn normal human being.
Shit.
He could've hurt Severus; He could've killed him.
For a moment there, he had wanted to.
Frowning, Severus calls: "Harry, are you—"
"Leave," Harry orders, demands, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. God, how could he? How could Harry put the boy he's trying to save in such danger? "Now!"
"I don't believe—"
Why isn't he running for his life while he can? Weren't Slytherin's supposed to be all about self-preservation?
"Get out!" Harry screams, and in doing so loses control of his magic like a fucking child, knocking down rows of books all over the floor, some nearly hitting Severus, who flinches back in shock.
Shit.
Tears gather in Harry's eyes at the scene. What a mess. He really fucked this one up, hadn't he?
Fisting his hands until his knuckles turned white, Harry looks away, fixating on a random spot at the wall. "Please, Severus," he begs, breathing harshly. "Just… go."
And it's those words that finally get Severus to move. Without another sound of protest, he sidesteps Harry and leaves, slamming the door after him with such force that more books fall off their shelves.
The second he's gone, Harry crumbles into the floor, and the only thing filling up the silence is his screams of frustration and burning rage.
"Severus!" Harry greets, happy to be saved from that horrible attempt at flirting and even happier that it's his favourite person who interrupted them. Then he notices the robes Severus are wearing — dark blue and obviously brand new. Gorgeous. Bought with Harry's money. "Don't you look dashing tonight."
"Professor." Severus nods and eyes him up and down in a clear perusal. Harry tries not to visibly straighten his posture. "Well, it is impossible to say the same to you, I'm afraid. Whoever sold you these robes should be out of their jobs."
Harry laughs in surprise. "They were a present. I happen to find them pretty comfortable, too." Suddenly remembering his manners, he gestures to the woman watching them with an impatient air. "Severus, this is Lady Jones. Lady Jones, this is my best student, Severus Snape."
The woman gives a fake little laugh that instantly grates Harry's nerves. "I'm sure that you say that about all your students, Harry," she says, assuming a familiarity that he never allowed her. That she dismissed Severus without another look irks him in another level entirely.
"I do not, actually. Severus is, in fact, my most talented student — by quite a large margin. Which is made all the more impressing by that fact that it's not even his best subject."
She visibly dismisses the praise. "Surely, your teaching methods should get the credit they deserve?" She purrs, placing one hand on Harry's forearm.
Well, fuck her. Felicia Jones just went from annoying to downright rude in a blink of eyes — how predictable. Harry wants to sigh and roll his eyes at the predictability of the whole thing. God, he does dislike parties with a fervent passion. There's always someone trying to paw at him.
"Forgive the interruption," Severus says, not sounding sorry at all. "I've stopped by to inform you that the Headmaster is requesting your presence, Harry. Immediately."
Harry reads the lie clearly in the boy's eyes, but leaps at the chance to make a quick escape. "Oh, is that so? It must be important, then. I should go right away." He turns to Jones, who seems to be gearing up to insist he remains where he is. "I'm sorry, but I must go. A good evening, Lady Jones."
Her grip on his arm tightens, her eyes narrowing. "That's a shame. Maybe he can wai—"
"Oh, no. The Headmaster is very impatient — I must not leave him waiting," Harry says, pulling his arm away with a tug and placing his hand on Severus' lower back. "Please, Severus, lead the way."
As soon as they begin to move away, Harry breathes in relief. Merlin, women can be vicious sometimes. They cross the room in fluid movements until they step out the door and reach the empty, silent corridor.
Well, that was a successful retreat. Better yet, now they are alone and with a good excuse to ditch the whole party without being too rude. Fuck Dumbledore's weird parties. Eying the castle, an idea crosses his mind.
"God, let's ditch this thing, hun?" Harry beckons him with his fingers, tilting his head to indicate that they should go up the stairwell. "Come here."
Severus hesitates, eyes shifting between the way to the Headmaster's office and the path Harry is pointing at. It's telling that they are in opposite directions.
Harry raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, was I wrong in assuming that Dumbledore is not, in fact, waiting for me?"
The boy seems disconcerted, but then he shakes his head, and Harry has to stifle a smile. Severus is not as unreadable as he'd like to believe he is.
"Then come. I want to show you something."
They end up at the Astronomy Tower. It's late and the sky is clear and the moon is full and there is a never-ending blanket of stars shining in the darkness. It's perfect. The perfect night, designed and meant for the two of them alone.
As soon as they arrive, Harry instinctively waves a hand, putting up privacy wards around them. It occurs to him that he has always done that whenever is just the two of them — placing wards to keep a bubble surrounding them, basically excluding the outside world and keeping them in a private moment.
Severus stares for a moment before asking: "Why'd you bring me here?"
"Why not?" Harry shoots back, despite knowing exactly what he's being asked. "Do you not think the night is worthy of being admired?"
There's a heat in Severus' eyes — one that had been burning bright since he interrupted his conversation earlier. To say that it's enticing would be a disservice to it. "Am I here to admire the stars?"
Harry steps closer. "Were you jealous?" He whispers, somehow feeling that this is a conversation better had in the most intimate way possible. "Tell me. Were you jealous of seeing somebody else's hands on me?"
Severus sneers. "It's a disgrace to be so shameless — I was doing little more than a public service by removing you from the situation," he says, crossing his arms. "A woman of her status should not behave in such a way."
"What way, Severus?" Harry insists. "I'm a healthy, single man and so is she, titles notwithstanding. Her flirting with me is nothing short of the expected, I believe."
Harry's sensible, reasonable explanation seems to trigger a darker response from the Slytherin. Harry knows intimately the possessiveness that Severus is trying to push down, and he also knows better than to encourage this kind of unhealthy dependency, but it all fades away into the background as he watches the emotions flashing quickly on Severus' eyes.
Despite all senses, he wants to prod at Severus weak spots until the man admits that he desires Harry for himself. That the thought of another touching him is upsetting, maddening.
Still, Severus says nothing, visibly biting back the words, so Harry presses.
"Why did you lie about a call from the Headmaster, Severus? Why are we here?"
That seems to annoy him. "You brought us here," Severus hisses through gritted teeth.
"I did. I enjoy being far off the ground," Harry agrees. "It doesn't answer my question, though. Why are we here, outside the party, by ourselves, when Felicia is waiting in—"
"She should be waiting for nothing!" Severus finally snaps, taking a step forward and glaring at Harry quite impressively. "She's a nobody. No one. By tomorrow, you won't even remember her name."
"That's a fair assessment," Harry concedes. "Is that it? Were you righting the world's wrongs? Protecting me from making a mistake with a wrong woman?"
"Why must you persist with these inane questions?" Severus is beyond reason now, and Harry craves it. Soaks it up like a dying desert. "You're mine. Mine. She has no right to touch you — no one else has, but for me. Is that what you want to hear?"
Harry's pretty sure his eyes are glazed over from the strength of the feelings rushing through his body, wrapping around his middle, crushing his heart tighter and tighter still as Severus keeps on speaking.
"Felicia Jones will do well in learning not to stick her nose into places where she's not welcomed," Severus says, and the words are sharp and full of edges. Possessive. Proprietary, even.
The tension shatters, and Harry loses the ability to breathe.