disc: don't own it
warnings: slash
a/n: i know it's been aaaages since i've written anything, but i'm right in the middle of exams now (urgh) and promised myself i would wait until after my french exam until i wrote something new. thanks for all the tons of reviews i got for "mistletoe" (esp. the people who said i'd made their christmas!) and, although i don't usually name reviewers, an extra special thank you goes out to jamie, who writes the sweetest, most encouraging reviews every story! well, here it is, the next in the "you and me series". hope you enjoy!
The stillness and silence which surrounds you is perfect. You don't believe you've ever felt as complete as you do right now, lying, listening, feeling, the quiet beating of his heart, the gentle movement of his breath, the lazy glide of his hand up and down your back.
You love these moments. The brief glimpses into pure, unaltered perfection that can only ever be found with him.
Your finger traces along the too-pronounced collarbone as you whisper words to a love song that you didn't realise you knew, but now seems oddly appropriate.
He shifts beneath you.
"What are you muttering about?"
You smile slightly, the bored, yet unmistakeably affectionate, tone still producing a warm glow that you know would just sicken him.
"Nothing," you murmur. "Just clichés."
To your surprise, he laughs quietly.
"It is always rather nauseating how clichés can depict feelings so adequately."
"My thoughts exactly."
The comfortable quiet, which is now so familiar, falls between you again, and you feel that you could lose yourself in the moment.
"Did you always want to teach potions?"
The hand on your back ceases, and for an instant you fear you've crossed the strange invisible line which lies between you. But then the movement resumes, and after a moment of contemplative silence he speaks, his voice soft and surprisingly unguarded.
"Potions has always been my first and foremost passion. As a student I found it fascinating, a fascination which only grew as I became older. I never dreamed I would end up teaching the damn thing." He chuckles dryly. "It's all Albus's fault, naturally. He convinced my to work for him here at Hogwarts." He pauses. "It was never my decision."
"Do you hate it?"
"Sometimes. When I have to teach you."
"Haha." You twist your head slightly to look at him. His black eyes are glinting with rare humour. "Seriously."
"Seriously?" He looks slightly thoughtful. "Most days, yes. I hate the monotony of making the simplest of potions day after day and having to find unnatural patience when the simplest of mistakes are repeated again and again. I hate having to pretend I like children, something I admit I do less than more, and to endure their constant complaints and attitudes. I hate the way they presume we are all here to do them service, that the world revolves around them and we do not have problems of our own."
You raise your eyebrows slightly. "It makes you wonder if there's anything good about it," you say.
The hand stroking your back gently brushes the hair at the very nape of your neck.
"There are some advantages," he murmurs.
The warm glow spreads.
"What do you do during the summer?" you ask. "Do you spend it here, or do you have, you know, a home."
"Yes, Potter, of course I have a home. As to my summer arrangements, why are you interested?"
You shrug one shoulder. "Just curious."
He sighs slightly. "It depends on circumstance. I spend time here, I spend time there-"
"Where's there?" you interrupt.
He glares at you so slightly.
"Hertfordshire," he says. "Enough questions."
You comply for a full minute, before blurting out "What sort of house?"
"Oh for Merlin's sake. Why do you want to know what sort of house I have?"
"I'm curious about you," you reply. "You never talk about yourself."
"And why should I?" he asks. "Is one's private self not a personal thing?"
You snort slightly.
"I think we're a bit past the personal stage, aren't we?"
He doesn't answer for a moment, and when he does he seems slightly distant. "Personal has many levels, Harry."
You're silent as you contemplate this. Yes, personal does have many levels. You wouldn't mind Severus knowing things about you; your favourite food, subject, quidditch move, things anyone could know, but you also want him to know the things that everyone else doesn't know, things that show the intimacy between you.
Then there are the things that you never want anyone to know; the one time you pushed Uncle Vernon too far and the lashes that followed, the urge to still cry when you think of Sirius, the desperate jealousy of Ron and his family, that, truthfully, you are afraid whenever you hear Voldemort's name. Things no one ever needs to know.
"Why did you join the death eaters?"
"Potter I will kick you out of this bed if you do not cease questioning me."
Well, you though it was worth a shot.
"Do you sometimes hate me?"
He sighs.
"I love to hate you."
You grin. "Ah, but do you hate to love me?"
"On occasion, the principle of them being now," he snaps.
"So you do love me then?"
He growls in frustration. "I certainly didn't say anything of the sort."
"You didn't have to say it," you reply, aware you are pushing him very close to the edge.
He raises his eyebrows speculatively.
"I believe we are back to kicking you out of bed."
As he speaks, you feel his hands sliding underneath you, pushing slightly-dangerously close to dislodging you from the comfort of your position.
You let out a cry and shout "Okay, okay! I'm sorry!"
He chuckles as his arm snakes around your back, holding you close. Very un-Severus like.
"Consider that a warning."
You sigh contentedly, resting your head against his chest.
"Hertfordshire," you murmur thoughtfully. "I've never been there."
"I hope that's not a hint for an invitation, Potter."
You laugh slightly. "I don't think we have to worry about that quite yet."
"Thank Merlin. I can't imagine Albus's face if I asked to take his golden boy home for the summer."
You frown slightly at the term 'golden boy'.
"Don't scowl. It only serves to illustrate my point."
"And what point's that?" you grumble, knowing, somehow, that he wasn't even looking at you.
You're not sure if that's reassuring or disturbing.
"That you are over sensitive and think far too much about things."
Your scowl deepens; unfortunately you know exactly what he's talking about.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," he replies calmly.
Damn. He knows you so well.
"So what's it like then?" you ask, hoping to distract him from his psychoanalysis of you.
"What's what like?"
"Hertfordshire."
He knows, of course, what you're doing, but decides to humour you.
"Green. Lots of cows."
"Sounds thrilling."
A slightly uncomfortable silence falls between you.
How on earth did that happen? Hadn't you been joking around just a second ago? Why is your relationship with him so inconsistent?
You run your finger along one of the many, even whiter scars that decorate the white skin of his chest.
"How did you get this one?" you ask, tracing a line that curves from his ribs down to his navel.
"Barbed wire," he replies softly.
"Barbed wire?" you repeat, disbelieving. You can't help it. It sounds like something from the Second World War.
He doesn't reply for a moment.
"An innocent object in the wrong hands can be extremely dangerous."
"How did it happen?"
You don't really expect him to answer, but he does, his voice remote, lost in a memory of a darker, more painful time.
"There was a village. Someone was hiding there. We were supposed to find them. I was crouching behind some bushes, listening, waiting. I remember standing, and then feeling a blinding pain." His eyes reflect sadness, sorrow. "It was just a little girl. She was running as fast as she could away from me."
"What happened?" you whisper.
His face immediately closes, the emotions vanishing from his eyes in an instant.
"She was killed."
He looks at you, and a flare of pain cries in your heart.
"You would have saved her if you could," you say.
For a moment he doesn't respond, then nods slowly, as if coming to a sudden realisation.
"Yes," he says. "I would have."
You kiss his shoulder, gently.
"I love you."
"Oh for heaven's sake," he groans. "How many times do we have to go through this? You are not in love with me. The idea is ridiculous, preposterous. In fact-"
"Shhh." You place your finger against his lips, followed soon by your own.
Well, he can't argue with that, can he?