They do find other games. Or rather, Potter does.
Around mid-afternoon, Snape gets cagey and starts to pace. He has done it since the beginning, ticking away the useless minutes with a brisk walk—for the first half of the walk, he turns right. For the second half, he turns left. Symmetry in everything, even in pacing from one side of the room to the other.
Potter's game goes like this:
Harry watches Snape pace from a reclined position on the bed. Each time Snape paces away from him and cannot see what he is doing, Harry takes a new pose—some silly, some strange, some downright lewd. He has but seconds to change between them. The game ends when Severus stops walking and insults him, stops walking and laughs, or when Harry tackles him.
The tackling evolves into wrestling—the wrestling into groping—so on, so forth.
Snape finds he enjoys this game. Even the loser wins.
XXXXX
They both wake up grumpy one morning. They fight in spectacular fashion about all the old subjects—history, family, friends, physical appearance, lack of experience, etc. When Harry picks up his wand, Severus locks himself in the bathroom.
Of course Harry calms down after a short while and apologizes—he's very sorry, and thus willing to rub feet (or anything else Severus might suggest).
Severus doesn't hear him, not really. He stares at himself in the mirror over the sink.
When he does emerge, Potter has breakfast laid out neatly. Despite the olive branch, Severus does not feel like making nice. When Harry smiles at him, Severus remembers every nasty thing the idiot child has ever said. He smiles back at Harry, picks up the butter dish, and uses a generous portion of it on his toast.
"I get the message," Harry says, and doesn't try to touch him the rest of the day.
Snape feels awful. He thinks he might have a cold.
XXXXX
He wakes from another nightmare and follows the routine—bathroom, toilet, sink, glass of water, back to bed.
"You'd think Voldemort would have more to do than spend all night giving us bad dreams," Potter murmurs.
"I don't dream about Voldemort," Severus says. "I dream about my father."
XXXXX
He wakes with Harry on top of him.
Severus eases the lightly snoring wizard off him and arranges Potter so that he won't spend the day complaining about a crick in his back.
Harry mutters a bereft little 'umph' and reaches for him again.
"Honestly, Potter," Severus huffs and presses close beside him, "we are not a brightly-colored plush animal."
XXXXX
"You know what I like..? I like this." Harry's fingers circle lower on Snape's abdomen, tracing the line of dark hair that trails from stomach to groin. "This part of you. Your soft underbelly," he snickers.
"Shut up, Potter," Severus groans, too sated to put up a fight. He is aware, in the faintest sense, of having limbs, of breathing in and out.
"Do you know," Potter says, plucking at his stomach, "that when you come, you open your mouth and your tongue hits the back of your teeth, like this?" He demonstrates.
"…No. No, I did not." Severus resolves not to become self-conscious about orgasm.
"…You know what's funny about today?"
"Haven't the faintest."
"It's been a month."
Snape blinks. "…I beg your pardon?"
"It's been a month. Since—you know."
"…Ah."
Harry runs the flat of his palm possessively over Snape's stomach. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"
"It would be difficult for anything—right at this moment—to cause discomfort." Severus flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes and forces himself to smirk. "If you were hinting that we should mark the occasion—I'm afraid I haven't bought you anything."
"You put off going to the shops until the last minute, look what it gets you."
"Locked in a cell with a nymphomaniacal wizard," he says, and shuts his eyes, preparing for a well-earned catnap. "What torture."
Harry burrows underneath the crook of his arm. In sleep, Potter can press so tightly that he wakes Severus up. "…Maybe you're part Veela—and that's why I like touching you so much."
"What are you talking ab—shh."
And then Potter is quiet. For several minutes, he seems to doze. Severus likes these moments—when they are both awake, but feigning sleep. There is something amazingly peaceful and comforting about them.
"Happy anniversary," Harry mutters.
XXXXX
Supper's arrival wakes them.
"Fish and chips! Brilliant," Harry pronounces. "I swear, Severus, if not for you and the food…"
Maybe it is the offhand, indirect way the compliment is delivered. Maybe it is because Harry is busy with a bottle of ketchup and isn't looking for a response. Or maybe, just maybe, he is ready to believe something good, some small, manageable compliment—like being as brilliant as the food.
XXXXX
The bathtub is an exceedingly good place for thinking. Should he ever find his way out of the room, he resolves to have one installed directly off his office. Possibly in his office—he could disguise it as a modified cauldron. If his office isn't a smoking crater.
Severus dunks his head underneath the water.
The word 'anniversary' has, up until today, meant nothing to Severus. That Potter would even use it—preposterous. Such a formal, proper word—and for what?
A month of fucking.
Sentimental, stupid child. So hungry for a pat on the head, he'd do anything. Anyone.
He is glad Sirius Black is dead. If the bastard hadn't gotten himself killed, he'd be here with Potter. Severus would be somewhere in one of Voldemort's dungeons, most likely, being whipped and beaten and cursed.
The room is small. It smells. It contains a hard, lumpy bed, an uncomfortable chair, a night table, a dresser, a row of pegs, and what few personal objects Severus and Harry were able to shove into their bags in the ten minutes they'd had to pack. He hates it.
He hates the thought of leaving more.
He surfaces with a gasp.
Severus scrubs himself thoroughly—Potter puts his mouth everywhere, cheeky brat. He can't get 'anniversary' out of his head. No one he'd been with before had ever—ever—brought up the word. His parents had never celebrated an anniversary. If they'd marked it's passing, it would be in mourning.
A month of fucking. That's all. Of course a physical attachment was inevitable. But certainly nothing too emotional.
A knock on the bathroom door shakes him from his reverie. "Hey in there! Save some for the fish!"
XXXXX
Severus towels himself off, the cool air turning his skin into a blanket of goosebumps. He gets a strange feeling. Perhaps it is only the cold that makes him skip his pajamas and climb into bed. Yes, the cold. He'll warm up under the covers and then dress.
Minutes pass.
Harry exits the bathroom to the sound of water gurgling down the drain. He clutches the towel around his hips and reaches for—
"Harry."
Potter stills with one hand on the towel and one at his pajamas. He seems wary.
"Wouldn't you rather celebrate?" Snape asks.
"…Don't make fun of me," Potter warns. He doesn't move.
Severus sits up, propping his back against the headboard. Every hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He arches one knee slightly. "I've never had an anniversary."
Potter's eyesight may be poor, but he doesn't seem to leave anything out as he studies Severus' bare chest. "Is this you being seductive?"
He rolls his eyes and drops the pose. "I'd say I was out of practice, but I'm not sure I've ever been in practice. Fine, Potter, good night, then."
"Hang on a minute. No one told you to stop." Harry doesn't take his pajamas off the peg.
At this inopportune moment, Severus' mouth decides to go dry. "H…" He tries to buy himself time by straightening, brushing his hair back. "W…" he chokes out, and loses all vocal control for several moments when Potter lets the towel slide off his hips. His lean silhouette hovers in the circle of red cloth like the embodiment of desire—and then Harry approaches the bed.
"It's cold tonight, don't you think?" he asks, taking off his glasses.
"…We do talk about the temperature far too much."
"We could talk about the food. Or taking baths."
Severus eyes his body and arches a brow. "I didn't know you found baths so stimulating."
Harry shakes his head. "I don't. …Are you wearing anything under there?"
The blanket rides low around Snape's waist. "You could look."
"Do you want me to look?"
Would a small admission hurt? It couldn't hurt that much, could it? "…I wouldn't be averse to it."
The younger wizard crawls onto the foot of the bed, kneeling at Severus' feet. "What are y…?" he begins to ask. Potter twists his fingers in the blanket and pulls it slowly towards him, laying Snape's pale, gaunt body bare.
"You did get me a present," Harry murmurs and eyes Snape's rising erection.
He shifts self-consciously and tries to relax. "Who says it's for you? I might've been in the middle of a lovely wank, for all you know."
"Yeah. Thinking about me."
"Twice a day isn't enough? I have to fantasize about you now in the four minutes I'm allowed alone?" Severus' breath catches.
Harry presses a kiss on the inside of his bad knee. "Uh-huh. You have to think about me…" Potter licks his inner thigh, tickling the slight amount of hair there. "All the time."
"All the time, hm?" Severus stalls as Potter's mouth creeps upward.
"All the time."
"Then I suppose it is an excellent thing—that I have no distractions."
Harry moves as if to take Severus in his mouth, but suddenly Severus finds he doesn't want that at all. "Wait," he cries, and draws Harry up to lie beside him. He pulls the blankets over them and sighs as it becomes warmer. "Perhaps—like the first time," he says.
Potter nods and kisses him.
XXXXX
It is hard to sleep.
He cannot relax. They are under attack.
…No. Severus is under attack.
"Do another one."
Green eyes cut too deeply. "Besieged," he tells Potter.
XXXXX
Severus watches Harry have a nightmare. Every time he reaches out to shake the younger wizard awake, he stops.
"…I should let you suffer," he says.
Sometimes Severus believes that within him lives a dark, malicious thing—a thing that enjoys pain, enjoys inflicting it, enjoys witnessing it—and thank Merlin it's never broken Potter's skin—thank Albus it's never laid a wrathful hand on—
"Potter, wake up—wake up. …You were dreaming," he says.
Harry follows his own post-nightmare routine, which involves throwing himself in Severus' arms and riding out the fear.
Severus tries not to kiss him. It doesn't work.
XXXXX
Fighting is not really fighting. But it is. But it isn't.
"I hate you so much that I would rather stab myself in the eye with this quill than talk to you for another second."
"I hate you so much that I would shave my head and take a seven-year vow of silence rather than speak to you again."
"Oh, yeah?" Potter leaps onto the bed, bouncing on his toes. "Well, I would rather—"
"You're losing it, Potter—"
"Shh, shh—I've got one. I would rather give up Quidditch, move to Azkaban, and set up a kissing booth!" Harry bounces once before jumping off and landing in front of Snape. "Instead of talking to you again. Beat that."
"Very well. I would rather—spell myself until I was a woman, tell the entire student body of Hogwarts to call me Francine, and bear Albus Dumbledore's love child—than speak to you again." He smirks.
"I would rather do everything we have done for the past month and a half—"
Severus grins.
"With Argus Filch. …Than speak to you again."
Snape shivers. "Truly, Potter, you are disgusting."
"Does this mean I win?"
"The more disturbing fact is that we have decided that changing gender and enduring childbirth would be preferable—"
"Don't try to distract me. Come on. Pay up."
"Ugh, no, not now. I have the image burned behind my eyes—"
"When, then? After supper?"
"Yes."
Harry gives him a Cheshire cat smile. "You better make it good."
"It will be better than good, Potter." Severus leans down and whispers in his ear, "I'm going to beg."
XXXXX
Harry begins to leave the door wide open during his bath.
Sometimes Severus finds a reason to walk in and perform some benign task, like brushing his teeth. Or he'll lie on the bed and watch Potter strip. Oddly enough, Harry always manages to perform that particular task in full view of the bedroom.
Severus notes that it is no wonder Potter takes so much longer in the bathroom. He bathes in a very inefficient way—lathering thoroughly and slowly, even standing to bend and reach difficult spots.
Someone really should show him how to do it properly.
XXXXX
One night, Severus enters, brushes his teeth, rinses, and turns to find Potter sprawled in the tub. His glasses lie out of reach on the shelf above with his fluffy red Gryffindor towel, but apparently Harry doesn't need them. His eyes are closed, his right foot hangs out over the edge of the tub, and his pumping fist sloshes the water enough to stir the bubbles and give Severus a glimpse of firm flesh.
His toothbrush clatters in the porcelain basin as he leans against the wall and watches.
After a moment, Harry's eyes slit open and he smiles.
"This smacks of premeditation, Potter."
The smile turns a shade guilty. "What makes you say that?"
"I wasn't assaulted this morning. That either means—one. You are deathly ill. Or two—you planned to make use of my services in some other capacity." Severus folds his arms. "I do hope you realize that there is no way to get me in there with you at the same time—and don't suggest anything up against the wall, I am not slipping in a puddle and cracking my head open—"
"I wasn't going to." Potter's hand eases back and forth, rippling the water.
"What then?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
"…All right. I'll be in bed." Severus watches for another long moment and exits the bathroom.
When Potter joins him, the younger wizard has the audacity to go right to sleep.
XXXXX
All things being equal, Severus takes rejection rather well.
He follows the routine.
He wakes, goes to the bathroom, frowns at the mirror, relieves himself, washes his hands and face, brushes his teeth, frowns at himself in the mirror again, brushes his teeth more thoroughly, smoothes out his hair, and goes back to the bedroom where Potter does not have sex with him.
Potter wakes, goes to the bathroom. Severus dresses and then makes the bed. Potter comes out of the bathroom blinking and bleary-eyed and does not have sex with him.
Potter begins his exercises while Snape reads the bloody newspaper again. The full sequence takes two hours and when Potter is done, breakfast has arrived. Snape sets it out and puts the butter dish aside for later use. Potter does not comment. They eat breakfast and Harry does not have sex with him.
Severus paces earlier in the day than usual. Harry does not play the posing game, nor does he offer to have sex with him.
"Are you feeling all right, Potter?"
"Mm-hm," Harry says, and continues to stare at the zooming Quidditch players on the Sports page.
Lunch arrives. It is spaghetti and meatballs. Potter refuses to do anything silly like try and feed him.
Also, they do not have sex.
Severus paces again for a while and then decides to have a nap. To the untrained eye, it might seem like sulking. Potter does not join him.
Supper arrives. They eat in oppressive silence. Severus looks at the butter dish. "You're first in the bath tonight," he says.
"Oh, right."
Potter finishes his food, lounges about on the bed for a moment, then goes to run the bath. Harry hangs his clothes on the peg, enters the bathroom, and shuts the door.
Severus takes his turn and revenges himself on Potter by wanking.
Harry is already asleep when he emerges.
Severus puts the butter dish in the dumbwaiter and slams it shut.
Thump.
XXXXX
He holds out until the doldrums of the next afternoon—the long, interminable stretch between noon and supper. "Why."
"Hm?"
"Don't play bloody games, Potter, though that appears to be your major area of expertise—why?"
"Why what?" he asks.
"Why not—" Severus gesticulates vaguely but wildly until he believes he has conveyed the point.
Harry shrugs and looks down at a book that Severus knows—for a fact!—Potter has no interest in. "Don't know. Didn't think you wanted to. You never ask," Harry declares.
He splutters. "Is that what this is about? Why didn't you sodding well ask me to ask?"
"What's the point in your asking if I have to ask you to ask?"
"I've begged you!"
"Because you lost a game."
"Potter—"
"Harry," he corrects. "And I've decided—you want to—you know—you'll have to ask. I'm tired of feeling like I'm bloody well taking advantage." He flips a page in the book.
Severus blinks. "You… taking advantage… of me."
"You're here to keep me happy and sane, aren't you? I don't want you to do it because of that. If you'll excuse me, I'm in the middle of a chapter." Harry tucks his nose back into the book.
Severus sits down on the bed. He folds his arms and stares at the wall. Every so often, Potter turns a page. "…That book will be here in the morning."
Harry grunts an acknowledgement.
"Granted, so will I." Severus sniffs. He holds perfectly still for several more moments. Then he rises, moves to Potter, tears the book out of his hands, and glares down. "You're not even reading this."
The younger wizard says nothing.
"Oh, fine, Potter, we must do everything your way—Merlin forbid we do not indulge you." Severus arches a brow. "Well, then? Fancy a snog?" He manages a bit of sarcasm, but not very much.
Potter smirks. "You do know—if that's all you ask for, that's all you'll get. You have to be specific."
"Your games are so tiresome—very well, Potter—will you, pretty please, with sugar on top, move toward a state of sexual arousal, remove your clothing, and participate in several acts of spontaneous foreplay before you lubricate and insert your erect penis into my—"
"Not that specific, you prat."
"Oh?" Severus notes that it is impossible to convey nonchalance when furiously undoing buttons.
"'Fuck me' is good enough. Though I did kind of like the 'please.'"
Severus rolls his eyes. "Pretty please, fuck me?"
"All right, sounds good."
XXXXX
Harry wakes him during the long dark. Severus guesses it is about four.
"Severus. I can see my breath."
"It would appear to be, as historians put it, fucking cold."
"We're not going to freeze to death, are we?"
"No. Warming charms, if it gets down to that."
"But then they'll find us."
"But they will not find us in block ice form."
XXXXX
"…I'm so tired of all this waiting—and the quiet—don't you feel like screaming?"
XXXXX
"The eggs are green. Severus—the eggs are green. What the f…" Harry trails off as Severus steps over to examine the tray.
"Odd. They aren't spoiled. Looks to be some sort of inferior dye—what?"
Potter swallows. "Nothing. I just realized. …It's Christmas."
Green eggs and a sprig of holly decorate breakfast. Luckily, the eggs are edible. Harry goads Severus into at least stretching with him before they take the rest of the day off.
"Off of what?" Severus asks.
XXXXX
Harry tells him—in appallingly graphic detail—about Christmas at the Burrow.
"Sounds ghastly and crowded," he pronounces, though Severus doesn't really mean it.
"What was Christmas like at your house, then?" Harry asks.
"…I spent my holidays at school."
"Yeah, me too, but before that—"
"I spent them at school."
"Yeah, when you were eleven, but before… oh."
"Yes. At school. And I preferred it to returning home. Don't look at me like that—I imagine all your early Christmases involved being thrown out of bed to cook and clean for those beastly muggles."
Harry nods mutely. The gloom forces Severus to recount the events of his first Christmas at Hogwarts, which was actually—and he only remembers this as he is telling it—quite nice. He'd been caught wandering the hallways after curfew—
"Hypocrite!"
"Quiet, Potter—" and had been taken to the Headmaster's office, where the great white wizard had served him tea instead of punishment.
XXXXX
Lunch arrives—ham, potatoes, gravy, greens, and a small slice of fruitcake—with both apple cider and tea to drink.
"Do you know any wizarding Christmas songs?"
Severus only dares to sing because Potter has such a terrible voice.
Harry sips his cider. "Hate to tell you this—'Here We Come A'Wassailing' isn't a wizarding song."
"Never learned a song you couldn't sing in pub. Other than what the school made us learn, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"What would be the point? Have you ever been to a pub?"
"Yes," Harry says, narrowing his eyes, "I have. Been with Ron a few times."
"…You ever fancy Weasley?"
"Not really. He was my first real friend—by the time I realized I preferred blokes, he was like—my brother. And he's straight. And head over heels in love with Hermione. So it wasn't really an issue. I like your shoulders," he adds.
Severus is used to this sort of non sequitur.
"That last bloke you were with… did you love him?" Harry asks.
"…We were quite suited for each other. Both from respectable families that wanted nothing but for us to remain discreet, we both read far too much—he worked in a library—special collections, books that would bite and curse—he used to sneak me the particularly nasty ones."
"…I'm sorry it—didn't work out."
He shrugs. "I'm rather glad it ended when it did. If a man is too cowardly to—it would've been dangerous for both of us. …Anyway, he was a terrible kisser."
"I'm not, am I?"
"Always, he requires reassurance," Severus grumbles good-naturedly and presses his lips to the corner of Harry's jaw.
"Always, he refuses to address the real question," Harry challenges, and that pretty much takes care of the rest of the afternoon.
XXXXX
Supper is accompanied by red and green napkins, two tiny boxes of chocolates, eggnog, and a small card that reads—"Happy Christmas. We appreciate your patronage," Harry reads. "Well, that settles it. It's a meal service."
"Pity. Removes all the mystique."
They eat and drink eggnog and lie on the bed staring at the ceiling.
"This is nice."
Severus smirks, then realizes he is the one who said it.
XXXXX
"This doesn't hurt your knee, does it?"
"It's fine," Severus whispers. His legs hook over Harry's arms. "I'm not fragile."
"If you don't want to, tell me to stop and we'll do it the other way."
He shakes his head and is distracted for a moment by how much longer his hair has grown. Then Harry positions himself, urging Severus' hips up as he sinks inside. They both still for a moment. In the beginning, Severus needed the time to adjust. Now, he uses it to luxuriate in the oddly complete feeling. Face to face, the angle is a bit different. Might take some getting used to.
"Open your eyes," Harry says.
He does.
XXXXX
"Just do it already," Potter pants and rubs his face against the pillow.
"We're on my timetable, remember."
"Please," he cries, his hips humping against the mattress. "Need to come."
"Stop." Potter yelps at the light swat—but Severus has decided that turnabout is definitely fair play. He slides his fingers just a bit deeper, slicking and stretching as much as possible. Harry responds with a groan. "You don't want this to hurt, do you?"
"You won't hurt me," Harry moans.
"That is the general idea."
"I'm ready—you're only doing this to torture me."
"You asked for it, Potter."
"If you call me Potter while you've got your cock up my arse, I will slug you."
Snape eases his fingers out. He pauses momentarily to wipe his hand, and then to slick himself. "All right, Harry. Obedient, when you want to be," he adds, snorting as Harry spreads his legs a bit further apart.
"When I have incentive."
He strokes the pale, milky skin, petting the tension out of Harry's lower back. The younger wizard moans and clutches the pillow tightly. "Try and relax," Severus breathes.
"Easy for you to say. You're not—ohh."
Severus feels like an indelicate creature—he feels heavy and rough—the head of his prick is far too large, isn't slick enough to enter gently. He presses at the tiny pucker and tries to ignore Harry's inarticulate whimpers. And then Potter pushes back, forcing the head through the ring of muscle.
"More," Harry whines, "I can—take more." They both pant as Severus pushes in, sinking to the hilt.
"All right?" he asks, trying to hold still.
"Hnh—all right." Harry nods.
They move together, a slow rocking motion. Severus snakes a hand around Harry's waist, grasping his slightly wilted erection and coaxing it back to hardness. He hears pleasure creep into harsh, labored breaths and Severus nearly crows his delight—he wants Harry to like this, to like him. He wants to make Harry happy—he wants Harry to roll over and kiss him and tell him it was amazing—he wants Harry to try and feed him at lunch—he wants to have ridiculous fights where one of them ends up pinned against the wall—
"I love you," Severus gasps, driving into Harry as deeply as he can. He pumps into the tight heat, swelling even further. "I love you," he repeats, and loses himself in rhythm and warmth, coming in long, slow spurts.
Potter needs only another minute of encouragement before he jerks hard in Severus' grip and comes, wailing his approval.
They collapse on the bed together, still joined.
Harry laughs.
Severus doesn't mind it anymore—it's never about him—and anyway, he feels like sleeping for a year.
XXXXX
Breakfast.
He explains to Potter that what is said during the, ahem, act—should not, in fact, be taken as gospel. He explains that what one says during the, ah, heat of the moment—really cannot—
"Severus."
He stops.
"It's okay. I love you, too," Harry says, puts more jam on his toast, and pours another cup of tea.
XXXXX
Time passes.
It feels like years but must be days—though Severus, for the sake of his own sanity, has stopped counting.
Sometimes he gets sick of even looking at Harry. Sometimes it is all he wants to do.
"I miss Quidditch."
"I miss detention."
"Sadist. Speaking of which, I want you to bite me next time. You haven't done that lately."
"…How long have you been waiting for that segue?"
"…Little while. Don't look at me like I'm weird. You're the one who does the biting—that's at least as screwed up as wanting to be bit. Bitten," he corrects.
XXXXX
"…We're never getting out of here."
"Nope," Harry agrees, "we'll be here until old age. You think it smells in here now, wait until one of us dies."
"Don't be macabre."
"Say that one again."
"No. …Macabre."
XXXXX
Severus eats one of the chocolate biscuits sent with lunch and tries not to think of Albus.
"The real question," Harry says, "is this… When will the hot water completely stop? It's got to be soon."
He nods a yes and absently rubs his arm.
"Not that there's much we can do about it. But I figure—we might be able to risk a self-renewing warming charm. The plus is that we only have to cast it once, the minus is that it will take longer."
"And if we do it incorrectly, we bake to death."
"Yeah, there's that too. But we're rough and tumble wizards—we can handle it. And it's not like we can ignore the problem much longer… Severus? …Are you okay?"
"I'm not very hungry," he says, puts half a biscuit down on the tray, and crumples into a heap.
XXXXX
"Please be something for a sick person, be something for a sick person," Harry chants.
Severus hears the dumbwaiter hatch open.
"Soup! Soup and sandwiches—Severus, you think you can manage a little soup?"
He opens his mouth to ask what kind. Nothing comes out.
"Here. We'll get you propped up—have my pillow, too—okay. Can you try and eat?"
The soup is tomato. Harry feeds him one shallow spoonful at a time. He doesn't feel hungry, or nauseous, really—only tired.
"You want to try and sleep some more?" Harry kisses him and takes away the tray.
"Mm-hm." Severus smiles a little. No one is ever nice to him when he is sick.
XXXXX
Harry sits on the edge of bed, his wand and head in his hands.
"Harry?" Severus asks.
"I can't break the wards," he chokes out. "That absolute bastard. I can't break the wards."
XXXXX
"Wake up, Severus. There's orange juice from breakfast, there's tea. Don't know if you want to try the roast beef, but if you want there's toast left. You want to try the toast?"
He nods.
"Marmalade?"
"Yes, thank you."
"It's going to be all right, okay? You know that, don't you? It's going to be okay. This is probably—food poisoning, or—it was probably that quiche we had, remember, I thought it smelled off and gave mine to you? You'll be fine."
XXXXX
Severus wakes up.
He is warm. The room does not smell. On the night table sits a pot of tea, spout steaming merrily.
For a moment, he thinks he has died.
The chair has been pulled close. Harry dozes in it, clutching the newspaper in one hand and his wand in the other.
"Potter."
Harry wakes with a start. "Oh—you're up. Sorry, I—"
"Magic…?" he asks.
"We were past due for a warming charm—and—look, I already put out the magical equivalent of a neon sign trying to bust the wards, so I thought—I thought we might as well be clean and comfortable."
"Voldemort—"
"I know, I know—but—there's nothing—I'm not going to let you get any sicker."
"No, Potter. It's Voldemort," Severus says with some effort. He extends his arm. Harry seizes it and pulls up the sleeve, revealing the swollen Dark Mark.
"I don't understand. He can't attack you this way. He can't find you—he can't hurt you. The scattering charms—you're protected from—"
"It doesn't hurt." Severus shakes his head. He is tired, so tired of talking. He wants to have a cup of tea and go back to sleep. "Albus did what he could, but he could not destroy the mark."
"I don't understand."
"This is not a move against me, specifically," he says, his vision swimming with strange, ghostly images. "He's getting ready for battle. He is draining and absorbing his entire outer circle." Severus sees Potter's lips curled back in a furious sob. "There is still—a link, you see. …It doesn't hurt."
"Will he kill you?"
"He will take what he can. I do not imagine he will leave much behind." His eyelids feel very heavy. "It doesn't hurt," he promises.
"This isn't fair," Harry cries, crawling onto the bed and burying his face in the older wizard's chest. "He's not allowed to have you. He takes everyone—he's not allowed to have you—he's not allowed to take anyone else. He is not allowed to have you!"
"I'm sorry," Severus says.
XXXXX
He wakes up in agony, his pulse pounding in his temples. He is tired, so tired, and now that it hurts he can feel the magic leaving him, running out of him like blood from a wound. "Help me," he pleads, wondering why it hurts so much—it shouldn't hurt.
"I will," chimes a voice in his ear.
Now Severus can feel more magic, this time being poured into him—but it pours out, too, like sand through a sieve. "No—don't—not yours. He'll only take it—"
"That isn't my magic."
Severus opens his eyes. He sees the ceiling—and also a field, plumes of colored smoke, a castle—Hogwarts. "What are you doing?"
"He is not allowed to have you," Harry says, pushing more energy into him, faster and faster. "He takes everyone I love, everyone, and he thinks he can do it again—but I'm not going to let him. Not this time."
His vision clouds over—curses hit their targets, goblins swarm a charging manticore—"How are you—what are you—"
"A link doesn't work one way, Severus—you've got a link to him, he's got a link to me, and I've got a link to you."
"You're stealing his magic," Severus gasps. He sees—he sees what the Dark Lord sees, sees Voldemort falter in his advance. The magic pours out now at a trickle, but pours in like a waterfall.
"I'm taking yours back."
"No, you're—" Severus writhes along with Harry as Voldemort makes his anger felt. Sharp bolts of pain slice through the links, but the attack feels weak to Severus. He can see Voldemort kneeling in the dirt, shouting orders to his Lieutenants, and suddenly the Potions Master knows that this battle is not a slaughter—Hogwarts still stands, the front lines must be close—
Harry cries out—
And Severus reaches out through the link. He tastes copper in his mouth and folds his energy around the curse, around Voldemort's presence in the link, and clamps down, screaming like man who has stopped a sword blade with his bare hands.
There are no more sounds, no more visions, only magic pouring in and the full weight of Severus' hate pouring out, scissoring through the link and into the Dark Lord's mind. He batters at the shields there, cutting and scraping and prying—anything to distract him from the battle, to distract him from Harry—and when Voldemort fixes his slitted inner eyes on Severus, the snarky, sniveling Occlumens that had once cowered before him turns all his rage into an edge and stabs it home.
Voldemort severs the link.
Severus blinks and gasps. He tries to sit up in the bed, but can't. He feels physically exhausted, but magically—
Another flood of energy pushes into him. Severus turns his head.
Harry trembles and clutches his wand in both hands. "I can get more of it," his voice rasps. "I can try and get more of it. He's—he's wounded. Not only by you—before. He's weak—if I keep going—help me."
"How?"
"Hold on to me," he says. Severus heaves himself onto his side and wraps an arm around Harry's waist. "I'm taking as much of it as I can—but I don't think I can hold it all. I'm a little scared," he confesses. "I don't know if I can—"
"We don't know where or when or how. You don't have to kill him tonight."
"I'm going to try."