He remembers the night in July—early on, when they'd been convinced the waiting would end in a matter of days. He remembers feigning sleep. He remembers hearing the younger man creep into the bathroom at midnight and shut the door.
It was the first time he heard Potter sing.
"…Happy Birthday to me…"
And, being that he is a bit drunk (and therefore sentimental), Severus Snape stays awake on this same night—one year later, and—April, May, June, July—nearly four months since he'd fled Hogwarts.
Severus' birthday is in January. He'd never celebrated the day; if his mother remarked upon it, it was to remind him that his passage into the world hadn't been an easy one.
Why Potter's birthday is important—is not clear. That particular Gryffindor's fixation with dates—this holiday, that holiday, one of the Weasels' birthdays, Halloween, Christmas—
The word 'Anniversary' floats through his mind and settles on the tip of his tongue. Severus washes it down his throat with a pull of foggy amber liquid. It is a special mixture—part cheap firewhiskey, part cheap fizzing gin, run the foul garbage through a few filters, mix with a liberal dose of Gandismash's Best, let sit twelve minutes, stir one full rotation clockwise each minute, add sixteen miniature marshmallows per serving, flash heating charm—serve right away, preferably in a thick mug.
Severus doesn't have a mug. Or the marshmallows. He gets by without.
This is generally the way of things.
"Very silly," he mutters, and sips again from the beaker. His glassware does double duty these days. He hasn't bothered with all the trappings of domestic life; shopping for a set of dishes seems more a task for a young, rosy-cheeked witch with someone waiting at home.
The fire burns low, the flame hinting at yellow.
XXXXX
He works through the rest of the night.
An amethyst bottle is selected from his collection. He hasn't invested in many decorative bottles—one or two, for aphrodisiacs and the like. Wishful thinking on his part—he hasn't had a commission even bordering on romantic.
Point of fact, few of them border on legal. But he doesn't mind so much.
He has promised himself that he will take only the orders he wants to take—the challenging commissions—the potions whose demands stretch the limits of his endurance and ability. But so far—in the interest of establishing a base of clients—(and because brewing keeps him from unraveling)—he has taken every commission.
Hercady's Cloud of Conflagration sits in a warded bottle on the edge of his windowsill, labeled and ready for delivery. Severus suggests in a detailed packet of instructions that the solution might best be applied with a lead-lined plant mister while wearing as much dragonhide as possible. He thinks of Neville Longbottom whenever he writes out labels, making sure to explain even that which common sense should dictate.
The amethyst bottle is delicate, curved. Lovely. Too lovely, really. A plain glass bottle would more than suffice. To send amethyst would be sending a message—it would say, 'I am trying.'
He decants the evening's work into the… the amethyst bottle. The stopper is replaced carefully.
In elegant script, Severus writes out a label and directions. With a shaking hand, Severus turns over the card and writes the words—
'As I am sure you will receive nothing but frivolous gifts, I am compelled to send something practical. Happy Birthday, Mister Potter. No doubt this year will be better than the last.
Yours,
Severus Snape.'
On the fire, the log snaps in two, collapsing and killing the flame. The parlor darkens, lit only by glowing coals.
He attaches the card around the neck of the bottle with a length of ribbon and drops his chin into his hands.
He blinks at the card and the attached bottle, and finally forces himself to place it on the windowsill with the other orders.
On second thought…
Severus throws open the window and whistles. He hears the flutter of wings and holds the bottle aloft. "This goes tonight," he calls. "Waiting for a reply… is not necessary."
XXXXX
He wakes.
Slight break in the routine—Severus goes to the window and checks for messages. Nothing.
"You said no reply," he mutters, and heads back to the bathroom.
He relieves himself, he washes, he brushes. In the mirror, he finds another gray hair and spells it black. One excellent feature of the cottage is that it has quiet furniture. The one bit that speaks to him is the icebox, and then Severus only receives terse communications like—"Milk's gone off." The bathroom mirror never says a word, not even when he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep.
Severus looks at his reflection and doesn't frown. He is beginning to get old—the lines on his face seem more pronounced, the gray keeps invading. The first signs are there. He wonders what he will look like in twenty years, thirty. Snape never expected he'd be in a position to get old. He doubts he will have laugh lines like the Headmaster's.
He wonders if Potter will.
The bathroom is smaller than the one he and Potter shared. It has also seen more use. The porcelain of the sink has been cracked and inexpertly repaired so that a basin full of water will drip, drip, drip onto the equally cracked tile below. A small, wooden cabinet adheres to the wall over the toilet—Severus transfigured it himself (which is why the second shelf isn't quite level). It holds a variety of common ingredients. Where a tub would normally sit, Severus has placed three cauldrons. He checks the heating charm on the first, adds a drop of saltwater, and replaces the lid. The second belches a puff of sweet-smelling steam when uncovered; he stirs it six times counterclockwise. The third, his largest cauldron, holds a thick, navy blue substance the consistency of tar.
Severus sighs and stares into the cauldron. The tar-like goop should be a pale blue color—and more akin to custard in thickness. Such a waste. If he'd been attending to it last night instead of mooning all evening—
"You said no reply." An internal battle wages.
Dignity slain, he goes to check the window again.
XXXXX
'Dear Mister Potter'—
No.
'Mister Potter,"—
Better.
'With regards to the delivery of the Dreamless Sleep Concentrate'—
Bloody—sounds like a shipping confirmation.
'Mister Potter,
I hope this message finds you well.'—
Clarify?—I hope you are well and that this message finds you?
It's Potter. Don't over-think. He won't.
'You are, I am sure, swamped by well-wishers, bootlickers, and sycophants; I will take it as read that you no longer have time for petty concerns such as keeping up with correspondence. I have little time for it myself these days.'—
"Even a fool wouldn't believe this." Severus pushes the chair away from his desk, abandoning the sixth draft.
Muted sunlight shines through the curtains. A corkboard attached to the wall of the parlor is divided into three sections—new commissions, current projects, and orders to be shipped. Each piece of parchment is held by a thumbtack and moved across the board accordingly. Completed commissions go into the file—payment is deposited in the biscuit tins under the kitchen sink. He keeps strict accounts in an impenetrable code in the margins of a bookshop bargain bin acquisition entitled 'Wonders of the World.' The owls make deliveries in the mornings and bring his mail from a postal box in the nearest wizarding town, Latchkey-by-the-Sea.
He has been to the town twice, both times under the effects of polyjuice. Miserable town full of miserable idiots, but with an excellent bakery and a decent (if dusty) secondhand shop where he'd bought most of his furniture.
He works, he eats, he sleeps, he reads—every morning he gets out of bed, makes tea, has a scone—without butter.
It is a simple life.
But it is his own.
XXXXX
He hadn't meant to buy a cottage.
Severus has always hated staying at inns. He never knows where the sheets have been, and no amount of scouring charms can rid him of the foul feeling of rubbing his body in some stranger's sebaceous discharges. He'd decided to look for a cheap, out-of-the-way flat—and that was when he'd seen the advert.
He knew it backward and forward. He and Potter both must've read it dozens of times in the paper they'd brought into the room. After nearly a year, the same listing was still running.
Severus didn't believe it was fate. But he did believe in his negotiating leverage with a seller who obviously couldn't move the property.
He'd got it for a song.
It is worth about that much.
It lurks at the bottom of a small cliff. When approached from the front, the cottage looks a bit like it had been built on top of the cliff and had somehow slipped over the edge. Its angles are uneven. The windows don't completely fit their frames.
Severus likes to think it tried to leap to its demise. Goodbye cruel world—crunch.
He'd never owned his own home—it had seemed advisable to start small. Four rooms—kitchen, parlor, bedroom, bathroom. A shed set off to the side of the yard for the owls.
The walls and floors are warped—Severus places old texts underneath the legs of his desk and cauldron stands—even the claw-footed bathtub next to his desk in the parlor is propped up by a copy of Potions Quarterly.
Living alone does have its perks.
He bathes near the warmth of the fire in the parlor. He decides when to wake, when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, when to read—he finds that he feels better if he starts his day at eight o'clock in the morning instead of six. Lunch around one, tea throughout the day, supper at six-thirty, a little something to tide him over later on. Deliveries and shopping lists off in the morning, bit of cleaning, housework, test the wards, set up the day's commissions—
The routine is important. Getting out of bed is important.
Sometimes—he can't.
Severus checks the windowsill again. Still no note from Potter—though he did say not to wait for a response.
"Madness," he pronounces, and goes out to send the day's commissions.
XXXXX
"Acrimony—the utmost care." The screech owl inspects the package containing the bottle of Conflagration, notes the address, and swoops away.
"Cyclops. Hazard. Iniquity. Keelhaul." One by one, his owls drop from their perches and take away their deliveries. Cyclops, Singe, and Osrick, his owls from Hogwarts, have collected the others—or so he assumes. Severus does not know if the new owls are refugees from the castle or simply strays. Most households won't give up an owl easily—and vice versa. "Osrick. Quagmire. Singe. Wedgewood. …Wedgewood. …Wedgewood? Hasn't she returned…?"
Singe shakes his speckled head and hoots.
XXXXX
He checks the shed twice during the simmering stage of a simple batch of knockoff Pogre-Bane.
No owl. No message. Nothing.
The shadow of the cliff steals over the cottage.
XXXXX
That night, he wakes to a screech and the scrabble of talons.
"Nox." The lamp winks out.
Severus rolls out of bed and creeps into the parlor.
A squat, gray owl with gnarled claws beats against the glass. Wedgewood.
He is at the parlor window in four long strides. Severus pulls it open; the owl shoots past him and alights on his desk. A chill wind startles his papers.
Wedgewood carries nothing. She trembles.
Severus shuts the window. "What? What happened? Were you attacked? Was the potion intercepted?"
The screech owl hides her head under her wing.
"What? What does that mean? Remind me to make up a form for the lot of you to fill out—check box one if potion exploded—check box two if client refused to pay…" He shivers at the chill and fetches his dressing gown from the hook on the bedroom door. Summers are supposed to be warm. "Unseasonable temperatures… Are you wounded?"
Wedgewood shakes her head and resumes hiding under her wing.
"What?" barks Severus. For all that he likes owls, they can be ruddy annoying. "…What?" he asks again.
The owl looks to the window.
For a moment, the crickets outside are as loud as thunder.
And suddenly—a thud—
—and the sound of heels sliding in gravel.
His breath catches. "Accio wand," Severus whispers.
The wand flies into his hand as his back hits the corkboard. A few of his pinned commission letters tumble to the floor. He holds his breath. A cough threatens to rise.
There are people hunting him, Severus knows. There are people who believe he is a hero—there are wizards and witches who would shake his hand if they met him on the street. And then there are those who believe that he is quite possibly the greatest traitor the wizarding world has ever known.
He hasn't dueled in over a year.
Oddly, he is not afraid. If they've found him—well, they've found him.
Good.
Severus reaches for the doorknob. A curse settles on his lips.
"…Hello…?" calls a voice.
His eyes widen. His throat closes. Severus flattens himself against the wall.
"Hello…?"
"Had to lose your mind… had to send a gift… you just had to," he whispers. Severus shakes his head and forces his mouth shut. No more drinking. Never again.
"Hullo…?" calls the familiar voice. Still clear, bell-like. Not much for singing. "…I saw a light! Hello!"
The cottage has no back door. Severus is not on the floo network. His anti-apparition wards are extensive.
He's been caught.
"Hello!" The front door shakes with the force of the knock. His wards crackle—but if Potter was only delayed for a few seconds by his perimeter, Snape doesn't stand a chance in the cottage. He imagines Harry picking apart the little house plank by plank—or levitating the shack into the air and shaking it until its resident falls out.
Wedgewood hops to the edge of the desk and peers at him.
"Oh, you ridiculous creature," he hisses. "Couldn't even manage a proper death squad, could you? Oh, no—you had to bring Harry Bloody Potter."
"Hello? Hello!" The shouts are accompanied by the same pounding knock.
Oh, fine, then—if he won't leave well enough alone—
As Severus moves to grip the doorknob, it twists viciously under his hand. First right, then left. Footsteps march away, then back again.
"Alohomora! …Alohomora! Alohomora!" The last is delivered in a panicked screech.
The wards shudder—and hold.
Severus coughs.
The voice outside is silent.
He takes a deep breath. "…It's warded," Severus calls through the front door. "Wait. …One moment." The deadbolt slides open easily under his fingers. "I refuse to use the names of sweets," he says. The password is accepted; the wards recede.
Bugger.
He opens the door.
XXXXX
It isn't much consolation, but Severus notes that Potter is at least as rattled as he is.
One hand clutches the handle of a racing broom in a death grip. The other is buried in the pocket of his golden dress robes. They swish expensively as Harry shifts from one foot to the other. Potter looks taller, too—ah-ha. New boots—not dragonhide, but with the same sort of texture—and a slight heel. His cheeks are flushed. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead is pale and white. He might've stepped straight off the cover of Witch Weekly.
"Your hair still looks terrible," Severus says.
Potter stands on the gravel path in front of the tiny, ugly cottage and stares.
Snape stares back. "…Yes?"
Crickets chirp. For a moment, Severus is not sure whether Potter is going to speak or pass out.
"I'm supposed to be at a party—it's my birthday—of course you know, you sent me—thank you for the—thank you for my present," he expels in a rush. From his pocket, Potter draws out the amethyst bottle. It fits into the palm of his hand.
"Welcome." Severus offers a curt nod. He tries not to turn scarlet with embarrassment. The annoyance and cultivated pallor help.
Seconds tick by.
Harry replaces the potion in the pocket of his dress robes.
"…Tea?" Severus finally offers, because he has no idea what to say.
"Yeah—that would be—good—if you're not—I mean—if you aren't—did I wake you?" His brows furrow.
"Of course not." Severus turns and walks back through the doorway—commission letters on the floor, a trembling owl trying to sandwich herself between the desk and the wall, the bathtub with scrubbing brush and soap balanced on the rim (making it completely indefensible as a cauldron substitute). "I haven't had time to straighten," he mutters, and feels unbearably ridiculous—standing in the warped doorway in his tatty black dressing gown and nightshirt—with his enormous, hooked nose and his graying hair—
"I didn't know you were going to leave," blurts Potter suddenly.
The taller wizard turns.
The toe of Harry's boot kicks at the gravel. "I didn't know you were going to leave—that day. I didn't know what was going on. They told me you were all right—that you got us out—and then everyone was joking like I'd just spent months taking NEWT-level Potions. You never even bothered to tell anyone we were—" A moment's hesitation. "Friends."
Snape bristles. "And because of that omission, I am here instead of hanging from a tree by my neck. Romantic as it might be for me to declare my intentions toward a boy two decades younger who lies unconscious and unable to provide a counterpoint to the—"
"Don't you dare call me a boy." Potter's eyes flash. "I'm not the one who ran away!"
"I did not run, Mister Potter. I walked—at a rather leisurely pace. No one came after me."
"You never told me you were leaving! You never—you just left—you just left!" That wild, screeching quality comes back—in the gold robes, Harry resembles an agitated Fawkes.
Severus folds his arms. "Yes. I did."
"How can you…?" Harry splutters. "Do you have any idea what it was like—waking up, seeing everyone there, hearing the war is over, all the celebrating—hearing that the Headmaster is dead—and then you were just—gone."
"I'm sorry—was that a question?" Severus paces back out onto the front step. "Have you come to make accusations, or did you require some other service?" Crickets. The moon is a pale sliver in the sky. "Here on behalf of your surrogate godfather? Tell him I don't do Wolfsbane anymore."
"I'm not here for Remus." Potter's nostrils flare. "I came to thank you."
"You have." His voice is cold. "Anything further?"
"Why didn't you at least say we were friends?"
"Because we weren't friends, Mister Potter—and I doubt we will ever be—friends." Severus turns on his heel and goes back into the cottage, threading his way through the thumbtacks and papers on the floor to the kitchen.
Something inside him sinks—and then Severus hears the soft thunk of boots on the floorboards.
He fills the kettle.
XXXXX
They have tea at the little table in the corner of the kitchen. It isn't quite level; every time Potter rests his elbow, it tilts. "Sorry."
"Haven't gotten around to transfiguring it yet. …I don't usually use the table at all. Not much call for a formal sit-down." A saucer of biscuits rests in the center of the table next to the kettle. Severus starts to reach for one, but then sees Potter's hand move—and then Potter looks at him and puts his hand down again. The biscuits sit untouched.
"I eat with the Aurors that guard me, mostly. Sometimes Remus or Bill will be there. Ron and Hermione, every now and then."
"How lovely, that you still mingle with the commoners."
Potter puckers his lips and blows on the tea. "Are you that angry with me, or are you just uncomfortable?"
He tightens one hand on the tie of his dressing gown and wishes Potter had come in the daytime like a normal person. "Don't feign maturity—you do it poorly. It is hardly impressive, and makes you seem insincere." Severus hopes he does not shatter his own teacup. Potter's elbow hits the table again and it makes him jump.
"Sorry." Harry reaches for a biscuit. This time, the approach is successful. "I…" He takes a bite, chews, swallows. "…Should I go?"
No. "If you fancy flying back to Hogwarts in the middle of the night, be my guest."
"I'm not at Hogwarts."
"Oh? Back in the Hole with the Weasels?"
This time Harry has the good sense to roll his eyes. "I'm not at the Burrow, either. They've got me in a secure location—supposedly secure, anyway. When your owl found me, the Aurors had a fit. It was pretty funny, actually. …How did your owl find me?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Maybe the Headmistress sent it on—if it wound up at Hogwarts."
"Perhaps." Headmistress, indeed. Severus drains his cup and pours himself another. A few drops splatter on the table as he picks up the kettle. Harry leans over and wipes them with his sleeve. "Are we a house elf?"
"We're thinking about it. We don't really know what to do—we're keeping our options open," Harry says with a straight face. Severus thinks for a moment that he might be serious.
"They haven't asked you to play professional Quidditch yet?"
"Matter of fact, no. Though I'm sure I'd have offers if anyone had spotted me tracking your owl. I haven't flown like that in… a year?"
"I'm amazed they allowed you outside."
Harry nibbles at the biscuit. "These are good. What kind are they?"
"Plain shortbread. …Mister Potter—"
"They don't let me out." Potter chews. "I like these when they have the little blob of jam in the middle." He swallows. "I sit in a room. I have more to read, I get to see people, I'm not strictly forbidden to use magic—only mildly forbidden—and everyone looks at me like I've grown three heads." Harry goes quiet for a moment. "…These are really good—where do you get them?" Potter indicates the biscuits.
Severus relaxes just a little. They are both good at talking about food. "Bakery in town."
"Town?"
"Vaguely west, over the rise. Latchkey-by-the-Sea. Don't look at me—I didn't name it. I go on Sundays—do the shopping."
"No one recognizes you? They've printed your picture almost as much as—"
"Polyjuice."
"Oh. Right. You. Potions. …I keep missing the obvious. Going soft." Potter's voice cracks.
Severus looks up from his cup and sees a blurred reflection. Dark, wild hair—skin the color of milk. "Well… now you've the time."
"Yeah." Potter turns a piece of biscuit over and over. "…I didn't know you were going to leave. I thought I'd—I thought there must've been a reason you didn't tell anyone about—you know—and I figured we'd get a chance to talk later—I didn't know you were going to lea—" Harry's voice catches for an instant. "We never talked about what if… about what would happen when we got out."
"No, Mister Potter, we did not." He looks into his teacup, and knows Potter is doing the same. Severus is tired. Two cups of tea, and he can still feel the exhaustion in his bones. He rubs his eyes with his fingers.
"I knew I woke you."
"In the middle of the night? You think?"
"Don't get mad at me. Next time do something sensible—like send directions and an invitation. Have you ever tried to tail an owl on a broom in the dark? And she was trying to lose me—it's not easy."
"Perhaps I didn't want to be found, Mister Potter."
"You sent me a present and signed your name. From you, that's begging." Potter's cup clatters on the table.
Harry has always had a talent for rubbing at Severus' raw spots. The older wizard takes his feet. "Enough of this, Potter. I have work in the morning." He begins clearing the table.
"What work?"
"I brew on commission. Owl order potions. Mostly poisons."
"Oh. …Is that going well?"
"So far."
"…I'm glad."
"It's an odd fact—wartime, peacetime—no matter which, poisons do a brisk trade."
"I wouldn't know." Harry hands over his half-filled cup. Severus does not use it as an excuse to touch him.
"Well. It was never your subject of choice."
"True." Harry folds his hands in his lap. "…The Headmaster once told me that when you were a student, you asked him to give you a full year of independent study."
Memory springs unexpectedly. "I was sixteen. Half my classes were with Gryffindors—no offense."
Harry snorts softly.
"I was working on a potion to kill dragons. …I was going to be the youngest wizard ever to present the keynote speech at EuroPotion." Severus steps to the sink. His kitchen is smaller than the parlor. Severus thinks muggles must have lived here once—or muggle-borns, at any rate. The sink is embedded in a length of counter next to the icebox. On the other side is an old cooker. All are thoroughly charmed for wizarding use. Cabinets line the wall above—they hold his glassware and the few poisons from his personal collection that he wasn't able to sell in Knockturn Alley.
"Why did you want to kill dragons?"
"Because no one else did. Not with potions." He thinks of the Headmaster then—of squirming in the chair across from his desk and feeling like an idiot child after asking. Dumbledore hadn't even read his written proposal. He'd said something about social skills and participation, about the proper pursuits of a sixteen-year-old boy. Lemon drop, pat on the head, run along now.
Severus finds his teeth are clenched. Three decades later, that memory still leaves him furious.
"Why not?"
"Easier ways to go about it. Get it asleep, knock its brains out—that's the usual method. There hasn't been an efficient potion created to kill a dragon—or at least, kill a dragon without destroying or contaminating all those valuable parts. Dragonhide is impervious to nearly every potion—and I say nearly because there may be one we've not yet discovered—which means there can be no topical application. Vapor delivery systems are impractical—you would need a closed area, a concentrated dose—and the temperature inside a dragon's lungs—" Severus stops and looks down at the mismatched cups in his hands. He is not lecturing. He is no longer a teacher.
"Severus..? Are you okay?"
"Fine. …Tired."
"So am I. …You should know. I didn't tell anyone either. About—you and me. So I really can't get mad at you for that part. But you still shouldn't have left like that. …I guess I should—go." Potter does not move.
Severus searches for a breath. "I imagine saviors of the wizarding world do have appointments to keep."
"I don't have appointments. …There's this thing I have to do Saturday. Otherwise, I'm free. More or less." Harry steals the tiniest of glances at him.
"Do what you like, Mister Potter. You always have."
"What would you like?"
"To go to bed," he replies honestly.
"Right." Harry does not move from the table. "…I'll—go, then." He rises from the table. It wobbles back and forth.
The door of the icebox becomes fascinating. "Of course—you might stay. Tonight. Dangerous to fly while tired. Over unfamiliar territory and all." He does not state the obvious—which is that Potter could fly outside the wards and apparate to wherever he is going.
The younger wizard seems to be giving the observation careful consideration. "They said it was going to rain tonight."
"No more sure way to risk one's life than flying in a lightning storm."
"Maybe I should stay over." Potter nods.
"Perhaps it's best." Severus echoes the movement. "The—the bathroom is through the bedroom. Mind you don't jostle the cauldrons. You'll find a nightshirt in the second drawer of the dresser—your choice of white or gray. I am afraid I have nothing in gold."
Harry snorts. "You have no idea how sick of gold I am." He hovers in the doorway. "…Are you coming?"
"I'll be along in a few minutes."
"Okay."
The kettle is rinsed—the cups—the biscuits go back in the tin. The saucer. Severus goes to the parlor and removes a slim volume from the bookshelves—'Arithmancy for Idiots'—and puts it under the table leg. He wipes down the table, pads out to the parlor, and lets his owl out. Papers are picked up—thumbtacks are collected.
Potter's broom leans on the wall next to the front door.
XXXXX
Harry's glasses rest on the nightstand along with his wand and the amethyst bottle. When Severus steps into the room, Potter's eyes open and the green gaze hovers in his direction. His nightshirts are a bit long on Potter—the younger wizard wears the sleeves rolled. His head rests on the edge of the pillow. Harry's back is at the wall. The corner of the covers have been pulled back in welcome.
Potter watches him take off the dressing gown and place it on its hook. "Do you keep the lamp on?" He motions at a decorative sunset-colored lamp hanging above the bed—Severus' one less-than-utilitarian purchase from the secondhand store.
"Occasionally. I've only been here a few weeks—don't want to trip over something in the dark." It isn't quite a lie.
Harry pushes back his sleeve and raises a hand. He flicks his fingers as if he held his wand. The lamp glows. The younger wizard settles back down. "…I don't need a wand. I still use one in front of the Aurors, but—I don't need it."
"Nor do I." Severus is frighteningly conscious of his movements. He forgets how to just toss himself into bed—it has never been something he has had to stop and consider. He tries sitting on the edge of the bed first, then slipping his legs under the covers—lying back—good—there.
"Don't let me hog the pillow," Harry says, and suddenly he is very, very close—pressed up right alongside, as if they had never been apart.
Severus lifts his head as Potter arranges the pillow for both of them. "I should get another."
"Might be a good idea. In case of any more inclement weather." Harry yawns.
"…Good word."
"…You say it."
"Inclement."
Harry curls up close. "Good night."
"Good night. …No dreams."
"No dreams."
They are both still for a few moments, and then Severus turns on his side and throws an arm around Potter's waist, pulling him closer.
XXXXX
In the morning, Potter is not gone. Gone from the bed, yes, but Severus finds him in the kitchen.
Harry stands at the counter. "I made eggs," he says, and motions toward a frying pan that Severus does not remember having. He also notices that 'Arithmancy for Idiots' has been moved to the counter. An inspection of his wobbling kitchen table reveals that it is now made of a dark, glossy wood that Severus does not believe is found in nature. Its legs all hit the uneven floor perfectly.
"I'm pretty good at transfiguration now."
"So it would seem. …How long did that take you?"
"Couple of minutes. Or so. Not long."
Severus scratches his forearm. The spot where the Dark Mark once pulsed tingles occasionally.
"I think I can put it back the way it was, if you want."
He shrugs one shoulder. "This one is—it will serve."
"I should warn you—I did the legs on your desk and your bathtub."
"Oh." Briefly he considers a defense of said bathtub's location. But if Potter doesn't seem to want to use it to needle him…
"Have a seat," Potter says, and busies himself at the counter.
Severus notices that Potter has done the chairs to match. "…Better at transfiguration."
"Yeah—I wish I could go back and retake my exams. Here you go. Scrambled eggs, ala Potter." Harry serves him a generous heap of fluffy yellow eggs on a white plate. Two glasses of juice follow.
Severus has been eating out of cartons and drinking out of beakers. He does not have a frying pan, a spatula, plates, or proper juice glasses. "Tell me you didn't transfigure the food."
Harry sets a plate of toast and a jar of marmalade on the table to complete the spread. "Nope. Otherwise we'd have bacon. Go on. Eat."
Severus lifts an unfamiliar silver fork into the air and arches a brow at Potter, who is too busy spreading marmalade on toast and avoiding his gaze to see it.
There are a lot of things they should talk about, he knows. Questions about the nature of their relationship, present and future. And he would ask those questions—except that it is strange and exceedingly comfortable to watch Potter eat eggs, a little marmalade on toast—and then to see the face he makes when he puts the eggs on the marmalade on the toast and decides that it is not an idea whose time has come.
They are both given to quiet.
XXXXX
Despite the fact that Potter is now rested, fed, and a few wisps of cloud litter the sunny sky, neither of them mentions his leaving.
Routine. Breakfast, wash, brush, dress, check the cauldrons—
"All of this is poison?"
"Not that one."
"What's that one?"
"A sugar mixture to attract small animals to the poison. I'll add it afterward."
"When you say small animals—you don't mean children, right?"
Out to the shed with the deliveries—
Osrick, as it turns out, is not a boy.
"Hedwig! I can't believe—Hedwig! I thought you were—you utter bastard, you stole my owl! Come here, girl—"
Severus folds his arms while Harry rolls around with his owl. From her perch, Wedgewood mimics his stance and shakes her head disapprovingly. Snape frowns at her. "You're the one who led him here. Potter—mind his—her—wing. It's only a few weeks mended."
"It was broken?" he asks. "You broke your wing, girl?" Harry talks to his owl like it is going to talk back.
Severus allocates deliveries to the rest of his owls, lips twitching as the reunion and one-sided conversation continue.
XXXXX
"Do you want me to make lunch?" Harry hasn't changed back into his gold robes and new boots. He pads around barefoot, still wearing the nightshirt. In deference to the daylight, he has added a pair of Severus' trousers.
Severus neatly skins a shrivelfig at his worktable in the parlor. He works in his shirtsleeves. "You are not a house elf."
"I know. But you're—busy—and I'm free. And it's been a while since I cooked for someone, so—"
"Where did you learn to cook?"
"Books, mostly. And my Aunt." He makes a face. "But her idea of seasoning is to add a bucket of salt. So can I make you something?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Cup of tea?"
Severus inclines his head once.
Potter brings him the tea a few minutes later. As Snape's hands are not clean, Harry leaves the cup and saucer at his elbow and wanders away.
Severus can hear Potter moving through the house. Likely he is touching things, reading things, opening drawers—
When his preparations are finished, Severus washes his hands and sips the not-quite-cold tea. It has only a little milk in it—just the way he likes it.
XXXXX
The bathroom sink is fixed. So is the second shelf of the cabinet.
There is nothing malevolent about the way Potter breathes into the pillow.
Severus feels the sudden impulse to wake him and demand to know exactly what he thinks he is doing here. Potter must have some ulterior motive. What could he be after? Harry has friends—bright, well-adjusted witches and wizards who must shower him with affection, attention, gifts.
"…What's wrong?" One green eye opens.
Severus realizes that he has been staring—possibly for some time. "Nothing."
"Something about summer. Good for afternoon naps. Sunshine makes me sleepy." His voice is raspy.
"Not all the transfiguration?"
"You kidding? I could make you a castle and I wouldn't be tired."
"Really."
Potter smirks up at him. His languorous shifting leaves Severus with a glimpse of skin where the nightshirt rides up. His trousers are snug on Potter, and also too long—the cuffs puddle around his ankles. "You want a castle?"
"Not particularly. Think of the upkeep."
"You could get a house elf."
"I don't want a house elf." At some point during the exchange, Severus notes that his own voice has dropped to mirror Potter's.
"What do you want?"
"…You're very fond of that question, Mister Potter."
"Would it kill you to call me Harry again?"
"What are you doing here?" he whispers harshly.
"You want me to leave?"
"I didn't say that."
"Say something. …You're so quiet." Potter reaches out for one of his hands.
Severus lets himself be drawn down onto the bed, its sheets still crumpled from the night before. "I'm not, really. Quiet."
"Maybe it just seems that way—been a little while." Potter reclines on his back, pulling Severus' arm across his waist. The fingers of their joined hands lace. "You know… We're supposed to be celebrating. I know the war still isn't officially over, but…"
"Haven't been in the mood." Severus reasons that as long as Potter has his pillow, it is all right to use Harry's stomach as a substitute. Potter's body has that sort of amplified warmth found only in sleepers. The potion maker's feet hang off the edge of the bed—even when he tucks his knees up.
"Me neither." Harry's free hand runs through his hair. "You've got silver."
"I'm very old."
Harry combs gently. "Positively ancient." He stifles a yawn.
"Are we boring you, Mister Potter?"
"No," he says, and sticks out his tongue. "Your bed is comfortable," he murmurs. Potter closes his eyes. "I'm just going to lie here for the rest of my life. That all right?"
Severus imagines Potter sleeping for decades—vines creeping over him, his hair graying, the Weasels putting Potter in a glass case and holding a constant vigil. "We've earned a rest."
"Says Mister Bought-a-House-Started-a-Business."
"One—it's not a very good house. Two—it's not a very good business."
"But you're doing something. I sleep half the day. More, sometimes. Get nothing accomplished."
"You do know—I'm doing all this out of spite." Severus can hear the rumble of his voice against Potter's belly.
"What?"
"Nothing infuriates your enemies more than success. It sounds good, don't you think? 'What have you been up to, you greasy old traitor?' 'I've been out on the coast, renovating the cottage—'"
"You know people don't think of you like that anymore."
"Yes, they do."
"No, they don't."
Really, there is no point in arguing with Potter over his delusions. "Fine."
"…Are you okay?"
He means to say yes.
"Want to take a nap with me?"
This time, he does.