Mature content - read with discretion
Chapter 3
Harry had, actually, 'read ahead', as Snape had put it. In fact, by the time he saw Snape again, he had already finished chapter 3.
"Well?" Snape asked, "How did you find it?"
"Useful," Harry admitted grudgingly.
"I thought you might," Snape said with an air of superiority. "Now, do you find yourself identifying particularly with any of the three stages about which you have recently read?"
"I'm not sure," Harry admitted, although less grudgingly this time.
"I would have thought," Snape leaned forward in his armchair, "that the fact you have failed to replace the pictures with your wife around your house and – forgive me if I assume too much – the fact that you have not gone through her things, would have alerted you to the fact that you are most evidently in the state of denial."
Harry looked at him but said nothing.
"Although," Snape continued, "perhaps your argument with your sons over Christmas places you somewhat in the anger phase."
Harry remained silent.
"You may find that writing down your thoughts will help you organize what you are feeling, and make it easier to talk about, if you wish to do so. This, I also highly recommend. I am more than willing to listen, although if you prefer not to share your innermost feelings with me, I would certainly understand. But I suggest sincerely that you find someone with whom you are comfortable. I assure you, things will move along much more quickly if you gather the courage to discuss them aloud. With someone."
"Things?" Harry inquired, "Move along?"
"Processing your grief," Snape clarified. "If you are to resume a normal life and enjoy it, you must do so – and sooner rather than later."
Harry remained silent, looking down at the table, keenly aware that Snape's eyes were on him. "It hurts," he whispered, not sure if it was loud enough for Snape to hear.
"I know," Snape responded, equally as quiet.
They sat like that for a while, Harry staring at the table, Snape staring at Harry. Finally, Snape stood and cleared his throat. "Upon my return, I shall expect an update on your progress."
Harry nodded, felt Snape brush by him, heard him retrieve his cloak from the wall and shut the door behind him.
Harry did, indeed, begin writing down the things that were going through his head. He wouldn't exactly call them feelings, but they did seem to help ease his pain, as though the writing was an outlet for the jumble that was rattling around inside him. He even fire-called Hermione one night to ask her over to talk. He knew she would be the one that could listen, impartially, without trying to offer unsolicited advice. He told her about the book, and about his conversations with Snape. By the third time he had spoken with her, he was nearly done with the book and had filled two entire journals with his writing.
"You seem better, Harry," she had said, before she went home. "Really," she squeezed his shoulder, "I think this really is doing you some good."
The next day, he decided that it was time to tackle the inevitable. The first thing he did was go into the attic and take down the box of picture frames. He opened the box on the couch, but when he saw the first photo, he felt the air whoosh out of his chest like he'd been kicked in the gut. He dropped the photo back into the box and screwed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to the side of his head. He took several deep breaths and steeled himself before opening his eyes back up, picking up the photo again, turning around, and placing it back on the mantle where it belonged. He continued, frame by frame, room by room, until the box was empty. He had no idea how he made it through in one piece, but he felt a pronounced sense of relief when it was done.
He went into the bedroom to undertake the other task he knew had to be done. He got through half her clothes in the closet, packing them into a donation box, and then decided to take a break and work on the dresser. His eyes were drawn to a small, pink, glass bottle with a stopper: her perfume. He picked it up and raised it to his face. He slowly removed the stopper and inhaled the fragrance that wafted out. It hit him like a train at full speed. His hands shook nearly uncontrollably as he put the stopper back in and set the bottle back on the dresser; he barely registered his eyes prickling as the water filled them. He nearly fell over as he backed into the bed, where he sat down, tore off his glasses, buried his face in his hands, and was overcome with body-heaving sobs.
That was how Snape found him later that evening. He had knocked, but received no response. Sensing something was off, he let himself in, only to hear what sounded suspiciously like crying coming from upstairs. He didn't even bother to take off his cloak as he made his way up, following the sound to its source. On his way there, he catalogued the presence of the picture frames replaced around the house. The scene made complete sense as he entered the bedroom and found Harry hunched over, body wracked with convulsions, his hands completely wet with tears.
It was a statement of how immersed in grief Harry was that he didn't flinch when Snape sat down on the bed next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Harry didn't even open his eyes to see who it was, but turned instinctively into the welcome body and shifted so he could bury his head into the shoulder and wrap his arms around the person's back to cry uncontrollably. The presence of another person seemed to bring on a fresh round of tears, and Snape lost track of time as he held on to Harry, embracing him and resting his cheek on the top of Harry's head.
Finally, after what had surely been hours, Harry's sobs subsided. Realizing consciously now that someone was with him, he pulled back, expecting to see Ron, since he was very aware the person with him was male. He quickly dropped his hands and scooted several inches away, though, when he realized who it really was.
"Severus, I…" Harry was completely stunned. "I'm sorry," he apologized, staring at the enormous wet stain on the shoulder of Snape's cloak.
"Whatever for?" Snape asked.
"I didn't…know it was you," Harry shook his head.
"I'm sorry this distresses you," Snape replied sardonically.
"No," Harry hastily clarified, "I'm not…distressed…about you. I've just…I've ruined your cloak, and probably made you a bit uncomfortable."
Snape bit back a smirk, attempting sympathy – though being sympathetic towards Harry was almost a challenge. "You clearly don't remember, but I was the one chose to comfort you – you did not…attack me. And I'm reasonably sure my cloak will survive."
"I didn't hear you come in," Harry said, looking down at his hands.
"I surmised as much," Snape replied.
"I started…cleaning…her things…it was…her perfume," Harry managed to force out. "The smell of her, it…I don't know what it did to me, exactly."
"It unlocked the emotions you have been repressing for quite some time, Harry. Is this the first time you've cried for her?"
Harry looked up, stone-still. The use of his first name by Snape was something he could not remember ever happening. Ever. His brain finally registered that Snape had asked him a question.
"Yeah, I think so."
"Let me assure you, it will not be the last. But," Snape replied in a reassuring tone, "I believe this means you are well on your way to healing. Mrs. Weasley infoms me that your discussions with her have seemed to help you immensely. Have you been recording your thoughts?"
Harry nodded. "Did Hermione tell you what we talked about?" Harry felt he wouldn't really mind, but there was a twinge of annoyance that he hoped she had kept their talks private.
"No," Snape assured him, "only that you had talked, and she was pleased with the changes she could see in you. I must concur, the fact that you have replaced the pictures with Ginny throughout the house and attempted to go through her things is a monumental step. I would encourage you, however, to finish this task with the help of someone else. And certainly not this evening."
Harry nodded in assent.
"Shall we go downstairs?"
Harry stood and nodded again. They both went down into the kitchen.
"What do you say to a game of chess?" Snape suggested lightly. "Best two out of three?"
Harry managed a weak smile before summoning the chess board and game pieces.
It had been ten months since Ginny's death, and Harry finally felt as though things were working right. He didn't feel normal; he didn't think he ever would. He had registered the presence of a deep hole in his heart – a hole that felt like it had been dug there with a fire-hot poker – where Ginny should be. But he was having conversations with people again and seeing his friends and corresponding regularly with his children. And he was making it through long stretches of time without breaking down. In fact, he hadn't been on a real crying jag since Ginny's birthday, which had been several months ago. If he was truthful, there were even successive days where he woke up remembering she wouldn't be there next to him, and he was able to go through the day productively.
Snape's visits had begun to decrease in frequency, which Harry found, surprisingly, rather disappointing. In fact, it had been more than two weeks since he'd last seen him, and Harry found himself craving a reasonably intelligent conversation with someone other than Hermione, so he dropped down and poked his head in the Floo and tried Snape's quarter's at Hogwarts, hoping he would be there getting ready for the start of term, which was in just a few weeks.
"Severus?" Harry called through the flames. "Severus, are you home?"
Harry was just about to pull his head out and Owl him instead when he heard someone approach.
"Mr. Potter," Snape appeared in front of the fire. "To what do I owe this unexpected call?"
"Oh, well, it's been a while since we, well, since we talked, and, erm, I was wondering if you might, you know, want to, hang out?"
"Eloquent, as always, Mr. Potter," Snape remarked, resisting an eye roll. "You are welcome to bring your entire body here, if you so desire. To…'hang out'."
Harry smiled broadly, "Now?"
Snape raised his eyebrows with passive incredulity. "Yes," he decided on the short answer.
Harry's head disappeared, only to be replaced seconds later with his entire body stumbling out of the fireplace.
"I see your years of Quidditch have done wonders for your grace," Snape quipped.
Harry smirked and chuckled once. He looked around and found himself amazed at Snape's quarters. They seemed decorated well enough to be quite homey. "Wow!" He exclaimed, "This is a really nice place."
"Yes, well, I do live here ten months out of the year," Snape replied with an undercurrent of facetiousness as he made his way over to the couch. Harry followed him, but his attention was caught by a stack of papers on a desk a few feet away from the fireplace in front of a window.
"Am I interrupting?" Harry asked politely.
"Well," Snape spoke with feigned despair, "lesson planning is a scintillating task, but I think I can pull myself away for a short while."
Harry grinned as he sat down on the other end of the couch across from Snape.
"What year?" Harry asked.
"Third," Severus answered with a sigh, "truly painful. We will begin with Calming Draughts, but I am supremely confident I will find my efforts to be in vain."
Harry laughed out loud and Snape looked at him with an amused stare. Their conversation continued, moving on eventually from lamentable students to more sophisticated topics. At some point, Harry noticed a picture hung above the fireplace.
"Who is that?" He asked, his eyes directed at the frame.
"Hmm?" Snape followed his gaze. "Oh, that is Salazar Slytherin."
"Really?" Harry mused, getting up to go look at the picture of the man who had been, apparently, listening to their conversation for quite some time. "Hey! There's a snake in here!"
The portrait of Salazar rolled his eyes. "Perceptive, isn't he?" The former founder drawled. Snape chuckled.
The snake uncoiled out of Salazar's lap, its tongue flicking the air around it, as if it could still smell off the canvas.
"Greetings, new one, what brings you to our quarters?"
"Hey! The snake talks, too!" Harry exclaimed with excitement.
"I am a friend of the Professor. I am just here to enjoy his company."
"The Professor seems to enjoy your company, new one. What is your name?"
"My name is Harry. What is yours?"
"Alameida. Have you known the Professor long?"
"Yes, many years."
"I enjoy when you make the Professor laugh."
"Me too," Harry smiled.
"I enjoy when he makes you laugh as well."
"Me too," Harry chuckled.
"The Professor does not laugh often enough," Alameida stated with concern.
"No, I would not imagine he does."
"You should come more often, so he can laugh more."
"I will try," Harry promised.
Harry suddenly realized his legs were uncomfortably warm standing so near the fire, and he took a rather large step backwards, but bumped unexpectedly into Snape, who had gotten off the couch to stand behind Harry during the conversation with the painted snake. Harry let out a surprised, "Oh!" and made to step to the side, but tripped over one of Snape's feet and nearly tumbled to the ground before Snape caught him around the waist to prevent his fall. He pulled Harry up and in doing so, drew Harry's body into his, back to front. Suddenly, Harry was hyperaware of the intense warmth from Snape's body radiating into his back, and felt a pool of heat in his stomach that he was quite unprepared for. Both men froze.
Severus felt Harry's body falling and before he could think, he reflexively reached out his arm and grabbed the other man's waist to prevent him from toppling to the floor. As he pulled him up, he inadvertently drew Harry's body up against his, and suddenly became blindingly aware of the heat from Harry's back flowing into his own front. It was impossible to not notice Harry's toned midsection, no doubt from years of continued Quidditch. He felt a tightening in his stomach that he was quite unprepared for. Both men froze.
After the space of a heartbeat, Snape dropped his hand faster than lightning, and took an enormous step back from Harry. Harry felt him do so, and then turned around quite slowly to face him.
Face to face, their eyes met, and even though they were nearly three feet from each other, they felt as close as they had mere seconds before. Harry's back still burned from Severus' touch, and Snape could still feel the contours of Harry's body pressed up against him. The warm, tightened feeling in their stomachs had not subsided. In fact, it had spread further down and was joined by hammering of hearts and the feeling as though pancakes were being flipped in their stomachs while small birds flapped their wings in some un-choreographed dance.
"I should go."
"You should go."
They said simultaneously.
But neither one of them could move. They felt as though their legs had turned to cement and were permanently affixed to the ground.
Harry finally cleared his throat. "Until next time, then," he hedged, finding himself sincerely hoping there would be a next time. And soon. As he turned to the fireplace to Floo back home, he heard the snake from the portrait hiss to him.
"See, the Professor likes you."