danniperson

Title: Devotion

Author: danpuff

Rated: E

Words: 25,843

Ship: Harry/Severus

Other Ships: Harry/Ginny, Severus/OMCs, various others

Warnings/Tags: Cheating, Angst, Mental Health Issues, Love/Hate, Enemies to Lovers, Unhealthy Relationships, Open/Ambiguous Ending, Sad Ending, POV Severus Snape.

Summary: HIs there anything more undignified than needing someone so much?

Series: Love, Your Enemy (Part 2)

Notes: Thanks to aristi for the beta. Dedicated to

perverse_idyll

Posting History:
5/5/23: posted to AO3 for Snarry-a-Thon
7/4/23: posted to FFN
7/14/23: posted to Squidgeworld
7/14/23: posted to DW (here!)

One day, Severus will crush Potter beneath his heel. Will watch every ounce of fight ooze out of him. All that he’s endured, he will unleash upon the object of his torment. And he will walk away, unburdened at last.

For now, he meets the boy’s glare head on, and seethes.

Potter sits arrogantly upon his throne (his chair), cradles his wand carelessly (casually.) No lesson pierces his thick skull. What need have the boy hero for Defense?

What the boy fails to understand is that the war never ends; it only changes form. This battlefield is the most daunting of all. Barbed words are Severus’ weapon of choice, cold stares his armor. His opponent is merciless. Flushed cheeks, cheeky comebacks. He is not cowed by loss of points, or detention, or threats. The boy only laughs.

There is a spark in his eyes, like the flash of the Killing Curse. Death’s grip tightens around Severus’ heart. How does it still beat?

Death came for Severus once. The relief of cold and dark; a chance to rest. Should Death come again, Severus will embrace him willingly. Gladly.

A voice like a phoenix song called to Severus, and stayed Death's skeletal hand. "Come back, come back." Severus’ heart soared after the voice, and Severus’ soul followed suit.

When the black receded, he was met with green. The Dark Mark in the night sky. A warning, a call to arms. Cold fear in his bones —

Warm fingers around his wrist.

For a moment, only a moment, the weariness lifted, the hurt eased. His defenses were gone and all of the damnable need in the dark corners of his mind, deep in his heart, all burst forth. A wretched realization that he —

He would follow the boy anywhere. Into death. Into life.

And right into Hell, if needed.

An angel —

The boy is a devil. A terrible, nasty cretin. Every inch of him James Potter reborn. Always surrounded by his entourage; faithful worshippers of the precious Savior. The arrogant swagger when he walks into class. Head held high, his gaze a challenge.

His father. He’s just like his father. He is, he is. Severus wants to slap the lazy smirk from his face. Pull his head back by his hair —

The black chaos of his hair. Not the careless, arrogant tousle of his father. This Potter’s hair stands on end, every strand alive and electric. The wildness of his power courses through his veins, lights up his eyes, strikes through his hair. It warms his flesh —

— warm fingers against cool skin —

His hair looks soft. Severus’ fingers tighten around his wand, the way he wants to tighten them in Potter’s hair. Severus could take Potter in hand, could control him — (touch him.)

The boy dares to laugh in his face. To call him coward. Hot rage overcomes the lingering coldness.

Do the living haunt the dead? Surely they must. There is no one more alive than Potter. Enough life in him to reanimate a corpse.

"Come back, come back. I need you. Please."

There are other (better, safer) targets to be found.

Testing Granger’s patience, for one, and the shrillness of her voice. Prodding at Weasley, to count the shades of purple he turns as he sputters.

His pet experiment, however, is Longbottom. There is more fight in him these days. Enough fight to push through his fear of Severus. To dare draw his wand.

How far need Severus go to push him over the edge?

It is as Severus gathers his venom, aims to strike, that Potter jumps between them. Never content unless he is centerstage, playacting hero. It takes focus to go for Longbottom’s throat, rather than Potter’s.

"Dear me. Did I strike a nerve, Longbottom?"

Disappointing, but not surprising, that Longbottom fails to curse him. Severus steps forward, not daring to glance at Potter, nor touch him, however close he may be.

"Ah, but you don’t have any nerve, do you, boy?"

It is Potter with nerves aplenty. Leaping without thought into every altercation. Before their captive audience, Potter steals the show. For every insult hurled, Potter has a clever remark. More and more personal, with mention of Nagini and her crimes.

Though the worst crime of all is Potter’s. "Did you want to die?"

Too deep, he cuts. Too personal, and far too public.

It was said he was lucky to survive. Severus hasn’t felt lucky in ages — (since warm fingers left him.) Life has never been kind. Death must be bliss.

And why did he return. For this?

(Because the boy asked, and Severus could deny him nothing, not when he pled so prettily.)

(Severus has lived and died and lived again for this awful boy.)

Why did you bring me back? Do you know what Hell you cosigned me to? Is this to be my penance?

"Better death than this scintillating conversation, I assure you," Severus says.

It is more of the truth than Severus meant to share, but Potter is too stupid to realize.

Too stupid to stay away.

It’s meant to be Longbottom in detention. Severus need not look to know it’s Potter at his door. His pulse quickens. Fingers tighten around quill. A droplet of red ink clings, then falls. A smudge over a name. Severus swallows.

"You are not Longbottom," Severus says.

Run, boy. Flee.

Severus has not dared oversee Potter’s detentions. Filch is glad enough to take him on. Let the boy run back to the caretaker. And if not, let Filch rip Longbottom to shreds for allowing —

"No, sir."

Grab Potter by the scruff of the neck, drag him down the hall — that’s what he should do. Dock every point Gryffindor has earned this year. Issue detention till late June. Let them scrub floors during their graduation ceremony.

He should —

He should be angrier than he is. More afraid. But Severus is tired. The day has been long, and sleep has evaded him, haunted as he is by —

— the glare of green in his nightmares. Curses and serpents and —

— the shine of absinthe in the firelight. Hypnotic, that green. Cloudy, when properly distilled. Sugar and water stirred in to break his trance.

Yet other nights, it does him well to remember how green burns. He swallows the pure poison, and washes it out with well-prepared potions.

(He never does learn.)

He should send Potter away, because some nights the itch overcomes him, and he slips into the village for dark haired boys, worth seven Galleons a tumble.

There are many things Severus should do, but he is tired, and he is weak. Potter is too near, and it is just the two of them…

Severus sets down his quill, and flicks his wand. The words on the board change. Not necessary, not really, other than as agreement Severus cannot voice.

Why is Potter here? Shouldn’t he be glad to see less of Severus?

Punishment. Always punishment.

"Lines, Snape?" A chair screeches across the floor. "Gone a bit soft, haven’t you?"

"Soft. Indeed." Severus dares not look at the boy. They might both survive if he keeps his eyes to himself. If he focuses on essays, if Potter focuses on lines, they might make it out alive and unscathed.

That itch beneath his skin. A burning in his veins.

"I don’t have the proper tools to make the lesson stick, do I?"

The boy’s hand bears another’s handiwork. I must not tell lies. Severus doesn’t realize he’s looked until Potter’s fingers curl into a fist.

"Why? Do you want to mark me?"

Severus can’t stop from meeting Potter’s eyes then. Wide as they are, dark and soft and inviting. Severus’ heart thumps.

"And you say I have a death wish," Severus says slowly. "What is it you’re after?"

Has the boy seen? Does he know? Potter’s words were too telling. More telling than Severus expects, for when he touches his wand, slips into Potter’s mind, he finds —

Heat. That damnable itch. Fury, noise, sunlight. Then: lust, buttons, darkness. Warm breath, cool flesh. Soft sheets.

Fingers around wrist. A thudding pulse.

Whispers of look at me and it’s you. A "ssss" on the tip of the tongue, that might be Parseltongue, or it might be —

You.

No!

"Dismissed, Potter!" he shouts, but Potter is already gone.

What does it mean?

The absinthe is bitter, and strong. But it doesn’t scrub his mind clean. It’s you and thank Merlin echo in his mind. The phantom of his own pulse on his fingertips.

The bottomless well of hunger. The sludge of rage and shame that leave dissatisfaction in the throat. That itch, that terrible itch.

The absinthe won’t soothe that, either.

The boy keeps his distance, after. Severus might think him ashamed, might think him embarrassed, if he thought it —

But it isn’t.

Severus is the fool, looking to find his own foolishness mirrored in the boy. And he’s a boy, only a boy. An arrogant, ignorant, manipulative boy. (A fierce, lovely — )

Distance brings sobriety. No longer drunk on, or poisoned by, the ceaseless green. Not when the boy keeps his head down and his shoulders slumped. Severus breathes easy. And he thinks.

Did you want to die? Potter had asked.

At night, Severus turns away from the absinthe. Even with a potion to counter ill effects, it doesn’t do to consume so often. Instead, he checks his will and makes notes. He studies the balance of his Gringotts ledger. He makes lists of potential supplies and locations, lists of costs. He sorts through life, and death, and when his accounts are settled, he meets with Minerva.

"I’ll not say I’m surprised," Minerva clucks as she glances through Severus’ resignation.

"You were more surprised by my return than by my departure," Severus sneers.

Minerva stares at him cooly. There is an edge to her voice when she says, "You know you are welcome here, Severus. Whenever you need."

Though he huffs, she is set on treating him kindly, graciously, however rude he is. It tempts him to tell her the truth. To twist it as a knife, rather than spill it as the blood it is.

Hogwarts is a mausoleum of memories and ghosts. As Death’s hand lingered on Severus, Severus lingered here. In the gloom of the dungeons he moved as an Inferi. Days disappeared into eternity. Castle repairs grounded Severus. Gave him purpose. A physicality that invigorated his bones.

It was Potter’s return that breathed life into his lungs.

And every breath aches.

Gone are the days in which Severus’ rage was simple. Transplanting James Potter’s face over his son’s. Recalling the torment of the father, and the abandonment of the mother.

At war with ghosts is a fierce angel. No sweet cherub is Harry, but a terrifying, powerful entity. Harry wrestled Severus from Death’s grasp, and dragged him back among the living. Back to suffering.

A cruel monster is Potter, calling Severus back to leave him like this.

To leave him, watching from afar. To leave him, with the terrible knowledge of his heart. To taunt Severus with his presence day after day after day. To force Severus to watch from afar, wrecked by the need to tear Harry apart. To cut him down to his core components and consume him.

And Severus watches, day after day. Watches himself grow weak. Watches himself lash out. Watches the greedy, guilty pleasure in himself for all of the rage he stokes in Harry.

Is it an act of penance, or masochism?

The resignation is a signed surrender. His pride crippled by the force of his love. In the safety of his mind he can admit, perhaps, that without Potter here…

Too weary to fight, Severus gives what truth he can muster. "It is time I move on."

Fewer battles are had as OWL and NEWT season approaches. Several students are sent to the infirmary for calming draughts. Severus schedules meetings with Slytherins between classes to counsel them on their futures. By night he drafts inquiries, sent off to Gringotts, to suppliers, to landlords.

There is no joy in it.

What sleep he gets sees him through each day, if barely. Coffee laced with invigorating potions for his most desperate mornings.

This is Potter’s fault, but they’ve found a silent truce since their detention. Neither instigates further conflict. Severus paces his floor and ignores the weight of Potter’s stare. Ignores the tight frown.

The memories — the fantasies — he shoves away. Into dark dusty corners alongside his own shameful secrets. Only delusion, and with each passing day he is more sure. The slick lust curled in Potter’s belly is not meant for Severus. Ridiculous that he ever questioned — that he ever hoped —

Beneath his desk, Severus clasps fingers around wrist. The tender touch of his memory might be illusion, too. Fanciful notions of a half-mad, half-dead man.

June is a bustle of activity. More students to console, and to counsel. More lessons. Meet and greets with exam instructors. Prowling the corridors for students missing class, or out past curfew.

After exams, it is Severus’ duty to deliver NEWTs scores to his seventh and eighth years. He should be prouder of Draco’s success, and Blaise’s, and Daphne’s. He should summon distaste for Pansy’s wailing, and Theodore’s muttering.

The weariness is bone deep now. He crashes into bed each night. Each morning he marks off his calendar. The end cannot come soon enough.

Strange how, come graduation morning, it seems to have come too soon.

He hasn’t the appetite for breakfast. He hasn’t the want or need of anything at all. He roams from one task to another, all abandoned at the start, until it is time. When the clock strikes a new hour, he fixes his hair and brushes his teeth. He resolutely pours what remains of his absinthe down the sink.

The green is so bright as it swirls down the drain. Such a lurid shade, it seems a mockery.

Graduation unfolds as ever. Bright-eyed youngsters who think themselves adult. Teary-eyed parents who whisper and cheer. Severus nods respectfully to each Slytherin as they cross the stage. After, he surrenders to handshakes from parents and students alike. Zinnia Zabini kisses his cheek. Narcissa Malfoy manages not a word through her tremulous smile.

Severus escapes them when he can.

Beneath Minerva’s watchful eye, Severus walks along the walls. He is still a professor. He still has a duty. He watches the crowd.

And if his gaze drifts towards Potter more often than not, well…it’s hardly his fault the boy attracts spectacle.

Hugs and kisses and smiles for Harry. Ever the Chosen One, even now.

Come morning, The Daily Prophet will sing his praises anew. Perhaps they’ll list his NEWT scores alongside his paramours’ names. A photograph will dominate the front page. Smug Potter, and his dimwitted sycophants.

Severus sinks into his armchair with a fresh bottle of firewhisky. The dungeon is too quiet, as celebration still rings in his ears. Too still, the dungeons; too cold.

(Warm fingers…)

His left hand tightens around the bottle; his right encircles the wrist.

How long does he sit, still and quiet, before the air shifts? Five minutes? Five hours? Severus straightens, and sets aside the unopened bottle. He looks to the fireplace, to the door. His heart beats. The clock ticks.

A quiet knock.

It might be Minerva. (He knows better.)

He crosses the room in a flash. Spares a moment to neaten his robes. One hand hovers near his wand while the other opens the door. He half expects the disappointment of Minerva or Filius. For the fight of Death, the Dark Lord, his late father.

He distrusts the empty corridor before him, when there’s static in the air. It can’t be — they’ve left, his students, for Hogsmeade. A night of drinking and fucking before the early morning train.

It might have been his imagination. Still his eyes narrow, and his hand reaches out —

Soft, silken fabric. Yes! At last. Severus pulls the cloak free of his tormenter.

Crush him. Now. Drive him away. Flee.

"Potter," he growls. The boy, small and agile as he is, ducks beneath Severus’ arm and into his rooms. "Why you little —" He throws the cloak to the floor. Potter wisely backs away as Severus follows.

Why is he here? What is he doing?

In the time it takes to reach Potter, Severus formulates all manner of attacks. He is not prepared for Potter to stop, to hold out his hands — not prepared to walk into open palms. He flinches back, but Potter holds onto his robes and holds him close.

Too close. No escape.

How wrecked is Severus, by the nearness. How wretched his desire.

"How dare you," Severus seethes. He catches Potter’s wayward arms; digs unforgivingly into flesh as Potter attacks his buttons. "What are you doing? Stop this!"

One button freed. Buttons — darkness — a memory, a fantasy, of warm breath as cold grips his spine. Severus twists the arms, pushes — but Potter is quicker, stronger. Two buttons, three.

Crush him, break him, flee.

Fingers, warm against his neck.

— around his wrist. Stiff bandages around his throat. Every breath too sharp. Eyes, green as —

"Look at me."

— Eyes, dark as the forest. Face pale as the moon. Severus clutched the boy’s shirt. Clung on for dear life —

A fist clenched in his robes. Fingers tender on his neck. Potter’s breath shaky, uneven. Severus doesn’t breathe at all.

A trap. This is a trap. The boy is evil incarnate. If Severus plays dead, will Potter grow bored, and leave?

(Don’t leave.)

(Look at me.)

In the firelight, gold gleams in the green — snake scales by wandlight — beautiful and dangerous. Venom that burns in the veins as surely as desire. One moment of weakness will ensure his doom, and as he searches Harry’s face —

He releases the boy. (Death wish.) He curses himself, and Merlin, too.

Had Potter seen his shameful lust? The traitorous turn of his heart? It’s bled out of Severus all year. And now — now that Severus has no semblance of power at all, now Potter comes to him.

All he can do is tear away Potter’s scarlet stole and hurl it to the floor. He grasps Potter by his robes and holds him there. One wrong move and he’ll throw the boy to the ground. He’ll — stomp, and claw, and choke, and crush — rip and bash and — and —

Push him away. Rip the still beating heart from his own chest.

The chest now bare, exposed to Potter’s scrutiny. Severus can’t look at him. His gut churns. His hands on Potter keep him upright.

Let the boy look. Let him be disgusted. Severus chews the inside of his mouth. Swallows back every vile word. Let him look. Let him mock. That is what Potters do best. Let this Potter prove himself to be no better than his sire. Let him ruin what remains of Severus’ pride, his dignity, his godforsaken love. Let him be the one to crush Severus’ world in his hands. Let him, let him —

It would be mercy, for Potter to prove himself the monster.

The ghost of a touch on the grotesque canvas. Pricks along his skin; a clench of muscles. The taste of iron in his mouth. The room is fuzzy, so Severus blinks it back into focus. The fire in the hearth. The lumpy armchair.

Palms on his skin. Severus’ eyes flutter shut, and the breath stutters out of him. He can’t recall the last time he was seen, or touched. He never undresses for rentboys, or for lovers. Pleasure, not intimacy.

The boy knows — he knows — he can take anything he wants. That bitter surrender is surrender all the same. That the force of Severus’ loathing is fed by his longing.

His eyes pry open as Potter glances up at him. Severus doesn’t know what he sees in the boy’s face. He fears what the boy sees in him.

"Oh god," Potter whispers.

For a time — (how long? Five seconds? Five minutes?) — the world is incomprehensible. Sound returns first. The roar of his blood. The crackle of the fire. A quiet keen.

Sensation, next. Aching tension through every inch of him. Tight grip in his hair. Demanding pressure against this mouth.

Muscles loosen. Potter’s slim body in his arms; against his chest.

Taste, next. Lips plump and berry red. His mouth ripe, and sweet. Richer, and darker, the deeper he delves.

Potter whimpers.

Hunger claws viciously in his belly, in his chest. It churns like acid in the pit of his soul. It rumbles greedily, and the force of it shakes his bones.

Severus shoves Potter. Not away, as he should, but ahead. Shoves Potter along the path he’s doomed to follow. Across the room, into the wall — no, the bookcase. Books crash to the floor. Severus releases Potter’s robes and grabs his jaw to better plunder his mouth. Pillow soft lips, razor sharp teeth. The slide of his tongue. The heat of his cheeks, and the roof of his mouth. The taste of him; burnt honey, vintage wine, hot metal. Severus swallows his saliva, his breath, his moans.

Intoxication. Suffocation. His gluttony will ruin them both.

Questing hands on his skin. Beneath his clothes. The little devil — this harlot — trading touch for Severus’ soul. Severus remembers himself, if barely. Not pleasure, this; not intimacy. This is revenge. This is judgment, and execution. An incubus, preying on his lust; a Dementor, preying on his hope. Worse than the father, this Potter.

Severus reaches between the boy’s legs. He can’t stop touching — but he can hurt — he will — he can fight back —

Potter’s mouth rips away from him. Lips meet neck — salty sweet — so that the boy can gasp. His mouth trembles as it traces neck’s slope. The word "Fuck" drags unwittingly from his throat.

Hard. The boy is hard. Why is he — Severus presses his palm down, tests the shape of him, the weight of him.

How — why —

Severus shrugs off his robe and sinks to his knees.

Body disobeys mind. Logic holds no sway when hunger tears through flesh. Potter’s robes part and fall at magic’s command. Hands rip Potter’s trousers open. No time is spared to admire his prize. Eager cock bobs free, and Severus catches it in his mouth. Swallows it down, down.

Revenge he might understand. Reciprocation, however…

Worse than the father. This is worse.

Hands in his hair. His hands on Potter’s arse. He wants to choke the boy; wants to choke on him. Throw him to the floor, fuck him, break him to pieces, roll around in the shards. Luxuriate in the slickness of Potter’s blood, and his own.

A soft thud — spectacles on the ground. Shock drags him away.

The cock bobs. Slick with saliva, dribbling bitter pleasure. Potter’s face and neck flushed; his eyes and hair wild. Severus drags himself to his feet. "Potter." He rubs his mouth. Rub it away (rub it in.)

Potter flings himself forward.

Barbaric, the way the boy grasps and claws, bites and sucks. It is Potter who drags Severus now, scrambling along the road to Hell. Potter’s trousers and shoes lost along the way. Only shirt and socks remain when Severus pushes him to the sofa.

He’s —

— A vision —

— a disgrace. Scrawny legs open in invitation. Knobby knees and needy cock. Face flushed, mouth swollen. Eyes, while narrow, are –

How can he look at Severus with such – How can he be so –

Severus frees his cock, then falls atop Potter. No thought, no control. He grinds his teeth. Digs his fingers into the cushion. "Oh my God," Potter breathes, and he reaches for Severus’ cock. His hand — just his hand — Severus is so hard, so close to the brink already.

"Is this why you’re here, Potter?" Severus grabs the hand and thrusts against the palm. An animal — he’s little more than an animal — his humanity cursed away by a bumbling, careless — "For my cock? Or is it one last bout of trouble you’re after? Could you not depart in peace?"

"Please, Snape, I need," Potter gasps. "Kiss me, please, I need —"

The fever in his eyes flays Severus open. Severus mutters darkly and leans down as Potter lifts up. Idiot boy. Does he think Severus can resist? One taste, one touch, is not enough. Blindly he reaches between them to align their cocks. So hard, so wet with arousal — the heat of his skin — the sound he makes when Severus moves against him —

Such a wild, fragile creature beneath him. Just as lost, just as depraved as he. The sloppy kisses. The eager thrusts.

A muffled hiss against Severus’ mouth. He breaks away. He needs to hear it, he needs to know — he mouths Harry’s throat and commands, "Say it. My name."

"Snape."

His cock twitches, but — "No."

"Sev - ver - ah!" He clings to Severus. He comes, panting and moaning. He’s — (gorgeous) — disgusting. Severus’ mouth latches onto the boy’s throat as his cock glides through the slick release. His tongue presses eagerly — relishes in the drumming pulse, in the taste and feel of skin.

Potter trembles beneath him. His grip on Severus is desperate. A vicious rush of possessiveness — I have you now, Potter. Mine, mine, mine. Never leave, I won’t let you — he could rip through Potter’s artery with his teeth. Could dig into Potter’s chest with his nails. He could pin Potter down, chain him to the wall, leave him to rot — use him whenever he pleases, make him scream, make him beg —

"Oh," Potter whispers.

Oversensitive, with Severus rutting against his spent cock. Good, let it hurt, let it — Severus rises onto hands and knees and snaps, "Turn over."

Never has Potter obeyed him so quickly. Severus gathers the saliva in his mouth and spits into his hand. His cock is already wet with Potter’s come, and Severus rubs it deeper into his skin as he slicks himself.

There isn’t time enough, nor mind enough, to fuck Potter properly. Instead, Severus pushes his cock between the boy’s cheeks and thrusts between them. He watches, for a moment. Only a moment. It’s more erotic than it has any right to be, his swollen cock snug between pert cheeks.

Were it any other arse, perhaps he could stand it. This arse, though, Severus has dreamt of, has stolen glimpses of, and the real thing —

It’s real. He’s real. Potter — it’s Potter. It’s him, and he’s —

(Everything.)

— no one. He’s nothing. Nothing at all. Severus closes his eyes and leans closer. He breathes in the stench of sex, and the trace of woodsy cologne.

Too warm, too bright, to be anyone else.

It’s over before it begins. He shudders through an orgasm he isn’t ready for. A rush of pleasure, a pang of loss.

How long before he returns to himself? An eternity? The blink of an eye? Potter’s mood breaks through the haze. The stiffness of body, the distance of mind.

How long has he been so? There at the end? From the start?

Dread drips ice cold down his spine. Horror hollows out the space left behind by hunger and possession. Severus scrambles off of the boy. He nearly loses balance, but he charges ahead through the swaying of the world. Charges into his room and slams the door. Locks it, wards it. The world spins, though his body is still. His mind roars, though the room is silent.

He waits behind the door, wand in hand. He watches the knob, and he listens. He waits for a knock that never comes.

It does not do to linger on a memory. Nor the guilt of using the boy; nor the shame of being used by him. No sense in unravelling the boy’s motivations.

So Severus moves on.

Spinner’s End is not home, but it is familiar. Familiar as threadbare blankets, and tattered socks. Familiar as a cramped tub full of cold water. Lukewarm soup in his aching belly.

This house is made of him. Of his broken bones. His nails in the wood. His blood on the wallpaper. The air is thick with unanswered prayers.

This house was made by him. Shelves of books bought and stolen. The lab he built. The herbs he planted. His magic rooted in the very foundation.

Severus takes grim pride in surviving Spinner’s End once more.

Time passes. Gold dwindles. Ads in The Daily Prophet bring few customers. Most owls bring Howlers, poison, cursed objects, and the occasional fanmail. All easily detected and disposed of.

Narcissa sends luxuries. A pocket watch. A set of fine robes. A bottle of cognac. Her gold would be more useful, though he does not say so.

Sandwiches are cheap, and easy to fix, but he needs steady work soon. Diagon and Horizont Alleys won’t rent him storefronts. They offer placid smiles, and petty excuses, but Severus is not stupid.

Even the Savior’s praises could not restore Severus from infamy.

Defending Severus did not tarnish Potter’s good name. He remains a beloved subject across every publication. The Daily Prophet proudly reports on Potter’s continued heroism, while Witch Weekly fawns over how well Auror robes suit him.

They attribute more poise to Potter than is deserved. Dumb luck and blind rage fuel Potter. Not skill, not bravery, but sheer stupidity.

Clumsy, how the boy charges into battle. The way he barged into Severus’ rooms. Unskilled, his touch. The clutch of his hands. The demand of his lips —

The mulish glares. Lazy jabs of his wand. The shriek of "Expelliarmus!" to fell his foe —

("Sev - ver - ah!" to fell another.)

Minerva writes mid-September. Her stubborn friendship nearly draws a smile.

No unruly students. No intrusive colleagues. No detentions, no staff meetings, no lectures, no patrols.

No steady pay. No schedule.

No calls on his time at all now, so Severus writes back. There is little to brag of. Instead he tells of experimentation, intricately detailed; he spins tales of fussy customers, and nosy neighbors.

He does not mention his failure with Diagon Alley, or Horizont Alley. But as one owl leaves for Hogwarts, Severus drafts another letter to Knockturn Alley.

The infamy that so hinders him in polite society, will embrace him there.

By October he opens shop. By November he responds to Minerva’s student complaints with customer complaints.

Knockturn Alley is comfortable. Criminals cavort in the streets. Mischievous children sneak about, and howling parents chase them down. Solicitors in the streets, selling visions and talismans. Hagglers in his shop, who Severus overcharges. Whores drop by for lubricants and abortifacients. Hooded figures request Dark potions, and Severus asks no questions.

Aurors visit frequently. The brothel down the street, the pub on the corner. They peer suspiciously into the apothecary, but Severus gives them no reason to stay.

He never sees Potter. Potter is above Knockturn’s filth.

Though he never shows his face, his name stays in the rumor mill. He’s as popular among whores and hags as he is in the Prophet. His name is spoken with awe and scorn in equal measure. Severus listens intently for every last word.

Potter is a man on a mission, they say, hunting the Dark Lord’s men. A living saint. A Ministry lackey. A self-righteous sadist. A mindless puppet.

An unrepentant slut.

In the White Wyvern pub, late one night, Blaise Zabini tells of duelling and fellatio. Severus eavesdrops from a dark corner, nursing a glass of whisky, and bitterness.

When news breaks of a raid at Malfoy Manor, similar rumors emerge. Draco seduced Potter — no, Potter seduced Draco — no, they’ve been screwing since eighth year — no sixth year — No, not the son, but the father — no, he was passed between them both —

He fucked Nott Jr. in a club, and Nott Sr. in prison. The Greengrass sisters, Pansy Parkinson, Corban Yaxley; names and faces too familiar.

Severus freely snorts, and expresses disbelief. It’s ridiculous, of course. Of course it is.

He’d have said the same of Potter launching into his arms — Potter writhing with pleasure beneath him —

Potter with a fetish for the dark and taboo. More sense, that, than desire for Severus.

Winter is bitterly cold. Each morning he awakes as stiff as a corpse. Each morning he casts Warming Charms anew.

All of his time is devoted to the shop. To brewing, and ordering, and tending customers. He earns enough gold to run his business, and to fill his cupboards. There is enough for cheap drinks and gossip at the White Wyvern.

In February, it isn’t hags or whores, or even barkeeps that share the big news. Potter’s engagement makes the front page of every publication. Ginevra Weasley, sweaty and muddy and pretty in her Quidditch gear. A close up of a yellow diamond on a gold band. Other photos of the happy couple, hand in hand, or flying side by side. Potter’s arm around Ginevra’s waist, while she smiles down at him.

In a fit of hysteria, Severus buys a copy of each. He clutches Witch Weekly in both hands. Ginevra tosses her long ginger hair over one shoulder. In the instant she looks away, Potter looks up at Severus and winks.

Spring arrives gradually. The sky turns blue-gray. Daffodils and irises bloom near the park. The scar on his throat throbs less each morning, the aches of his body soothed by the sun. In his body’s ease, his mind drifts towards deeper hurts.

Owl’s deliver Potter’s face, and Ginevra’s, in the Quibbler and the Prophet and Witch Weekly. Letters from Narcissa and Minerva nag him about attending the Victory Day Gala.

It is his pride, not their demands, that bring him to the Ministry. His pride, not Potter.

For his pride, he dons the velvet robes Narcissa gifted. He shines his boots, and cares for his hair. He even spritzes a bit of cologne. At the Ministry, he takes a glass of wine. He dines with the Malfoys and Zabinis. Zinnia flirts with anything that moves. Narcissa makes idle chit chat. Severus doesn’t dare look Draco or Blaise in the eye, lest he be tempted to violence.

Severus doesn’t seek Potter out. His gaze does not linger on the fit of Potter’s garnet robes. Or the position of Potter’s hand on the small of Ginevra’s back.

He sits tall and proud in his refusal to bend. His refusal to surrender.

It is Potter who breaks.

Breaks right down and follows Severus out of the ballroom. Abandons his bride-to-be and his plethora of lovers to follow Severus down the corridor.

Severus need not look over his shoulder to know it’s Potter. The heavy curl of his magic strangles Severus’ nerves; his racing mind reaches out and tempts him to look. Every inch of Severus is attuned to every inch of Potter.

They bypass the loo. Victory! Severus leads Potter right into the lift. Danger, as the doors close them in.

"Why are you here?" Severus asks.

"Err…I was invited?"

Cheeky brat. Severus frowns as the boy fights off a smile.

Hard to believe it’s been nearly a year since they shared space. Since he saw the boy in person, rather than photographs.

He’s not so flawless here. He missed bits of scruff while shaving; there under his jaw, there above his lip. His nails are bitten down, uneven. Cheeks and ears pink. Smudged spectacles.

Not suited for dress robes, however well they fit. The garnet color complements his sunkissed skin. The fabric hugs his study frame to perfection; showcasing new muscle, and the firmness of his arse. Too dressy for a boy so untamed.

(Too tempting.)

"Have you nothing better to do than seek out trouble?"

Those terrible (beautiful) eyes never stray from him. What is the boy after, truly? Another notch on his bedpost? Why not lure prettier prey? Blaise, or Draco.

"Isn’t that why you’re here? Sir?" The boy lifts a mocking brow.

Trouble.

The doors open. Severus chances a look at Potter’s lips. How pink and plush they are. He imagines biting into them. Imagines sucking on the tongue that slips out to wet them. "Arrogant as ever, Potter."

It is petty, perhaps, to magically bind Potter to the railing as he himself steps off of the lift. Petty, perhaps. Sensible, most certainly.

The gnaw of loneliness grows, but Severus shoves it deeper into the recess of his mind. If only Potter himself would go more readily. It is he who refuses to stay behind closed doors. And when Severus is at his most vulnerable, asleep in bed or nodding off by the hearth, that is when Potter creeps out, and drags the loneliness with him.

If Severus turns to the brothel one evening, then no one need know; he has a ready store of Polyjuice, after all. He splurges gold he should not on a pretty twink with dark curls and big blue eyes. Were he so inclined, he’d turn those eyes green. He’d indulge in his most shameful fantasy, the most tortuous lust.

He does not.

Though the whore is skilled, the gold is a waste. No position, no potion, can scratch Severus’ itch. His release leaves him emptier and hungrier than ever.

For a week he survives on half-stale bread and near-rotten fruit. The wasted gold was bad enough. Wasted ingredients would have been worse, and more pathetic than Severus is willing to accept.

Another night, Severus nurses a whisky at the pub. He strains to hear Theodore Nott’s latest escapades with Potter. Then struggles not to.

There is rarely reprieve from the boy. Late July he turns twenty, and Prophets sell out. Potter’s damnable (lovely) face on the front page. His crooked, bashful grin in the Quibbler. His killer green eyes in Witch Weekly. Even Potions Quarterly prints a birthday special issue. "20 Brews-to-Give the Boy-Who-Lived!" it advertises.

Severus can’t excuse the expense. Not that it stops him. He grinds his teeth as he plucks columbine petals. As his elixir simmers, humiliation churns in his gut. He doesn’t even make it home before touching himself; he tugs himself to miserable completion in the apothecary toilet. Potter smirks slyly from numerous publications.

He is much too old to be lost to a boy so young.

Not two weeks later Severus sees Potter in the flesh. Too soon, when his weakness is so fresh. When every night is haunted by the ghost of Potter’s moans. To see him now in the daylight, less immaculate than in photos; more clumsy, more awkward, than the media sees.

(more vibrant, more striking, more gorgeous, more — )

The crackle of magic, the pull of magnetism. Severus senses Potter before he sees him. The boy follows him into Second-Hand Bookshop. If it’s a coincidence, it’s a terrible one; but Severus knows better. Potter isn’t one to read for leisure, but he is well known for putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.

Potter can afford nicer volumes from Flourish and Blotts, or Obscurus Books. Why here, in this dim, dusty place? Why else but to hunt Severus?

What does he want? What is he after?

It is easy to elude the boy. He moves quickly and quietly through familiar aisles, and ducks around corners. The annoying (alluring) buzz of Potter’s magic makes him an easy target; at least for a Legilimens, and a spy.

Potter’s nose is in a book when Severus slides up to him. Casual Muggle attire suits him better than dress robes. Denim hugs his pert arse, and the blue Quidditch shirt showcases his sturdy, compact frame. Not so fragile these days, is Potter. ("He can really take a pounding," Nott had laughed.)

"Potter," Severus says.

It amuses him, how the boy jumps and curses. The books fall as wand is drawn; grip and aim loosen when the boy recognizes him. Severus’ humor is short lived. It fades at the sight of an ill-hidden grin, and is gone when Potter kneels at his feet.

Severus’ fingers curl against the urge to reach out; to hold him still, or pull him near. For distraction, for the upper-hand, he steps on the books as Potter reaches for them. The cover of one shows a ship and two shirtless men embracing beneath a black flag.

"What have we here? Would your wife approve?"

Does she know, Severus wonders, of Potter’s dalliances? Does she approve? Ginevra always enjoyed male attention. Perhaps they bond over it. Perhaps they share lovers.

Not so devoted, are they? Nor is Potter so innocent. Another Gilderoy Lockhart, falling to his knees at the first sign of praise and pleasure.

On his knees for Severus now —

Potter grabs his leg before Severus can move away. "She’s not my wife yet."

Greedy, shameless slut. Severus frees himself. Potter scrambles to his feet. Severus marches him back against the wall.

Potter should not be so beautiful; not with that jagged scar, or smudged glasses. Not with that untidy mop of hair. Not the way his eyes narrow, and his mouth tightens. Not standing so tall for a man so short.

He cannot be so beautiful when he is so arrogant, so entitled. So despicable.

"Merlin knows your father toyed with others," Severus snarls. "Why shouldn’t you be just the same?" James Potter, born again. An ego too massive to die easily. "Run along and play house with your mother." What other purpose could Ginevra serve, but as a cheap Lily Evans? "You can even play games with her heart, if you like. But you’ll not play games with me, do you understand?"

"I’m not — !"

"Do. Not."

For a moment, they share breath. Severus wants to cover mouth and nose with his hand; snuff out that precious air, and stop himself from wanting so badly to —

Potter’s eyes drop to his mouth. Severus forgets his own breath, for a moment. And he loses it again in the next when Potter shoves him away.

"You came to me," Potter accuses. "I came to buy a gift for my future wife."

There is plenty Severus could say to that. Plenty he wants to say. He wants to needle Potter; wants to follow the thread to see where it leads. But Potter scurries away with the last word, and leaves Severus to seethe.

That night, Severus feeds Prophets and Weeklies into the hearth, and watches them burn with fierce, bitter pleasure.

In the morning, Severus picks at his toast and glares blearily at a bit of curling wallpaper. The sun beams through the window. Birds chirp. Children laugh.

Chipped paint on the windowsill. A cabinet that never closes. He remembers how it broke; remembers his mother’s whispered pleas, his own whimpers, his father’s curses.

Severus shoves his plate away.

Spinner’s End is no princely palace, and Severus did not survive it. It is the prison he’s returned to. The tomb he is doomed to.

All that he has are empty cupboards, and a lumpy bed. Walls that are nicked and scratched.

He has a shop. He has gold enough to keep it open. Enough gold for a single whisky at the White Wyvern, that he drinks alone. This isn’t living. This isn’t survival. This is pathetic.

Of course it’s pathetic. Severus is pathetic. In love with a boy half his age; in love with a boy he hates with every fibre of his being.

In the afternoon, he writes to Minerva. And then, still churning with shame, he writes to Narcissa. Minerva suggests drinks when he’s free, when he’s in Scotland. Narcissa invites him to tea; as if saving her son has made them bosom friends. As if he is fit at all for fine tea in her pristine manor.

Pathetic.

At night, he stops by Carkitt Market and buys the greenest bottle of absinthe he sees. Halfway home, shame burns his flesh and sludges in his belly. Once there, he stuffs it in the back of a cupboard, and retires to bed with a rumbling belly and a glass of firewhisky.

Weeks pass, and he tries and fails to shake his nerves. He throws himself into work. He spends a weekend in Scotland, and the next in Wiltshire. He dons his finest robes to listen to Narcissa’s gossip. He scrounges up gold for a lackluster night at the brothel. He sleeps at the shop as often as he dares, curled up in his office with a threadbare blanket.

Severus cancels his subscription to the Daily Prophet, and Witch Weekly. He averts his eyes when he passes the newsstands.

Night after night, he tosses and turns. He wakes in sweat damp sheets, with green in his vision and terror in his veins. Some mornings it’s ice cold, others it’s scalding hot; and he refuses to understand why.

There is never peace to be found.

Another weekend, but no calls on his time. Only a book to read and bottles to drink. Misery to drown out or drown in. This is, of course, the day Potter finds him.

A knock on the door, and his own personal demon behind it. Scruffy trainers, faded denims, another Quidditch shirt. Severus notes the name of his team, the Appleby Arrows. The pale blue makes his eyes all the greener, his skin all the golder.

He’s gorgeous; a nightmare.

"Potter," he greets, with all the venom he can muster.

Potter is undeterred. He darts into Severus’ home and declares, "This is nice. Or, it suits you anyway."

This little shit.

There is nothing nice about Spinner’s End. Severus’ face heats. Everything here is handmade or secondhand. Books and knick-knacks crammed into every corner. Dim lighting. Dented doorframe. A crack in the ceiling. His whole history bruised into these walls, and he is exposed.

"Forgive me," Severus says snidely. "Did I forget inviting you for tea?"

"Tea would be great, thanks," the boy grins.

Severus strokes his wand to soothe his nerves. "Why are you here?"

"Tea, remember?"

"Yes, very charming. What do you want?"

Severus is brittle. He holds still and firm, even as he shakes apart within. Potter knows; Severus feels it in his bones. Another game. Another mockery. He wants to escape, but he dares not let Potter win.

So he plays his part. When Potter proffers an envelope, Severus takes it and reads it aloud. What strength remains steadies his voice as within he crumbles. There is no escaping their engagement. If the boy’s emerald greens do not taunt him, the girl’s yellow diamond does. And now, a date. A clock begins to tick; a countdown to the second of June, when Harry will be hers.

"Why wait, Potter?" Severus asks. Picking his own scab more than pricking at Potter. "Witch Weekly’s ‘Couple of the Year’ must be eager to start their happily ever after."

"You read Witch Weekly?" Potter asks.

Severus refuses to be embarrassed. As if anyone can hide from those headlines.

"The Golden Boy has it all," he says instead. "Does he not? The pretty, famous wife. The noble, prestigious career. Mountains of gold, accolades aplenty. The perfect, cookie-cutter life. Only the best for our savior."

However pitiful Severus’ life is, Potter’s is little better, ready as he is to rest on his laurels. Marry his Hogwarts sweetheart, climb ranks in the Ministry. He’ll produce a handful of red-haired monsters and gift them awful monikers like James Arthur and Molly Lily. He’ll grow old and gray still playing his part.

Neither of them was meant to live. Not really.

"I’m happy," Potter lies.

"Yet, here you are," Severus says. He clenches a fist around the invitation. He steps forward without meaning, without control.

Potter is wound tight and vibrating, ready to spring. His eyes are wide, and bright. An intoxicating sea. Severus moves closer still.

"I want you there."

Why? Why would he want that?

His personal demon, executing judgment. An archangel delivering justice.

"How sweet." Severus throws the invitation aside. There is nothing he wants less than to see Harry bound to another. He will attend all the same. "Do all of your past lovers warrant such special treatment?" Will Severus share a row with the likes of Malfoy and Nott? "Do they fall at your feet and thank you for the privilege of watching you pledge yourself to another?"

Every word rips from him. They say too much. With luck, Potter is too dimwitted to hear the truth. Severus inhales slowly, and swallows back further diatribes. How dare you — why would you —

"Does it bother you?"

There is no space between them now. Barely room for air. Severus suffocates beneath the weight of his presence, the look in his eyes.

He reaches out — he means to push the boy away, but he clamps a hand around his jaw instead. Holds him tightly, wills him to break. (Wills him to stay.)

"Why. Are you. Here?"

Those eyes close, but there is no reprieve. Lips brush his hand. "Because I hate you."

It is not hate in Harry’s voice, but Severus refuses to hear it. The truth weakens him all the same. His hand falls to caress the boy’s slender throat. The boy’s breath pulls him nearer. "The feeling is entirely mutual."

He kisses Potter because he must. Because he is weak, and Potter is cruel; because rage and desire heat his blood, and he must possess, he must punish — Severus grabs the boy. He bites and licks his way into his mouth.

Potter groans, and clutches him in turn with arms and legs. The taste of the boy on his tongue (golden-bubbly-sweet), the smell of him (grass-sweat-citrus), the weight of him in Severus’ arms, in his hands.

Thirst quenched at last. But the curl of Potter’s tongue in his mouth births need anew.

Severus breaks the kiss, and he hates himself and Potter in turn when he says, "I want be in inside of you." And when Potter nods, his restraint breaks.

He loses his way, pushing Potter forward. He can’t stop mouthing him, grasping him, long enough to look. Potter’s back hits a bookshelf. Books hit the floor.

Every sound Potter makes (quiet, needy), every move he makes (clawing, clutching) — Severus rips away the boy’s shirt. It catches around his head, his spectacles, his wristwatch. Severus flings it aside and pins Potter’s wrists above his head, against a shelf. Not comfortable, surely, not the way Potter grimaces.

Good.

Discomfort does not dissuade the boy. The wretched need so rooted in Severus' core mirrors back to him from Potter's heavy-lidded eyes. The color of it flushes Potter's chest, as it heaves with every ragged breath. It ripples down his spine, and he trembles in Severus' grasp.

More.

The trousers go next. Shoved down without thought for the trainers. Potter sways and stumbles and Severus curses as they fight his legs free.

His cock is pink and plump, and it lifts towards his belly. Severus’ cock throbs, and his mouth waters.

Merlin, how he wants — how he needs — hunger that clenches and churns and aches. Those tight nipples, the dark hair beneath his arms, the sweat above his lip —

Severus wants it, all of it, all at once. There’s no time — he hasn’t the mind — he falls to his knees and he takes what’s on offer.

Fingers bite and palms taste Potter's skin – the meat of his thighs, and his arse. Tongue drags through hair, from groin to navel. Potter’s cock bobs, and smears pre-come on his chin. Severus pins cock to belly, and gorges himself on Potter's balls. The heady scent of his arousal, the heaviness on his tongue. A hair catches in his teeth.

His teeth catch on the boy's cockhead, when he sucks him in. A moment of vicious glee, but Potter grasps his hair and pulls him forward, rather than off. Severus’ scalp aches, and his throat.

It’s not enough.

How dare he — how dare —

On his knees for the boy, again.

He's so hard it hurts, and he soothes himself with a touch. Severus pulls back and wipes his mouth on his arm. Potter’s cock twitches — beckons. Severus braces himself on Potter’s hips to stand, then uses his grip to drag Potter to the sofa. He shoves Potter down, shoves his own trousers down, and kneels down behind him.

Inside — he wants inside —

He shoves Potter’s legs apart. There’s little room on the sofa. He doesn't have the patience to move, or even to summon lube. He uses a hasty spell, instead. Too sticky, too thin. Too much of it spills through his fingers. He coats his cock first, for relief, then shoves one finger, then two, inside the boy.

A muffled mewl below him. Severus’ balls tighten, and his cock spits eagerly onto Potter’s arse. Severus bites his cheek until he tastes blood.

Not even inside, and Potter is already superior to every whore he’s had.

Too soon. Potter is still too tight. He can't wait – he can't think – His fingers are barely free when he stuffs himself in. Potter is tense and silent. Severus pushes through the resistance and buries himself deep.

Deep — into white heat; a merciless vice. His head spins. His blood rushes. He clutches Potter tightly and looks down to where they join. Where his bollocks rest heavy against Potter's cheeks. Where his cock pulls free, then back in, where he belongs.

Tight. His skin is too tight. Sweat trickles down his neck, down his spine. Severus digs one foot into the floor, one knee into the sofa; he tightens his grip and moves Potter, uses him. Stabs into him again, and again.

A toy. A receptacle.

Heart, and soul.

He fucks Harry harder, and harder, but he can’t drive Potter out of his skin. Can’t sever the tie between them. Can’t fuck or hate his love into oblivion.

The pleasure is more than he can stand. He tries to choke back every sound, but he fears the battle is lost when he comes.

So warm, so bright, it blinds him.

Beneath him, Harry writhes and whines. Severus pants into his damp skin, and reaches around to take Potter in hand. Plump, eager. It pulses in his palm. A pang, off-key, in his chest. Severus grits his teeth against the desire to kiss. One stroke, two — too soon, the boy spends.

He softens in Severus’ hand; Severus is soft, and snug, still inside of him. Severus’ arms around him (around Harry.)

It’s you.

That golden memory, that black dream, is a shock of cold water.

"Get out," Severus says. He fights his boneless body into motion. He pulls himself free of his haven, away from the trap. He holds his trousers up over his arse and stumbles towards the stairs.

"Wait — Snape!"

"Get out!"

The door slams shut behind him, and the bookcase slides back into place. A wall, and a door, and a bookcase between them. Severus hauls himself up by the bannister. One step, two, ten steps between them.

Behind him, beneath him, the front door opens and closes.

The boy is a cretin. A whore, and a thief. He’s stolen Severus’ pride, his pleasure, his sanity. (His heart.)

In the washroom, he wets a towel. He cleans his cock of lube and come and traces of blood. Too rough, he, and the boy too tight.

It has always been monsters who make a monster of Severus.

The day is a loss.

Time and ingredients wasted on a potion he should not take. Gold he cannot afford, wasted. Energy and pleasure wasted on a rent boy that isn’t, and will never be, Harry.

Restless dreams, that night, part memory and part fantasy. A red streak across a blue sky. Triumphant shouts. Glimmers of gold. Of green. A playful chase down the corridor, and a mischievous smile over his shoulder.

— smiles over his shoulder, bent over a table, arse on display.

A spiteful demon, creeping in the shadows. A vibrant demigod, dripping magic. A casual hold of a wand. The sure clutch of a broom. Lustful hands on Severus’ —

His eyes fly open to stare up at the dark ceiling. He dares not blink until his eyes ache with dryness. He rubs them hard with both hands.

Crickets chirp outside. An owl hoots. Leaves rustle. His heart beats and beats.

"Come back."

There is life left to live, and he cannot live it haunted so.

When Narcissa asks him to tea, Severus agrees. He wears the velvet robes once more. He digs out silver serpentine cufflinks Regulus gifted long ago. A spell shines his boots. Soap and water clear his face. A spritz of cologne, to mask the grime of Spinner’s End.

She must be desperate for company to settle for his. Lucius imprisoned, while Draco gallivants across town. Polite society scorns her still. Scorns them both. There are worse friends to have, really.

"I am so pleased those robes suit you," she says.

I’ve only the one nice set, he thinks, and swallows the words back. Ruined as her reputation is, her coffers are undiminished. Narcissa serves rare tea and decadent cakes. She wears new silk robes and glimmering jewels.

Of course, she does not waste her gold on whores or drinks.

Severus inclines his head. "The benefits of fashionable friends."

Narcissa’s lips twitch, which she hides behind her teacup.

They share a polite afternoon, in which Narcissa offers advice in the guise of gossip. The perfumes and lotions her high society friends can’t find outside of Paris. Which shopkeepers on Knockturn Alley are most friendly, and which most devious. Rumors she heard of black market items; augurey feathers, thestral eyes, chimaera teeth. A warning, she says, to beware these names and locations. She wouldn’t want him to find trouble, of course.

She is a wealth of information. Severus does not mind now, reaching out for scraps. Does not mind that she knows how far he’s fallen. Even if she misunderstands which pit he’s fallen into.

What she gains from Severus, he could only speculate. Company, for one; his reputation another. A Death Eater’s wife, sharing tea with the spy. The betrayer.

He suspects he underestimated her when she brings out the gold.

"I’ve no need for charity." Or to be in her debt.

Narcissa smiles, and stacks the coins. Towers of gold, glaring in the sun. "I respect you too much to be charitable," Narcissa chides. "This is an investment."

The return of September sees the return of red ink. He reviews legal documents with a scowl and a slash of his quill.

Shop opens late one morning, so he can deposit tainted gold at Gringotts.

Minerva reaches out about a case of pixie pox spreading among the younger students, and asks the price of antidotes. Severus senses a conspiracy and nearly burns her letter. But why would Minerva and Narcissa be in cahoots?

Pity, perhaps. So Severus overcharges.

There is an uptick in customers, which rattles his nerves. Prim ladies in veils who buy exotic ointments and sleeping potions. Their husbands sneak orders of fertility potions and aphrodisiacs. Severus notes names and faces to share with Narcissa.

They are business partners now, after all.

A raid at the brothel sends Knockturn Alley into a frenzy one Wednesday. There is too much commotion outside, and too little business inside.

Severus busies himself sweeping every corner, and dusting every bottle. He is grimy and sore by late afternoon when the bell over the door jingles.

All he sees for a moment is red. Red irritation. Red sunset. Red Auror robes. Then a glimpse of spring green ensnares him.

"Snape!" exclaims Potter. He looks around bemusedly while Weasley waits impatiently. "This is yours?"

Severus glances at the door. His name is painted on the door, and on the sign above it. "Obviously."

"Right," says Potter. His cheeks glow a fetching pink.

Severus returns to his till for a distraction, but of course Potter follows. Severus trains his eyes on a scrap of parchment, though he can’t say whether it’s a list of ingredients or customer complaints.

"When did this happen?" Potter casually lays his arms on the counter and leans forward.

Weasley has a perfect view of that ample arse. Has he had a taste, Severus wonders? He scowls over Potter’s shoulder at Weasley who scowls back.

"Last year," he replies waspishly.

"I’ve not seen it. But I’m never ‘round here."

"You wouldn’t be," Severus snorts. "Nor would you read a paper past your own headline."

"Hey!" Potter laughs.

Severus shuffles his notes to look busy. If he doesn’t engage, Potter will go elsewhere for attention and amusement. Off with Weasley, or off to another.

"When last year?" Potter asks.

Severus lifts his eyes and one brow. "Am I under investigation, Auror Potter?"

Pink again, his cheeks. Pink the lips that curl upward as his eyes drop downward. Fingers drum on the countertop. "Only curious."

"Hmph," says Severus.

Weasley clears his throat as Potter asks, "Why did you leave Hogwarts?"

To live.

To die.

"None of your business."

He should leave it there. But there is a quality to Harry that glows in the fading light; breathless and fragile.

Wary hope.

"There was nothing left for me there." Quiet confession stolen by a pretty face. Outrage stolen, too, when Harry ducks his head in a shy smile. And when he peeks back up —

"Harry!" shouts Weasley.

Gone in a flash, before Severus can find meaning in that look.

Two minutes to closing, the bell jingles. Severus is raises his head to strike at the offending party, but it’s Harry. Harry, still garbed in Auror red. Harry, his cheeks still petal pink.

No words, only clumsy hands and clumsier kisses. Severus pulls Harry flush. He keeps his wits long enough to murmur spells into Harry’s mouth. The doors lock, and the walls are silenced. Harry’s body made slick and open. Harry bends over the counter and rucks up his robes. Severus digs out his cock and pushes in —

Blood, when he draws back. Was it improper spellwork or the abrupt entry? He should pause, they should — but Harry reaches back to grab his arse and pulls him in, in —

What whore could ever compare?

On Thursday, there is an itch beneath his skin. Every sound, every move, gnaws at his nerves. There is a twitch in his eye. A throb in his head.

He loses his tempter on a hag, who gesticulates wildly and grumbles ominously.

After closing, he walks down the street, to where the rentboys have found sanctuary. A violet-eyed vixen winks. A blue eyed pretty boy strokes his arm.

Severus could afford them both comfortably now.

He walks away.

Friday is busy. A blessing.

In the downtimes, Severus taps his fingers on the countertop. He remembers Harry’s nervous drumming. Remembers the scratch of nails against wood. Remembers him scrambling for, then clutching, the edge. The low whine he couldn’t bite back.

The click of glass against wood jerks Severus out of his reverie.

The click of glass against wood. The buzz of the crowd.

The White Wyvern is busy; Severus sits at the bar rather than a booth. He listens to the bartender grumble, rather than seek out gossip.

He drowns himself in whisky, and noise.

On Saturday, Harry knocks on his door, and the rattling in Severus’ soul settles.

Out of place in Cokeworth, those emerald eyes and pearly whites. Too bright, too beautiful —

— Devious. Deceptive. Hideous, and filthy, and —

Harry bites his lip. The pink of his mouth darkens. He shuffles his feet.

Young. He’s so young.

"Here for tea?" Severus mocks.

"Please."

They stumble, and crash, and crawl upstairs. Staring, touching, smelling.

Sun-warm skin. Syrup sweet mouth. Earthy, the smell of him; dirt beneath his nails and grass stains on his knees. Spectacles fog between them, as Severus drags his mouth along Harry’s face, and Harry pants hotly against his skin.

The door of his room bangs open. Harry yanks off his glasses and tosses them aside; Severus catches them with a spell and levitates them to the bedsidet table. Harry reaches for Severus’ buttons, but Severus knocks his hands away to pocket his wand. He tugs off Harry’s shirt, and opens his trousers.

Smooth skin in his hands. Stretches of it before him. Lips find a nipple, hands find arse. When he squeezes, Harry moans and his cock fills.

They stumble. Harry barks out a laugh.

The sound is out of place here. Severus touches Harry’s cheek. Watches his wide smile soften. He turns his face to kiss Severus’ palm — too tender, too sweet —

"I want your mouth," Severus says.

A shocked laugh, now, but all the same Harry says, "Alright."

Rather than take to bed, Harry drops to the floor. Trousers trap his ankles still, and Harry grumbles and catches balance on Severus’ legs. Severus shrugs out of his robes and opens his fly.

His face heats at the obscenity of holding his cock for Harry. Harry, red-faced and wide-eyed. It would be easy to flee; easier still to lash out, to slap Harry with his cock, to mock him for the slut he is —

Sweaty hands rest on Severus’ hips as Harry leans in for a tentative lick. Then a longer, savoring taste. Fingers dig into Harry’s hair, guide him nearer. Fluid smears across Harry’s cheek, across his lips. Harry shivers, and gasps, and — Severus coaxes his cock inside.

They tremble in unison. Severus dares not move, lest he spend too soon. His cock throbs on Harry’s tongue; his fingers tighten in Harry’s hair.

Bright red, the boy’s cheeks; glazed his eyes. Severus thrusts shallowly, and Harry moans around him. Hot, wet vibration. Static in his mind, and along his nerves. His hips pump forward.

Harry chokes, and shoves him back, and coughs. Severus should back away, should apologize. Should comfort him. But he cannot let go. Cannot help but tug Harry near again. Harry’s cheek rests against his belly as he catches his breath.

Severus remembers to breathe himself, as his heart hammers towards escape, and his cock strains for release.

Harry peers up at him and smacks his lips. His hands stroke upwards, shove at Severus’ shirt. "Off," Harry demands.

And because he so sweetly mouths at his sack, Severus obliges.

One button, maybe two, clatter to the floor in his haste. The sleeves catch on his elbows, then around his wrists, and he impatiently throws it to the ground.

Too aware of every blemish, every crooked edge. Skin discolored, and scarred. The vile Mark on his arm. Genetics had not blessed him at birth, and life has cursed him ever since. And here he stands, exposed once more; breath held, awaiting mockery, or pity.

Mouth drags along his cock. Hands on his belly in greedy caress. Severus releases as shaky breath as his eyes flutter shut. Harry sucks him too deep, and he pulls off to clear his throat. He slurps messily at the leaking head, then swallows down. He tilts his head and takes more.

When Harry finds a rhythm, his hands explore. Through hair, across scars, along his ribs, into his navel. Stroke up to the dent in his chest, and over to pluck at his nipples. Shock jolts Severus. Pleasure, not pain, he realizes when Harry pinches again. Until they harden, and Harry rolls them beneath his thumbs.

Severus has never known its like. Not the focus of another, nor the tenderness of touch. This connection to a lover, as if —

It’s you.

— as if it could be…

There are moments when pleasure is too much. When hope is more than a man can bear.

"Does your bride know you’re at my feet?" Severus bites out. "Would any glory hole in England surprise her at all?"

Harry pulls away with such force he falls back and catches himself on his hands. He glares blearily up as he balances himself. "Don’t."

Harry wipes his mouth on his arm. Severus reaches out to test the softness of his lip. Harry bites hard. Teeth dig into bone until Severus hisses. He nearly slaps the boy, but teeth release so that lips can soothe. The wound throbs, even as anger fades.

"Bed," he rasps.

"Yeah?"

Severus sits on the bed and unties his boots with a spell. Laziness is no excuse for ruining good laces early, but Severus hasn’t the patience for proper boot care. He cannot tear his eyes from Harry, who falls to his bum and shoves off trousers and trainers in one go. He scrambles to his feet and clumsily toes out of his socks.

Severus kicks away boots and trousers as Harry nervously bounds forward, cock bobbing. Severus barely has his socks off before he has a lapful of eagerly squirming boy.

"Oof," as he falls back onto the mattress.

Mouth on his marred throat. One arm enfolds Harry; fingers trail down his spine. Such a charming shiver it elicits. More charming still when he gropes Harry’s arse.

"Ah!"

Hips rut and thrust. A spell eases the glide of their cocks. Hot, panting breath. Teeth, and nails. Sweat, and spit, and "Oh god," Harry groans. A smack to his arse, a delectable whine. One thrust, two — release spurts between them, rubbed into their skin by the writhing of their bodies.

Indecent, disgusting —

More.

"Oh," Harry whispers into his chest, and he nips at a nipple. Severus’ cock twitches between them. "You can —" The tips of his ear redden. "Whatever you want."

Everything.

Severus wants everything, fool that he is. Far though his pride has fallen, he dares not speak the word. Instead, he summons a vial of lube. Better than any spell, this brew is thick, slick, and warm. He pours too much into his hand while Harry nuzzles into his chest.

Thoughts unstrung. Breath unsteady. Harry consumes him, within and without. The soft cock against his belly. The seductive crevice, the wrinkled hole, smooth inner walls.

Pulse thrums around his fingers, beats against his chest. His own stutters and skips and learns the same rhythm.

"Severus," Harry gasps. His cock rouses between them as Severus’ fingers crook just so. He kisses Severus, slow and sloppy, and undulates his hips. Severus’ cock bumps against his hand, and Harry hums into his mouth.

Severus frees his fingers, and means to roll them over, but Harry pushes him back down and grabs his cock. Cock nudges between cheeks, and catches at his hole. Harry puffs into his mouth, bears down, and —

— he slips out of place. Harry huffs and straightens him out. Severus sucks a lip into his mouth, and grazes with his teeth. The tip presses just inside, and then — away again. Harry grunts in annoyance. Severus’ cock throbs furiously.

He needs to roll over, push inside, pound him into the mattress — he irritably slicks his cock with leftover lube, and holds Harry’s hips in place as Harry holds his cock. He breathes Harry’s air as they work together, fitting his cock inside.

"Oh," Harry breathes. "Oh."

Not even halfway in and he’s — they’re — delirious. His balls are full to bursting, but he isn’t ready, he needs more — Heels dig into mattress. Hands roam — he can’t stop touching, can’t stop — warm, gold, sun — slick with sweat — smooth as silk, he’s —

Perfect.

Sharp pain — his scalp. Harry braces himself, and pins Severus’ hair in the process. Then he moves to — all of his weight on Severus’ collarbone. Harry shimmies his hips, takes him deeper, and — pain, pleasure, stop, don’t stop — his nails dig into Harry’s skin. Harry coos, and Severus would give him a look, a word, but — he braces himself on Severus’ chest and there’s a wrinkle between his brows as his arse settles against Severus’ hips.

Perfect. He’s so —

Bad. He’s awkward. Tense in concentration. He needs to move, Severus needs to come, but he has no rhythm. Worse (or better?) that he pauses to toy with Severus’ nipples. Severus shifts his feet, and his toes wiggle; sparks of light on his skin, in his vision.

"Ah," Harry whines.

Close, he’s so close, he’s going to come, too soon, not now, not like this —

Awful. The boy is awful. He’s —

(Precious, lovely.)

Harry moves one hand to hold his weight as the other presses low over his belly. His lips part, but no sound escapes. The way he touches, and tilts his hips, as if he can feel —

Smug pride, and embarrassment. Indecent — "Stop that!" Severus barks.

"Mm," Harry whimpers.

He picks up his pace. Disjointed motion. Close, Severus gets so close, but then — away, it falls, just out of reach by this wretched tease. Too fast, too slow, not enough, then too much. They both huff when Severus’ cock pops out and slides across Harry’s cheeks.

"Potter!" he snaps.

Enough of this. Severus wrestles the boy onto his back, and this time Harry allows it. Warm, messy putty in his hands. He shoves Harry’s knees to his chest. One leg he keeps hold of, but the other drapes over Severus’ shoulder as Severus grabs his cock.

He catches one glimpse at where Harry is open — pink, and gaping — he presses his mouth to Harry’s leg and closes his eyes as he stuffs himself back in. He can’t hold back a groan, muffled though it is against Harry’s skin.

Harry’s head presses back, his arms stretch out, and he hisses.

This is what he needs. Steady, pounding rhythm. A tight grasp on this boy, this toy, to ground himself. Fingers dig into flesh. His mouth pants and sucks and bites Harry’s calf.

Slick sweat, the ache of muscles. A fight to tame the wriggling, writhing beast beneath him. Fight the sun’s heat; fight for air.

Obscene squelch. Slap of skin. The bed creaks. Gasping, panting, and — Harry croaks around a moan. Severus adjusts his angle as Harry wets his throat. And when Severus drills into him, Harry wails.

Fierce, possessive glee. Harry’s hands slap into the headboard as they fuck across the bed. Severus grasps the wood to steady himself. His other hand digs harder into Harry, then frees him.

He’ll break him. Ruin him. Rip him to shreds.

Sibilant, nonsensical pleas. Harry lifts his head, and Severus —

Is ruined. Broken.

Severus surges down, captures Harry’s mouth. Arms and legs wind — A crackle of electricity; along his skin, in his ear. A pulse of light inside of him, spills out of him, into Harry, Harry spills between them, liquid glimmering light.

In a haze, Severus pulls free. Falls to his side. A wince, for the strain of his hamstrings. The sensitive aftershocks of his groin.

Peace, even in the stench and the ache.

Harry curls up and slips into his arms with feline grace. Happy, contented purrs. Severus hasn’t the energy to mock him, or to open his eyes. Sweat streaks down his back, down his neck, down his nose. He senses mischief, and lifts one lid. He catches the brightness of Harry’s smile as he leans in. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of his nose, onto Harry’s tongue. A burst of smug joy, easily calmed with a kiss. Slow, and sweet.

Harry’s fingers in his hair. Greasy, sweaty — his touch tender, and — Severus breaks away. He can’t — Harry nuzzles into his neck. Severus holds him closer, and gathers his wits to summon a balm from the bathroom.

No bleeding, this time, but Severus applies it to his puffy rim, and to his lax inner walls. Harry makes a sound. A spark of interest in Severus’ cock, though it is too tired to rouse.

"I should leave soon," Harry murmurs.

A clench in his chest, in his belly. (Don’t go — get out — ) Lips press to Harry’s temple. Peace slips away, but Severus grasps for it still, his fingers deep in Harry still.

He gets Harry off a third time. Kneels over him. Fucks him with one hand, strokes him with the other. When he’s done, Harry is useless in the twisted sheets. His fingers inch across the mattress, but Severus flees them.

It is Severus who leaves first. Leaves Harry to stew in his own filth. He strides downstairs in a dressing gown, and soothes his nerves with bitter tea. And he doesn’t, doesn’t, listen for the crack of Disapparition.

There is no moving on, he now knows. Harry will not be driven from his mind, nor his life.

If pride is the price to be paid, then Severus will pay it. He will bleed his dignity onto the floor. He will open his ribs, and let Harry pinch and bruise heart and lungs as he pleases. Severus will not pay the price gladly. Will not smile and thank Harry for the honor.

But he pays it.

In turn, he has Harry. Moments of his time. Bits and pieces of him.

Harry slips into the apothecary, his robes a warning sign. Patrons eye him and one by one they slip away. When only Harry remains, they steal into the storage closet. Blood is drawn, and release.

Bites, scratches, bruises. The boy is a work of art — a whore —

Severus makes his mark on Harry, and he steals it back. He cleans Harry with a cloth, and erases his touch with balms. Splotches of plum, wine, rose, and indigo fade to nothing. Until only polished, pristine gold remains.

With a vengeance, Severus lives again. Tea with Narcissa, or dinner parties with the insufferable elite. Weekends to Scotland for drinks with Filius and Minerva, or cards with Aberborth and Hagrid. Not friends, precisely, but people with whom he passes time.

Narcissa and Zinnia present him with new robes, and Severus attempts to refuse. Midnight blue, which fades to black, with a subtle shimmer of silver stars. Charcoal gray, espresso brown, forest green. For meetings at Gringotts, they say, or Ministry events. They do not say dinners at the Manor, but Severus hears it all the same.

Once home, he shoves them to the bottom of a trunk.

Rumors are spread. Narcissa the mastermind, and Zinnia the mouthpiece. The right stories whispered into the right ears. Poisonings, and curses; cures, and wards. Power, and prestige. He invented his own spells, they say. He’s collected the skulls of his enemies, they say.

Severus wants to rip out their tongues and pickle them in jars.

One should never believe whispers on the street.

But at night, Severus whispers to Harry. Subtle clues about Mulciber’s whereabouts, and stolen wares at Borgin and Burke’s. Harry is too dimwitted to catch Severus’ purpose, but the knowledge seeps into him, and by November Harry’s name blazes across the Prophet. He brushes away thanks, and recognizes his team, but still it is Harry they praise. Their hero, once more.

Severus smirks over his toast. His eyes linger on Harry’s furrowed brow.

Quidditch Times announces the Harpies’ win against the Wasps, and Witch Weekly details the afterparty. Photos of Harry in the stands, beaming alongside his faithful sidekicks. Photos of the hero and his bride in a crowded pub. A forceful smooch, after which Ginevra cackles and Harry blushes.

The pages wrinkle in Severus’ hands, but he smoothes them back out. The way his hands smooth across Harry’s skin when they’re together.

Severus knows every inch of Harry in a way they never will.

Every scar’s exact shape, size, and placement. The words on his hand, the slash on his arm, the circle on his chest. Knobby knees and crooked toes. A mole on his pinky. Dimples on his cheeks (above and below.)

Without sight he can trace the moles on Harry’s back, and the crooked triangle they form. The faint starlike scar at the base of his spine. Harry doesn’t know where it came from, and in pensive silence they wonder.

In silence, in darkness, he finds the crook of Harry’s neck, where his face fits best. Where to tuck his nose, where his mouth rests. How Harry purrs when he sucks yet another mark there.

How sensitive his arse, turned on by the slightest touch. How sensitive the soles of his feet, and how he shrieks when relentlessly tickled. How his laughter fades to moans when his arse is filled. How he trembles in Severus’ arms, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

The world doesn’t know. But how many do? How many have the time or the care to traverse every inch; to wring every ounce, every form of pleasure; to drink in every sight, every sound, as if it’s the last.

Does his presence linger with them days, weeks, after he’s gone?

Sick, Severus bins the tabloids, and his toast.

The light of him transforms Spinner’s End.

In the way of dreams, every wall is familiar and strange. Every book, every shelf in its place. The sofa is still lumpy, the lights still dim. The wallpaper still peels at the edges.

The colors are changed. Just a shade off, he thinks. The air is crisp. Sweet and fresh as an apple. Cold and biting as a winter breeze.

Harry is the soft warmth of a flickering flame. The heavy heat of a raging inferno.

He is the blazing sun. The harsh light beneath which nothing can hide, and nothing survives.

The force of him that tames the dark, is chaos when left adrift.

He blazes into Severus’ life like a storm; a natural disaster that wreaks havoc and leaves Severus to mend the ruin.

Shattered vials he sweeps with a spell. Books replaced on the shelves. Severus buries his face in the bedsheets to breathe in his stench. One last whiff before he throws them into the wash. He neatens his robes, and brushes his hair. He presses his back into the wall, to irritate the scratches Harry left.

Shameless, thoughtless, careless boy.

He ruins others, too.

Another photo in the paper. His eyes stray to Ginevra once he’s looked his fill of Harry. Her eyes are warm for Harry, and frosty for Severus.

Life would be easier were she as much of a harpy off the pitch as on, but Severus is afraid that she truly loves him. And Harry —

Harry doesn’t look her way once.

The way Harry looks at Severus…

Some days he can’t stand it.

Easier with his spectacles tossed aside, and his eyes unfocused. Easier still when he’s stripped bare, and shoved face-first onto the bed.

Harry is his. He is, he is. Severus’ tongue traces the dimples in each cheek, then he pries them apart to lick hotly up his crease.

And it’s easy, how Harry turns to putty in his hands. Easy, how pliant he is for every lick across his wrinkled hole; the hungry prod inside. Easy, how he stretches around Severus’ tongue, his fingers, his cock. How Harry takes him, all of him.

Every last millimeter of his cock isn’t enough. He winds his arms around Harry, and slips his fingers into his mouth. He strokes his tongue, and his teeth, and his cheeks.

Harry is his; and Severus is his in turn.

When Harry comes, Severus kisses him. And when Harry falls, Severus straddles him and fucks him.

Mine, mine. You’ll always be mine. You’ve always been mine.

He chases his desperation to the end, and almost, almost he reaches it.

After, Harry slithers near, and Severus gathers him into his arms. The high fades, and Severus clings to Harry as he crashes back to earth. Clings to the shards Harry graciously loans him.

Too much on his chest, and in. A blissful flutter, a fearful clench. Severus pulls away and as he slips out of bed, his fingers hover over his skin. A tickle of hair disturbed; a brush of lips.

A tender kiss. As if Severus were —

"You’ve dallied long enough," he says. "It won’t do for your betrothed to suspect."

In the wardrobe, he snatches the nearest dressing gown, sad and gray as it is. He should have hung Narcissa’s gifts. Better he walk away from Harry a king than —

"Careful, Sev. You almost sound jealous."

Ice cracks in his chest, and bleeds into his veins.

"Jealous." Severus considers the taste of it; as vile as coward; more acrid, for the truth of it. "Of what? The Boy Who Continues to Live for Everyone Else?"

It’s not his most clever retort; but honesty wounds deeper than cleverness.

"I’m not — What are you — ? Ginny. You’re jealous of Ginny."

Ginny. Terrible name. Harry and Ginny, how cute. How trite.

"Ah, yes, Miss Weasley. It’s every young girl’s dream to marry for fame and fortune." Severus remembers her doe-eyed mooning as a first year; her pitiful attempts at poetry. A fool in love, just like — "Fidelity is a fair trade off for those things, is it not?"

All Harry can offer is his name and his gold. Not faithfulness. Not love. Is he any good with that knob of his, Severus wonders nastily, or does she bend him over and peg him soundly?

"She’s not like that, Snape. She loves me."

She does, more fool her.

"And this is how you repay her love? By crawling from bed to bed? Glutting yourself on a slew of lovers to fill the void she cannot?" Where will Harry go after this? The brothel? Does he pay them for their cock or their holes? Do they pay him for the honor?

The cloud of his rage is disturbed by the brightness of Harry’s. His eyes glow arsenic green in the midday sun. Only by force of will does Severus stand unflinching in their glare.

The force that drives him to follow Harry to the door, to stand in his way, to grab his jaw. Keep him here, if only to smother himself in the gnawing agony." A great love story, is it not?" he mocks. "The gold digging whore and the cock hungry slut live happily ever after."

Harry shoves him away. "What do you know about happiness? What do you know about love?"

"You presume — "

"You were obsessed with my mother!" Harry accuses. "You’re bitter she married my dad, just like you’re bitter I’m marrying Ginny!"

The accusation might amuse him, in another light. Obsessed with Lily? Perhaps he was, though he has no taste for tits or quim. It was Lily’s vibrancy, her integrity, her generosity that drew Severus in; all of the beauty that lays broken in her son.

"I never wanted your mother, you stupid boy. And if I thought her a fool for marrying your father, at least your father would never have betrayed her this way."

Could Severus have said anything worse? Triumph blazes through him at the sight of Harry’s tears. At the sound of his whispered, "Fuck you." The victory is hollow, but Severus admires the shine. Right up until Harry casts a nasty Bat-Bogey Hex.

Always Ginevra’s speciality, Severus remembers. And thus, Harry has the last laugh.

Perhaps it is enough. Perhaps this time, Harry will stay away.

Come back. Come back to me.

"All you do is hurt yourself," Lily once told him. Nose in the air, voice haughty. "That’s how they win."

Severus hated her then, for misunderstanding. He hates her now for how clearly she saw him.

If only she could see her son when he returns. Broody on Severus’ front step; clenched jaw, flared nostrils. Sparks on his fingertips when he grasps Severus’ robes. Thick, heavy breathing on Severus’ shoulder. His presence pricks at every raw nerve.

The thorns of them; how they tear into one another, bleed one another.

Severus steps back into the house and pulls Harry with him. And he holds Harry close, however much it hurts.

In Harry’s absence, Severus picks at the scabs.

Another dinner, after which Severus stays for gossip, under the guise of wine.

"To hear Daphne tell it, he’s been to bed with every known name in our world," Zinnia says.

"Even the Minister?" Narcissa asks.

"Especially the Minister."

Their sons, too, though they don’t say. And their sons’ friends, too.

Only the most shameless gossip rags speak of it. Underground clubs on Horizont Alley, or Muggle bars near the Leaky Cauldron. Who wears what, and who kisses who. Severus knows far more than he wishes about Draco’s latest fling with the youngest Weasley, in every search for Harry’s name, Harry’s face.

For all that Harry’s visits to the apothecary draw attention, and for all that idle tongues wag, Severus has never been accused of fucking the Golden Boy.

It’s for the best. Truly.

Slow, and deep, he presses into Harry’s throat. Heat, constriction. Harry strokes his cock as he chokes on Severus’.

Acid gnaws at his bones, and curdles in his belly. Sour, bitter, vile is Severus; it must leak out of his every pore. The grease on his skin, the spunk in his balls.

Who would want Harry if they could see him now, sullied time and again by Severus Snape?

(Why should Severus want him, knowing how dirty he is?)

The gleam of greed in Harry’s eyes. The way he shoves Severus back, only to take him once more, on his own terms. The way he takes all that Severus has to give —

Flowers on Valentine’s Day. Pristine white blooms. He nearly slams the door in the florist’s face.

Felicitous Flowers, written in cursive on the van. A smile plastered on the woman’s face. Her smile falters when Severus stares at her. Stares at the flowers, and their slender pink vase.

Severus stares until Felicia foists the bouquet onto him and runs back to her van. He sets them atop a tower of books and watches them warily from across the room.

Mockery. The boy mocks him…

From the flowers, to book spines, and back again. It takes time to find the book, and he feels foolish when he finally thinks to summon it. A floriography book of his mother’s.

Gardenias: secret love; pure love; you’re lovely.

Severus snaps the book shut.

Rosy pink, Harry’s cheeks, when he sees the gardenias on the dining table. A clasp of fingers, a shuffle of feet. The knot in Severus’ sternum loosens.

"Tea?" he offers.

Harry rummages through his cupboard and whips up a batch of scones. Severus fixes their tea. Two sugars for Harry, none for himself.

Harry glances to the flowers, to Severus, to the wall, to the floor.

Clumsy hands drop glops of apricot marmalade. Scone crumbs flutter down.

Hands smear in the mess as Harry braces himself on the table, as Severus opens him with his tongue. Legs in the air, head thrown back. Severus tilts his face and burrows deeper. Savors the salty, earthy flavor, but he can’t chase away the cloying taste of —

"C’mon," Harry grouses.

Hands reach for him, and land too hard. Clumsy, careless — Severus bares his teeth as Harry leans up for a kiss. Too violent, his lips; too sticky the fingers that trail across his cheek and into his hair. Harry’s tongue tastes of blood and sugar when Severus sucks it into his mouth.

Jar of marmalade, vase of gardenias, both crash to the floor as Severus settles between Harry’s legs. He pauses, half inside, to fumble for his wand. Harry squirms, impales himself further, as Severus aims a spell. Then another, when it misses.

Repair is beyond him now, but the flowers are safe on the counter. White petals smeared with apricot.

Harry licks marmalade from his cheek, his ear.

If only the world could see their Savior —

If Ginevra could see her lover —

If the Potters could see their son, they would roll in their graves.

Tobias must roll in his, too, to know that every inch of his home is tainted by Severus’ faggotry.

His room, his bed, all Tobias’ once. He would bash Severus’ face in if he could see him now.

Or he would try.

No wonder Spinner’s End has changed, stained as it is by Harry’s love.

A grave no longer, Spinner’s End. A palace built on a battlefield. His throne made of teeth and bones, glued together by blood and spit. Harry drapes it in silks and jewels when he comes. The beauty only highlights the darkness.

"Wake up!"

The mattress jolts when Harry bounces onto it. Severus squints one eye open. Harry wears his white tee shirt and nothing else. His spent cock drools onto his thigh as he settles down with a plate of fruit.

Severus rolls forward to lick the drop away. Harry shivers.

"I brought food, you know," Harry says.

"Did you?" Severus murmurs into his skin.

"We need our energy!"

"I was sleeping," Severus points out.

"Oh hush," Harry laughs. His fingers card through Severus’ hair, and he presses a grape to his mouth. "Here, eat."

Tired as he is, Severus settles down against Harry’s thigh, and parts his lips.

Saliva dries on his tongue, and even blood drains away. What sustains him leaves him as he stares at the grotesque red and marred flesh of Harry's torso. Redder than his Auror robes, this burn, with splotches blacker than his boots.

Severus kneels before him with a jar of paste. HIs fingers tremble to open it, and he scolds himself. So weak, the way his stomach churns, the way his nerves rattle. He cannot, will not, be weak. Not now. Not with Harry. Force of will steadies his fingers as he applies the paste.

Danger; always danger with Harry. The war is over, but he can’t stay away. Chasing Death, who eluded him.

You should have let me die, he thinks, if you meant to dig your own grave.

Noble work, law enforcement. Work fit for a hero. The world will demand he save them, again and again. The image of him in their heads is larger than life. Harry Potter, Master of Death. As if stone or cloak will spare him in the end.

They’ll mourn him, when he lies broken on the floor. They’ll erect golden statues in his honor. But their tears and their prayers won’t bring him back. And the demigod they worship doesn’t resemble Harry in the least.

When he’s dead and buried, what will remain but a dull memory? What will he have left behind but a life half-lived? Burdened by expectation —

It’s wrong, how Harry’s smile pierces through his gloom. Severus snorts, but the smile only grows. "This is what you want from your life? Eradicating evil until it puts you in the grave?"

"Careful, Severus. I’d almost think you care."

He does. More than he should.

Danger.

Severus wipes his fingers on a towel. Unsticks his tongue from his throat as he tugs Harry’s shirt into place. "You’re a convenient place to put my cock. I’d hate to look for another."

As soon as they’re out, Severus wants to swallow them back down. Every nasty word. Sparing himself isn’t worth Harry’s pain. Severus kneels, his heart on the floor, as Harry scoffs and straightens his robes. Severus touches Harry’s chest, as if to hold him here.

All he need do is speak. Beg for forgiveness. Prostrate himself at Harry’s feet. Benevolent, is Harry; but Severus is prideful. The words are heavy on his tongue, and they clog his throat. He watches Harry instead. Wills him to learn Legilimency, to read Severus’ meaning…

Harry knows. He knows. But he walks away.

It isn’t only himself Severus hurts. Lily learned that. The best way he’s found to stay safe is to lash out first. Fight to the end. Don’t stop, whether they’re on the ground, or he is.

"He’s in a mood," Hagrid loudly whispers when Minerva enters the pub.

Minerva glances over him, and though she gives Hagrid an unimpressed look, Severus knows she’s seen — seen something. She’ll never guess the truth, of course.

"When isn’t he?" Minerva quips back.

They drink. And drink. And when the pub closes, Aberforth gives him a room upstairs. He spends the weekend in Scotland, and returns to England bright and early Monday morning to open shop.

Hiding from Harry, like the coward he is.

This is, after all, life. Wreckage, and reprieve. Enough time, enough breath, to sort and mend before it all falls apart again.

Severus and Narcissa squabble over the apothecary’s renovations. Narcissa’s aesthetics are out of place on Knockturn Alley, as she concedes in the end. They agree on dark, elegant designs. Rich colors for the door, the sign; curly lettering for the name; a shiny new till of silver and bronze.

The anti-theft charms make it well worth the gold, if only for the entertainment value. Old Man Jenkins shouts and curses as the till chews on his fingers. Narcissa and Severus share tea while waiting for magical law enforcement.

There is a crunch, then a shriek, then a thud. Narcissa tilts her head. "What do you think of red?"

One Wednesday, he closes for lunch to fuck Harry in the bathroom. He holds Harry’s bare waist in his hands, his thumbs rest in the dip of his spine. Harry clutches the counter. Neither looks away from the mirror. It’s a disgrace, his waxy complexion near Harry’s sunkissed glow. Harry’s full pink lips part around whispered pleas, while Severus’ bare crooked teeth.

What is it Harry sees, for his eyes to roam so hungrily?

Now Hiring posters plastered in the windows, and ads in the papers. Not many applicants, but Severus is choosy. He’ll not entrust his shop to just anyone.

Narcissa gossips about Theodore Nott’s scandalous romance with Harry Potter. She speaks with such relish for a woman who often claims, "One knows better than to listen to rumors." Severus thinks she suspects. If not the whole truth, then at least Severus’ shame. It takes all of his strength to hold his tongue.

Nott Jr. makes a fine romp, Severus is sure, but it’s hardly romance.

(Unless Harry sends flowers to all of his conquests.)

Minerva writes about staffing issues, and troublesome students, and further repairs on Hogwarts. She sends orders for potions that Severus still overcharges for, just in case.

Zinnia comes to him near closing time, veiled in glimmering black. She requests a series of potions that, while safe in isolation, and in moderation, make for a deadly cocktail together. Is she married again? Severus can never keep up. He files his suspicions away for later use and takes her gold.

Another Saturday. Another breakdown. Another slew of insults.

Wands aimed. Spells misfired. Harry wrestles Severus onto the couch. Trousers removed, and Harry sits on his cock. He holds Severus down, pins his shoulders to the couch. He grunts angrily on every drop down.

Tears streak down his face, hot and salty. Severus stretches his tongue for a taste. Snot leaks into the mess of it, but Severus takes that, too. Disgusting — him, them. Pathetic, his hunger, his need for all Harry offers.

After, when release bleeds the fight out of them, Severus holds Harry close and rubs his back as Harry buries his face in Severus’ neck.

What does Severus know of love, Harry once asked.

Severus knows plenty of love. Its grandiosity, and its ferocity. Love for a cruel father and a useless mother. Love for a privileged friend. Love for a bloodthirsty megalomaniac, love for a power hungry mastermind.

Love for those who offered respect, and opportunity. Lucius Malfoy, Mortimer Mulciber, Regulus Black. Doomed crushes, and affairs, and romances.

That terrible master that led Lily to her death, and Severus to servitude. That drove Narcissa to his doorstep, desperate and afraid. That drew Harry to Death’s clutches time and again, year after year; love for a world that will never truly love him.

That powerful force that pulled Severus back to earth to suffer once more.

By March, he hires Marcus Flint to run the counter. He’s brutish and gruff, but far brighter than he seems. He takes well to numbers, and to instructions. He observes quietly, and reports oddities unprompted after closing.

Less headache for Severus, with fewer customer interactions; but more importantly, more time. More time to brew, and research, and experiment. He takes to an old hobby, critiquing articles in The Practical Potioneer and Botchman’s Brews.

He loses a day of brewing to scribble arithmantic charts to share with Septima, and he drafts the week’s numbers for Narcissa. He drops both off at the owl post office on his way home. A day filled with numbers makes his temples throb, but he feels lighter, freer, than he has in ages.

Arithmantic and runic studies fill his evenings. He spends hours buried in scrolls or books, when not buried in Harry’s throat, or his arse.

The days are a blur. Knives, and pestles. Hemlock and rue. Coins to stack and count. Wine with Narcissa, ale with Aberforth. Absinthe by the fire. Harry’s mouth in the dark.

In April a small owl finds him at home. Not Narcissa’s or Minerva’s; perhaps Marcus, or that idiot Botchman. It isn’t Harry’s handwriting he expects. Even without a signature, it’s clearly his chicken-scratch.

Ginny’s having a girl’s trip. Friday morning to Sunday evening.

Short. Simple. Why not sign? It is his name Severus longs for, not hers. He balls up the parchment and sets it ablaze.

Marcus can handle the shop alone for one day. But why should Severus be available? Harry didn’t have the decency to ask.

Severus should show up to his home. If he’s lucky (unlucky) Ginevra will still be there. Let Harry stammer out his excuses. Let Severus have him in the bed he shares with her. Let him fuck away every last thought of her, and all the rest.

Why should Severus be available for the boy’s every whim?

On Friday, Severus nearly Floos to the shop a hundred times. He’s neatened his books and scrolls, and scrubbed every surface. As if Harry hasn’t seen it in disarray, in filth. As if Harry hasn’t been the cause of it.

A weekend with Harry, or so it seems. Not that the boy cared to be direct. Days; not hours, or minutes, but days with Harry.

Severus washes and combs his hair. He wears a new dayrobe, one with fewer buttons. Plain black at first glance, with subtle gray detail at the edges.

Selfish, demanding, spoiled brat of a boy.

A bang on the door. It echoes and vibrates through every room of the house; through every cavern in his body. Severus pauses. He could Floo without notice, or Apparate as a statement.

Instead he marches to the door and flings it open. Harry waits, breathless and flushed and lovely. He glides in, and lets his bags crash to the floor. Severus’ spirits lift. Damn it. "A tad presumptuous, Potter. Yet I am not surprised."

"Severus." Half warning, half pleading.

Tread carefully, Severus, lest you push him away.

Severus pushes him against the door. "I despise you." As close to confession as he’ll come.

"Yeah? Me, too."

Hate, yes. They’ve always had hate. They have it even now. And with hate guarded close in his heart, Severus takes Harry there against the door. He should throw Harry out, but instead he pins him there with his cock. Harry clings, with hands and legs. Clumsy, and awkward, and —

Home, this is home, right here. Where he belongs. The only place in all the world he’s ever fit.

After…

There is no rush to leave, after.

Harry sprawls on the sofa in his shirt and socks. Severus fixes tea to settle his mind, and insults Harry to settle his soul. A lazy, messy boy; his cock and arse leak onto the sofa. Harry suggests he use a spell. Foolish boy. The sofa is too old to withstand targeted spellwork. Even Mrs. Skower’s Magical Mess Remover might be too strong. Muggle cleaners might do the trick.

"Am I meant to suffer such cheek all weekend?" Severus demands.

"You can suffer any cheek you like this weekend."

Severus rolls his eyes and fights a smirk. A crude remark would be easy, and yet…He says nothing, and proffers a teacup. Two sugars, just as Harry likes. Rather than sit up, Harry flicks his wand to set the cup hovering over his middle.

Obnoxious. Endearing. Severus chews on his tongue. The cup wobbles; tea sloshes. Harry grabs it and tilts his head up for a careful sip. He smiles so smugly after that Severus rushes to his armchair. He uses the time to control the twitch of his cheeks.

The glint in Harry’s eye tells Severus he failed. Then, Harry jerks and yelps as hot tea splatters on his neck. Severus quirks a brow in turn. Harry slurps more tea, winces through the heat, and settles back down once the cup is half full, and safe to hover.

"Stubborn," Severus mutters.

"Tell me about the shop," Harry chirps.

So Severus tells him. He exaggerates Marcus’ uselessness, and explains his projects in technical terms. Rather than ignore or interrupt, Harry listens, and finishes his tea. Unlikely that the information sinks in, not with that glazed smile. He might well be listening to the rainfall or a crackling fire.

It’s not what Severus wanted. Not what he aimed for. Yet he is content, for a time.

And in that time, he listens to Harry in turn. Of politics and paperwork and violence. Disenchanted already. Severus expected another year or two of willful blindness, at least.

"You’ve fought enough in your life, Potter," Severus says. "That you would elect to continue the ‘good fight’ speaks only to your inability to live on your own terms, rather than the world’s whims."

"Don’t," Harry warns.

The accusation must sting, but how else will he learn? This isn’t the life Harry was made for, prophecies and expectations be damned.

Still, he holds his tongue as Harry rubs his face. The air around him buzzes with agitation and desperation. Harry blathers on, latches onto a new subject like a lifeline.

Enforced leave over distraction. Matters are fraught indeed. Severus scratches the arm of his chair, over a spot long ago burned and mended and burned again. The rough patch catches his nails and soothes his nerves.

"Don’t say anything mean. Please?"

"Shall I say nothing then?" he snaps.

Lies are a simple matter, but Severus is not made for idle chit chat, or comfort. Even were he so inclined, Severus would refuse. The pretty lies Harry craves will do more harm than good. Severus will not encourage his…

Harry’s bare legs stretch out, and his toes wiggle in his socks…

…his ridiculous, self-sacrificing…

Harry rolls onto his side and looks up at Severus. The bat of his lashes, the curl of his lips…

…imbecilic…

"It’s your fault," Harry says. "I was thinking of you."

The flirtation ends as suddenly as it began. Flirting, he was flirting…Severus stares as Harry awkwardly picks at the sofa. Liar, he’s lying, except…

Severus slips his hand to his side, brushes fingers to wand. Legilimens.

A cloud of rage. A churn of disgust. Shame, thick and heavy. Yellow fingers, greasy hair, crooked teeth…

…eyes, arms…blood…the doe…a pulse. The crest of desire, and need that drags him under.

Fizzy and bubbly and bright — and — then hot and dark and heavy and —

"Severus, you can’t — !"

The connection snaps. Was it broken focus, or did the fall to his knees jar him? Was it when Harry spoke? Or when Severus kissed him?

More, he wants more. No, he wants to flee, wants to — needs to —

Can’t stop, can’t think. It was he, Severus, in Harry’s mind. It is he, Severus, in Harry’s body, his fingers in Harry’s arse, his tongue in Harry’s mouth. Severus, who lays claim to Harry, with every look, every touch. Severus, who drags Harry to release once again.

Yet it is Harry who has burrowed deep, and Severus can’t get him closer, can’t shove him out, nothing he does is enough — he has no control, he has nothing, he can do nothing but —

"Sev!"

— can do nothing but swoop down to steal his breath.

The boy dozes after. Everything within Severus trembles, but his hands are steady when he summons a blanket and tucks Harry in.

His muscles ache with the force of all he holds in. He is only a man. Flesh and bone pushed beyond mortal limit. He is damaged beyond repair. Yet this boy, this beautiful boy, looks at him and sees, and feels —

…cast into an abyss. endless black skies — no, churning black waves — no, fierce black flames…

— romantic rubbish.

Severus’ fingers linger over Harry’s face. Then, he folds his arms around himself instead.

Sandwiches for lunch, and mindless prattle from Harry.

A shower, after. Hot water soothes his tension. Harry’s hands soothe his frayed nerves. He soaps Severus in clumsy seduction, not thorough in the least. Severus at least washes Harry properly before he plays with his arse.

Harry shoves Severus to bed, and fucks himself on his cock. Severus can do little more than lie there and watch Harry chase his pleasure. Harry’s every cry burns Severus with equal parts embarrassment and pride.

Sandwiches for dinner. Quiet, now.

They retire to the sitting room for Severus to read and Harry to work on a puzzle. Harry sneaks looks at Severus, who pretends not to do the same.

The very bones of Spinner’s End have changed. Uprooted by a storm and spit into nowhere.

Why are you here?

What have you done?

Bedtime is a nightmare (a waking dream.) Severus settles in bed, in his tattered gray nightshirt, and watches warily as Harry changes into his blue pajamas. Too young, too handsome, too — darling, as he shyly joins Severus in bed. His eyes are so wide and so bright that Severus can hardly stand it.

Harry clings to him. Severus grimaces and grumbles into Harry’s hair. He readjusts to free his ribs, then holds Harry in turn. A loose hold to a close embrace, seduced as he is by the moonlight, and by Harry’s gentle breathing.

The Sandman reaches his hand to Severus, but he refuses, even as Harry drifts away. He fights the heaviness of his eyes. The hands of a clock tick-tick in his ribs. The sands of time slip away, even as he clings to them; the way he clings to Harry’s body, the way he clings to Harry’s scent. Of soap, and sweat, and woodsmoke.

He studies details he’s not seen before. The purple-blue veins on his lids, the sparseness of his lashes. Faint freckles on his nose. A red mark on his lip, the spot he always chews. Lips that part around quiet, whistling snores.

Merlin, how he aches. A bruised apple, rotten to the core. Physically intact, yes, but how? How has he not crumbled to dust, in the force of this atrocity, this love?

Tense, the muscles in Harry’s face; Dream is unkind to him. Severus’ soul clenches as his fingers smooth across Harry’s cheek. He noses Harry’s fringe away and presses a long kiss to his scar…

Inevitably, Dream steals him away, as well.

And Dream must still have him, when his eyes open. To rumpled hair, and a sappy smile. Bright sky; aurora borealis green, illuminated by pale sunlight. Severus reaches out to him; Harry leans his face into Severus’ touch, and he sighs softly. Turns his face to kiss Severus’ palm.

Severus is afraid he might be real.

Breakfast in bed, a feast before him. Golden peach skin; spots of cherry, and strawberry, and plum leftover from the night before. Teeth sink into the plumpness of Harry’s arse. Taste of fresh earthiness as his tongue sinks inside.

Sweet music, Harry’s pleasure. Just as lovely, his laughter, after. When Severus sits him on the bathroom counter to shave him. Thick cream smeared on his face. He sputters when it lands on his tongue. His feet swing, and his hands wring.

"Sit still," Severus barks. The blade is sharp, and he is precise with his cutting. No hair left behind, which he smugly points out. He touches every spot Harry normally misses, and Harry pinches his ribs, his hips in retaliation.

The magic fades, when Harry leaves the room. He hears Harry hum as he dresses, and as he leaves the room. The golden glow fades, and Severus is left in dim yellow light. He dares not face his reflection as he trudges through morning ablutions.

It isn’t real.

The smell of food draws him to the kitchen. There are grocery bags on the counter, and Harry at the stove. He wears a loose white shirt, and denims, and a red lovebite. He clumsily dances as he flips his eggs and hums a tune.

Hunger cramps his soul, and he hates it. He hates how he clings to what remains of his pride, as what remains of his heart clings to him. He hates how torn he is. How softness stays his hand, time and again.

"I’ve no need for charity, you realize."

Severus has always survived, even if he’s had to scrounge, and he’s hardly had to scrounge lately. There is bread and jam in the cupboard. And beans.

Harry’s shoulders hitch up, and his fingers tighten around the spatula. Severus readies himself for battle.

Harry replies with false cheer, "Not charity. But I want more than sandwiches, and I thought I’d share."

So close…He’s so close to driving Harry away. One more nudge and — Severus searches the contents of the bags for a weapon. Fresh fruit, wrapped meat, a tub of butter, a bag of flour…

I do apologize my fare isn’t up to your standards, Mr. Potter. Severus chews on the words and swallows them back.

I’ve better things to do than slave over a stove. Or:

Sandwiches are perfectly serviceable meals.

This is how you lose. This is how you die, by staying your hand. One only survives by striking first. By using every resource, exploiting every weakness.

It’s very like baring his neck, this silence.

A warm, home cooked meal fuels him. He takes his revenge by fucking Harry over the counter.

They take to the woods after, to collect herbs and fungi. Severus makes Harry carry the baskets. He takes pride in how unsteadily Harry walks. And delights in the faces Harry makes when Severus adds to the basket. Gruesome beefsteak fungus, and cheery velvet shank. Scarlet elf cups, and inkcaps. Nightshade, and deathcaps.

They take a break by the pond. Fishing, for a time, and fellatio beneath a tree. Harry naps after, and Severus steadies himself. Lulled by soft splashing and warm sunlight. The spend on his tongue. The chirp of birds. A cool breeze.

Severus casts a spell on the second basket to preserve the fish, then wakes Harry with a handful of water. Harry sputters and laughs and tries to tackle him. Severus sidesteps him, and nearly trips in the process. Severus scowls and Harry grins, but wisely says nothing.

Late lunch at a nearby diner. Harry doesn’t mention the food bought or the fish caught. Severus hopes neither occurs to him.

Still, any foolish hope Severus had for this outing is dashed when the waitress (Sherry, per her nametag) sticks her nose in. "My, I didn’t know you had a boy of your own, Mr. Snape!"

Mr. Snape, they’d called his father. Tobias’ boy they’d called Severus. Severus’ boy, they might call Harry, and isn’t that abominable? They share no blood, thank Merlin. And Harry isn’t his, however much Severus…

He turns his grimace to the window as Harry laughs. "No, we’re — he’s not my — we’re just —"

We’re just what, Harry? What are we?

Why are you here?

"My mistake," mumbles Sherry.

By the time food arrives, Severus has little appetite. Harry has enough for them both, and stuffs his face with little care. He polishes off his own plate, and Severus’ too. He needs plenty of energy, after all Severus wrung from him today.

That is what he came for, after all. Whatever thrill Severus provides him that the others do not.

Harry settles the bill as Severus steps outside for air, a basket in each hand. And as if his mood were not black enough, Harry rants as they walk home.

"She thought I was a prostitute!"

"Of course she did." The way Harry preened, wearing his bruises like jewels. Garnets and rubies. Surely he sucked cock for his meal. Snape the pervert, just like his father. Worse than his father, even.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Why else would a boy like you be in a bed like mine?"

He didn’t mean to say so much.

Anyone with eyes sees it. Even Muggles glean Harry’s worth. A handsome young man, wasted on —

Such a waste —

Why is he here? What is he doing?

They hardly set the baskets down when Harry shuffles him to his armchair. He follows Severus down, and curls up in his lap. Severus grips the chair’s arms, and considers shoving Harry to the floor, but then —

Harry kisses him. And kisses him.

Soft, his lips. Soft the fingers that comb through his hair.

Honey on his tongue, and syrup in his veins; slow and thick and sweet. With no strength left to fight, he holds Harry and closes his eyes, as Harry nuzzles into his neck.

For a time, he is whole.

Magic returns as the day wears on.

They read together. An alchemy text for Severus, a cheap murder mystery for Harry. And when Harry grows restless, he straightens the house, then starts on dinner.

More research, once he’s eaten, but not for long. The wireless distracts him. And Harry’s singing, and dancing. Severus mocks him without thought as he jots down his notes.

He has no rhythm in the least, but his spirit sparkles in every note, every move. Severus steals glimpses when he dares. The sway of Harry’s hips. How he trips over his feet, but skillfully catches himself. The serpentine curl of his spine, his limbs. The moonlight magic, casting an opalescent haze over him. A fae glow on the rainbow hue of his bruises.

"Severus?"

The broom hits the floor. Severus’ heart stalls as he meets Harry’s eyes. Wrong, for Harry to look as spellbound as he feels.

"Harry."

"Take me to bed."

Severus thinks to tease him. How it’s too early yet to sleep. Instead, he crowds Harry against the counter and kisses him slowly, deeply. Harry mewls into his mouth, pushes up onto his toes. Arms around Severus’ neck, then when Severus scoops him up, legs around his waist. How can Severus do anything but obey his command?

Severus thinks to mock him. How sweet and docile he is when Severus strips him bare. Warm as a furnace, his skin, and soft as silk. So sensitive, too, how his arms erupt in gooseflesh. How his nipples tighten. What an insatiable minx he is, when he falls too readily into Severus’ bed.

Severus thinks to make him count the number of orgasms Severus has given him this weekend. Make him — Harry’s thighs part, and Severus slots easily between them.

There are a number of things Severus might say to distance himself. But he feels not playful enough, nor cruel enough, for any of them.

Instead, Severus makes love to him.

He is flayed open; and Harry, too. Blood and bone and sinew meet between them. Muscles caress. Hearts kiss. Breath shared.

Eternity, here, buried in Harry’s body. Ensnared by his arms, and his legs. Every touch demands more; as if he would take all of Severus’ body into his own, if he could. As if nothing is enough, until they are one again, whole again —

Severus cages him in his arms, and holds his eyes. He strokes his nose along Harry’s, and holds them both steady. I have you, I have you —

Agonizing ecstasy tears through him. All of himself releases into Harry’s body. Harry’s very name stolen from his tongue.

He is Amortentia and Imperio, both at once. The smell and taste of him. The salt on his fingertips, stronger beneath his arm. The hair of him is soft and wet on his tongue.

Untamed beast, with his ravaging affection — distraught, by the beauty and the love beneath him —

The spell breaks when Harry pulls away. And Severus crashes down to earth. Passion flees, and in the cold —

The shock of a kiss. The scalding heat of Harry’s skin. The beast unleashed is Harry’s now. The hunger of his mouth, of his hands — he crawls down Severus’ body. His soft, wet cock drags along Severus’ cheek as he goes. Severus buries his face in his sack and breathes him in. Black curls tickle his nostrils, and he wrinkles his nose, but he doesn’t stop.

Nor does Harry.

No crevice is unscathed by Harry’s need. His thighs, his knees, his toes, all blessed by bites and kisses. Severus meets every touch with his own. He squeezes Harry’s arse, and parts his cheeks. Still wet, and open — Severus brushes his thumb against the rim, then dips it inside.

Harry’s tongue between his toes.

Severus pulls him down and sucks his seed from Harry’s body.

Teeth and nails bite, as fingers and tongue taste. No crevice, no plane forgotten. Not toes, nor knees, nor underarms. Wet with sweat, with spit, with spend.

Not sex, not quite. Not pleasure.

They claim, and consume.

Sleep eludes him that night. Every nerve is alight, yet he is content to lay with Harry. Both boneless and sticky. Filthy, and closer than ever. Tired. Harry must be asleep. He himself is half lulled by the puff of Harry’s breath.

"What kind of life would we even have together?"

There is no answer, of course, even if Harry wants one. His arms tighten around Harry, and he presses lips to Harry’s head. Severus hadn’t realized he had any hope at all, but he feels it now, dying in his chest.

Dead, and cold, by the time Harry’s snores sound. Severus stares into the darkness, and mulls over the question.

Foraging, and fishing. Fighting, and fucking. It is a life. One they could share. Severus burns in humiliation. The simplicity he craves. The crumbs he takes.

Is that love, really? Is it life? Is it enough?

Clearly not.

He tears himself away from Harry, and shoves himself out of bed. He grumbles and stumbles across the room. He takes his wand, and aims a Sleeping Charm at Harry, lest he wake too soon. He isn’t ready for —

Another spell livens Harry’s items across the house, and they all scamper into the bedroom and leap into Harry’s bag. He darts downstairs and only thinks to summon his clothes once in the living room. In darkness, he dresses. Underwear. Socks and boots. The vest and trousers remain upstairs, so Severus dons his dayrobe without them. He needn’t the extra armor. Of course not.

He throws Harry’s bag onto the sofa, harder than necessary.

He wants to grab it, to throw it again, but he refrains. He is too mature, too controlled — he turns his wand in hand. Spells flit through his mind. An array of options.

He looks to the staircase. The bed is still warm with Harry’s body, and Harry will surely cling to him when he returns.

Temporary comfort. Borrowed affection.

Two flicks of the wand. The bookcase slides closed over the entry as another slides open. Severus strides down into the basement, where the cold air shocks him back to himself.

Severus rarely brews here these days, not when the apothecary lab is so spacious and modern. This space is cold and cramped. But it is wholly his, made by his magic, by his own hand.

Here, Severus takes his time. He sorts his ingredients into jars. Then he rearranges the jars on the shelf to make room. He neatens his knives, his rods, his cauldrons. He checks his personal stock and takes note. Pepper-Up and Dreamless Sleep. Polyjuice and Veritaserum.

His supply of lubrication is low.

— slick, easy slide into Harry’s body. Harry’s broken moan, his nails in Severus’ back —

The quill snaps in his hand. Severus drops it to the floor. He leaves it and the parchment behind to march upstairs. Surely his time will be better served at the apothecary.

It is quite unfortunate that, as he heads for the fireplace, he finds Harry curled up in his armchair.

Severus is sick, and he aches.

"You’re still here," he says.

Harry scrambles to his feet. He nearly topples to the floor, but regains his balance with a blush. "Yeah, of course I…"

"You what?" Severus prompts. He burns with shame, with want. With complete and utter disdain. "Have some further use for me? Shall I bend you over the sofa this time, or will the wall suffice?"

For hours he cowered in his own home, and for what? For Harry to linger, to rub salt into the wound? Those pretty doe eyes don’t fool Severus in the least.

"That’s not…"

"No? Ah, I see. It’s coin you’re after." With a neat sleight of wand, he switches the lint in his pocket for the moneybag upstairs. "How much is a weekend with the Chosen One worth? No more than ten Galleons, surely?"

Harry flinches. As though he is half as wounded as Severus is. Then, the boy laughs, and Severus’ wand drops from his sleeve into his hand.

"Lashing out because you’re upset I’m leaving." He sees too much, blast him. "That’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?"

His eye twitches, then his jaw. He stalks forward and Harry backs away.

Pathetic. Cowardly, even. An ugly pervert Harry screws for a cheap thrill. A change of scenery from his pretty, if dull, lovers. One he can take for a ride and cast aside when he’s through.

"Pathetic, am I?"

"A bit, yeah." The armchair stops Harry, and jolts his spirits. His chin lifts, his shoulders straighten. Severus can move no further, so he peers down at Harry. His (fierce, radiant) petulant adversary.

"Perhaps you are right," Severus purrs. "Perhaps it is pathetic to take what was so wantonly offered." He traces his knuckles across Harry’s cheek, to unsettle those nerves again. "But less pathetic, I think, than the boy who spreads his legs the moment his bride turns her back."

Harry shoves his arm away; makes to storm past him, but Severus snatches his elbow and drags him back. If he wanted to stay, then stay he would. He will stay until Severus is done with him.

"Let me go," Harry demands. His wand digs into Severus’ sternum, but he pays it no mind. What has he to lose? What is at stake, when Harry has taken everything?

"Pathetic," Severus continues, "is marrying a redheaded spitfire because of your mummy issues, and bending over for a man twice your age because of your daddy issues."

"Stop." Harry’s face tightens and he shakes his head, as if he can shake off the truth. As if he can run from pain, from reality. From himself; from the mess he’s in, and the mess he makes. Severus grabs Harry’s chin to halt him.

He won’t let Harry hide.

"Pathetic is donning your badge and your title and wasting yourself on a hero’s life. You’re not even trying to find yourself. You’d rather be what they expect. Because that’s easy, isn’t that right?"

Perhaps Harry sees too much. The problem is, Severus sees him, too.

"You’re wrong," Harry whispers. "I’m doing it because it’s right. They need me."

He knows his lines so well. Severus could shake him. Wants to shake the script right out of his head.

"Yes," Severus mocks. "Harry Potter, the paragon of all that is right and good and just." Harry shoves him again, and now Severus does shake him. It feels good to clutch him, to feel the physical fragility he longs to break. "Only you’re not so golden, are you, Harry? Golden boys don’t slink in the shadows, stealing warmth and affection from whoever offers it."

Too horrified, too shocked, is Harry to stop him, and Severus gets into his stride. Every flaw he’s seen, every smudge on that shiny exterior, now in the harsh light of day. "Does your bride see how tarnished your gold is, my Harry? Will she want you when she sees you’re not as pure or as righteous as she thinks? When she realizes that all you are is a hungry little boy, too needy, and too loose with his affections?"

"I’m not ‘loose’ with my affections!" Harry snaps. He pulls free at last, but where he goes, Severus follows. Harry’s back hits the bookshelf, as it often does. This time is no less pleasurable than the others. Severus has him now, this little devil.

"But you’ve always been so loose for me, Harry," Severus purrs.

"It’s only you!" Harry shouts. "It’s only ever been you."

Still, and quiet. Time slips away, or halts entirely. White in his eyes. White noise. Then — a blur of color. A rush of sound. The world returns crooked, and wrong —

— Brooms and thighs and bums. Brown curls, black ponytail, red mane, hazel eyes, brown eyes, bright smiles, loud laughs, louder music, flying high, wind in his face, grass in his hands, sweets on his tongue…tongue in his mouth, cock in his hand…small breasts and freckled skin and…sour milk skin and wiry black hair and…wet heat on his fingers, thick cock in his throat, sweet kisses and a slick cunt, biting kisses as he’s drilled into the mattress…

…the sweet tea and warm smiles and ginger hair of Ginny…

…the white hot heaven-hell of Severus Snape —

— His fingers tight in Harry’s shirt. Harry’s too still, his eyes too wide, and they don’t see Severus at all.

"You expect me to believe," he says; distant is mind from body, "that no one else has had their pleasure with you?"

"Believe what you want. You always do."

When Harry leaves, Severus doesn’t know. One moment he’s in Severus’ grasp, and the next the door slams behind him.

He blinks, and it’s nightfall. He sits in his armchair, swirling a glass of absinthe. Not drinking, not now. Just…

Less foolish, really, to drink it.

No Malfoy in Harry’s bed, not even in his fantasies. A glance at Zabini’s arse, but nothing more. Zabini’s, and Diggory’s, and Wood’s. A date with Cho Chang. The bloom of first love with Ginny.

What is it Narcissa says? One knows better than to listen to rumors.

If the rumors are just that, just rumors…what does it mean? Curiosity, experimentation?

Blood, those first few times. How tight Harry had been; how clumsy. How roughly Severus had taken him…

First, and only. How angry Severus had been. And Harry had taken it. For his first time, and many times since.

Not a whore, his Harry, but a buffoon.

Only Severus has seen him that way. Only Severus knows him, inside and out. Only he has heard every groan, every gasp, every plea. So quiet he is for Ginevra. But not for Severus.

Only for Severus does Harry betray his bride. Does he lie, and sneak. For Severus, Harry throws away every principle. For Severus, he risks it all.

But why?

Severus gulps down his absinthe, and suffers.

The world moves on, as ever, and Severus follows behind.

A spyglass in the hedge and a mirror in the window watch Spinner’s End while Severus is away. He carries a pocket watch linked to both; it should alert him to any disturbances. It never buzzes, but Severus checks throughout the day. Just in case.

He works late. Long past closing time, long after Marcus leaves. He double and triple checks his ledger, his inventory, his pending orders. And when he itches to leave, he takes to the pub. He listens for rumors to regale Narcissa with. He listens for mentions of Harry. And this time, when Nott boasts of mounting Saint Potter, Severus knows him to be a liar.

Every night, he returns to the apothecary to doze in his office. Every morning he grimly faces a new day.

On Friday, Narcissa pays a surprise visit to the shop and scolds him for not returning her owls. "We must get you to Twilfitt and Tattings at once!" she declares.

Severus recoils. "Whatever for?"

Narcissa purses her lips and folds her hands neatly over her middle. "The gala, Severus. Less than a month away now, and you're to be awarded! It will be a fine boost for business, and more so if…" She trails off and clucks her tongue. "If you were aware of it at all."

It has been some days since Severus has been home, so he hasn’t seen his mail. Rather than admit his ignorance, he straightens his spine and looks down his nose at her.

"An Order of Merlin!" she hisses. "How do you not know? It’s all over the Prophet!"

"Some of us must work for our living," sniffs Severus.

The line of Narcissa’s lips is decidedly unimpressed.

Come Saturday, he’s frayed at the seams. A stray cat hisses, and Severus snarls. He snarls again when the grocer cheerily greets him. He rushes through his shopping, and rushes them home. Flees to the woods as soon as he’s able.

The crack of branches, the flap of wings. The low buzz of nature unsettles, then soothes him.

An Order of Merlin. What are they thinking? Little information in the letter. Only a date and time. What an honor it will be. As though he should be grateful, however late it comes.

The Prophet has little more to offer. Severus’ ugly mug on the front page, and gushing commentary from Slytherins past, and recycled quotes from Harry Potter. News of the upcoming Weasley-Potter wedding is relegated to the second and third pages. Two months away, with a daily countdown. A color scheme, a floral arrangement, the star-studded guest list, etcetera. Severus himself is named as an attendee, though he and Harry have not discussed the wedding since he was invited.

Does Harry still want him there? Can Harry keep their secret long enough to make it to the altar? Will Severus be able to stand…

Of course he will. What choice is there but to obey his master and betray his heart?

Severus goes through the motions, and only when he reaches does he realize he’s forgotten his supplies. There’s the brook, but he has no basket, no pole. He can’t help but look to the clearing where Harry napped last week. Green grass, and blue forget-me-nots.

Severus scrunches his face and turns his back to them.

On Monday, Severus takes the Floo to work, and when he steps out into the shop, he sees Marcus outside of it, scratching his head with his wand.

"Merlin, have mercy," Severus grumbles. The boy is going to hex off his own head. Severus hurries to him.

There is a crowd gathered across the street. Words are painted blood red onto the windows. Evil Snake on one. On another, Order of Voldemort, Third Class.

"Clever," Severus says dryly.

"I’ll find them," Marcus grunts. He taps his wand against his palm, and it spits menacing black sparks. The crowd whispers and shuffles back.

"That won’t be necessary," Severus says.

Marcus nods and goes inside, while Severus remains outside to draw with his wand. An apple and a snake in poison green; the snake eats its way out of the apple through three holes. Two eyes, and a mouth; a mockery of the Dark Mark.

When he’s done, Severus gives the crowd a small bow. The affronted murmurs send a thrill through his middle, and he spins on his heel before they can see him smirk.

Life is nearly normal. Potions by day, shadows by night. Wary glances and whispered insults when he walks Diagon Alley. Simpering smiles from his fellows on Knockturn Alley.

There is an onslaught of new customers that Severus attributes more to his new signage than news of his award. During peak hours, Severus helps Marcus tend to customers.

Just his luck that Harry would be in his line, when Severus isn’t prepared and he can’t escape. They speak not a word. Severus can’t tear his eyes away. Pale faced and wide-eyed. Stubble on his jaw, dark circles beneath his eyes. The light of him flickers in and out, in and out. Flashes a code for help that he will not accept.

When Severus hands Harry his change, he steals a touch of his skin.

That evening he returns to the woods for the forget-me-nots, and sends them with a courier the next day. No note and no name. Severus curses himself for a fool, and prays Harry won’t know.

Forty two days to the Potter nuptials means eleven days until the gala. Narcissa and her entourage swarm like flies. Severus locks himself in his office and leaves them to Marcus while he disposes of papers.

The Daily Prophet’s daily countdown, binned. Witch Weekly’s report of Ginevra’s bridal shower, Incendioed. Which Broomstick’s cover of Harry flying with a teal-haired toddler, in the top drawer of his desk.

In the distance, Narcissa directs passersby to her will. It can’t be her who steadily knocks on the door. Severus rises to his full height and flings open the door to glare down at Wisteria Greengrass, who smiles politely up at him.

Displeased by the lack of reaction, he tells her "No," and slams the door.

Lunches with aristocrats. Robe fittings. Drafts of speeches Narcissa has written for him. Near nightly dinners with potential suitors Severus chases away with thinly veiled insults, and threats.

Narcissa clucks when her third pick flees the dining room. "Going alone will be worse," she warns. "You wait and see."

Preparations for the gala leave him hardly any time to tend to the shop, and when he does, he finds it packed with sweaty, unhappy customers, all packed like sardines. Marcus is unfazed by the furor and drolly tends to them, one by one.

Still, Severus finds time to check his pocket watch, checks Spinner’s End. There is never any trace of Harry.

Thirty six days until the wedding. Five until the gala.

He dreams of Morsmordre, and Avada Kedavra. He dreams of green scales, and sinister hisses. Cold fear that melts when sinister turns seductive, and it’s green eyes, not scales. It’s Harry’s mouth — no Nagini’s — no Harry’s on his neck.

He dreams of blackness. And the cold hand of Death. And the blazing Sun.

The burn of Harry’s skin beneath his hands. Fevered kisses that burn Severus to his core.

Thirty four days. And three.

Severus wastes a day brewing Dreamless Sleep for himself. Blissful black while asleep, but as he drifts awake…

A flash of red. Soft fabric, soft petals. Green stem, and thorns. A prick, and blood —

— gushes from his neck, into his hands. "Look at me." The green that so haunted his life, to follow him to Death —

But Death —

Severus’ face screws up, and he rubs his eyes hard with the palms of his hands. Hard, until his vision is a haze of orange-red spots. The color of sunsets, not blood. Not roses, or Auror robes. Sunsets, blood oranges, autumn leaves.

Thirty two days. And one.

One last glass of absinthe.

By moonlight he sets a glass on the counter and pours in the absinthe. A slotted spoon overtop. A sugar cube in the center, a match lit. A blue flame engulfs the sugar cube, and illuminates the green liquid. He watches so intently the whole world is green and blue.

Until the flame dies, and there is only green.

Ice water to weaken it. The sugar to sweeten it. Severus stirs the mix. The color pales, and it is safe to consume. No potion needed to fight the ill-effects.

Before bed, he’ll empty the bottle. He’ll mean it this time.

For now, he holds his glass in both hands and carries it to his armchair, where he savors it.

On the second of May, Severus treats himself to a blood orange instead of toast. He leisurely drinks his tea with the morning paper, only for his peace to be dashed by a knock on the door.

His heart leaps in his chest; his breath catches in his throat.

"Severus!"

Minerva’s Scottish brogue, not — Severus closes his eyes, readies himself to answer the door.

Minerva’s lips thin and her nostrils flare. She lifts a black garment bag. "Narcissa Malfoy sends her regards and her instructions." She drops the bag to the ground. "But I do think you can dress yourself, Severus."

They share conspiratorial smiles, and Severus steps back. "Do come in, Minerva. It has been far too long."

The green monstrosity Narcissa sent stays in the dirt. Instead, Severus wears last year’s black velvet. New dragonhide boots that shine. Regulus’ silver cufflinks.

For too long, he stares in the mirror. Not handsome, even in finery, but perhaps distinguished. Face and hair clean. Nails trimmed. He thoughtfully trails a fingertip down the line of buttons. The way Harry would be captivated by them if he —

Nuisance Harry is, he would want the buttons undone just as Severus finished doing them up. He would drop down with an impish smile to pluck at his bootlaces. He would —

But Harry isn’t here, and will never be here. He is with Ginevra, where he belongs. Telling her how beautiful she is. Lying through his teeth. However beautiful she is, Harry doesn’t —

A knock on the door and Minerva on the other side. "We should leave soon. Before the Malfoy owl has a stroke."

Severus blinks. The Harry of dreams — the one at his side, who smiles up at him — fades. There is only his reflection.

"Of course."

Strange, to arrive at the Ministry with an entourage. Minerva, in her tartan robes, and Horace in purple velvet. Soon joined by Aberforth and Elphias and Septima. Kingsley Shacklebolt himself greets them at the entrance.

Handshakes, and other niceties. Horace slaps him enthusiastically on the shoulder and proudly proclaims he always knew there was something special about Severus. Kingsley pats Severus’ other shoulder in sympathy.

"Are you ready for tonight?" Kingsley asks as he leads them through the atrium.

"To be paraded around as this year’s headline grab?" Severus asks innocently. "Or to prostrate myself in gratitude for receiving long overdue recognition?"

Kingsley clears his throat. Minerva titters. Aberforth cheers, "You’ve the right idea, boy!"

"I certainly hope your speech is a tad more subtle than that." Narcissa, flanked by Zinnia and Wisteria, join them.

"You’ll be lucky to get a speech at all," Severus remarks.

"No," snorts Minerva. "You’ll scowl at us like schoolchildren from your podium."

Kingsley hides his smile behind his hand. Aberforth cackles.

"My," says Narcissa, and as she sweeps forward, Kingsley and Horace politely step back. "You do clean up well."

Though her tone is difficult to read, her smile is sincere. She neatens his robes to her liking, and produces a small brooch of silver and onyx. "A gift," she says, and pins it to his lapel.

Severus inclines his head in thanks.

Being alone is as horrible as Narcissa warned.

Familiar faces escort him into the ballroom, and one by one they leave. Narcissa is the last to go, and Severus warily eyes her smug smile.

The moment he is alone, he is accosted by — fans.

They just knew he’d been innocent – nay, noble – all along! Severus grimaces and wipes his hand on a kerchief between handshakes and photographs and smiles.

Which of them sent acrimonious Howlers? Which of them scrawled accusations and insults on his window? Which of them shunned him when he began his business?

Which laughed to hear his name? Which scoffed, and which cursed?

What need has he for a medal? What need has he for the recognition and respect from these people?

(Finally — finally they’ll see; they’ll know — finally he’ll have — No, he has no need — and yet —)

He could leave. He has no need for this frivolity, he could —

He suffers the false praise and, eventually, escapes to his table; head held high, for all that he flees. He glares accusation at Narcissa, who smiles in confirmation. Of course she would abandon him to the wolves to prove a point. He sinks into his seat and rolls his eyes, to which Narcissa pats his arm.

The others greet him with far more poise than his fans. There is a flash of ginger in his periphery, but Severus focuses on his peers. Where there is a ginger, there is a Potter. Severus doesn’t need to look to know.

He won’t. He won’t —

Draco and Blaise flirt. The Greengrass sisters gossip. The ladies speak in aristocratic code that Severus might pry apart had he a clearer mind. It takes hardly any time at all for him to lose the battle and steal a glimpse of Harry.

Jade green robes fit for a king, with details of aubergine that match his bride’s robes. Ginevra’s must have hints of jade, but Severus doesn’t look. Harry doesn’t, either. His eyes find Severus through the crowd. Only when Ginevra dips her head towards Harry does Severus tear his eyes away.

And finds Narcissa’s on him.

"Such a shame you chased off Balthazar Beedle," she says. "He’s quite charming company when given more than ten minutes."

Balthazar Beedle did have thicker skin than most. Perhaps Severus had been hasty in his refusal.

Would Harry be half so jealous of Balthazar as Severus — he can hardly stomach the thought, how envious he is of a young woman. He swallows bitter bile and chases it down with a sip of wine.

Perhaps a date would make it bearable when Ginevra touches Harry, or whispers in his ear. Would keep his mind from spinning when Harry scurries from the room. With a date, he wouldn’t be tempted to follow.

A date might make Percy Weasley’s droning introduction more bearable. They might help settle the buzz of his nerves. Though why he should care so much — why a cheap trinket holds him here hostage — He glances to the clock. His foot taps beneath the table.

Long overdue adulation, or public humiliation? Which will it be?

Want is such a ferocious, enduring beast, with fear always at its heel. What Severus wants never comes to him freely, if at all.

Kingsley replaces Percy onstage, and Severus holds himself all the more rigid. Beneath the table, Narcissa grasps his hand.

"It’s been three years since the war ended, and we have one last honor to give," Kingsley announces.

"It’s about time," Draco loudly mutters, and flushes when his mother shushes him.

"But I am not best suited to this," continues Kingsley. "There is only one man who can do this award justice. Harry Potter, if you please?"

Surely not…

Murmurs all around. Photographers shuffle closer to the stage. Bulbs flash when Harry appears with the award’s box. Narcissa’s hand squeezes his. Zinnia scoots closer, as though sensing trouble.

What is he thinking?

Harry casts Sonorous and clears his throat. Severus snorts. Several others laugh.

"Erm, hello," he says, eloquent as ever. "Uh…Talking’s not really my strong suit, I’m afraid. But…"

Harry opens the purple velvet box to inspect the medal. Severus turns his hand in Narcissa’s to squeeze her in turn.

Want — that hopeless, helpless demon — writhes within.

"Order of Merlin, First Class," says Harry. "Three years too late."

The box snaps shut.

"Severus Snape should have been thanked for his service the moment he woke from his coma. He died — he actually died —" Harry bows his head and clutches the box. Severus breathes deeply, steadily, for them both. "His heart stopped twice. It took a team of healers two days to stabilize him."

Death could not hold Severus; not when its master called.

"I don’t know many people who can say they died for the world and lived to tell the tale." Harry ruffles his hair. Is the flash of his scar intentional? "He died to help win this war. But first he lived to fight it."

Trite, overwrought nonsense. Severus is captivated all the same.

"He lived in danger every day. His life was on the line every time he answered a summons. His life was on the line for every life he saved during that last year. If you’ve ever been face to face with Voldemort, you know…You know that was no easy task. And he did it anyway. He walked into danger with his head held high every single day.

"And he walked alone. He was in danger, not just from Voldemort, but from us, too. We didn’t know he was on our side. One wrong move anywhere, and — " Harry pauses to gather himself.

Narcissa’s fingers tighten painfully around his, and she sniffles. Severus blindly frees his kerchief and hands it to her.

"He was alone," Harry continues, "and he walked on anyway. He gave every bit of his time and energy that he could. He gave more than anyone could have asked for. And when it was all said and done, you wanted to put him on trial and let him rot in Azkaban."

Fury blazes in Harry. His condemnation slices cleanly, unerringly, through the crowd. Never has he been more beautiful, or more dangerous.

"It’s easy to hate people you don’t understand," Harry says. "So understand this: he’s a potioneer and a spellcrafter. A booklover, and a chessmaster. He’s crap at cooking and can only make sandwiches." This startles a laugh out of the crowd; even Severus cannot fight his amusement. "He’s a person like the rest of us. And what he did wasn’t easy, but he did it anyway. Severus Snape is a lot of things. He’s —"

He’s what?

"He’s braver than I am. He’s the bravest man I know."

At last, he is seen.

Applause booms through the ballroom as Severus strides towards the stage, muffled though it is beyond the thud of his pulse. The crowd is a blur, and all that makes sense is the sight of Harry pink and beaming.

Seen by who, exactly?

Doubtless the audience’s fickle whims will turn against him before long. Severus is not an easy man to love. And Harry’s word had not bought him their affection before.

What he has is this: the green ribbon and gold medal that Harry pins to his robe. A tangible seal of approval from the Ministry. A fancy title to tack onto the end of his name, whenever he so chooses. Love him or hate him, they will know who he is and what he has done.

More than that, Harry knows him. Harry knows him better than anyone, and still looks upon him with such gooey fondness that Severus cannot help but stand all the taller, all the prouder for it.

Harry sees him. And finally, Severus thinks, he sees Harry, too. He sees what it all means, what has led them here. Why Harry dragged him back into this Purgatory.

Clearly, at last, he sees.

After, there is champagne, and dessert. Reporters and admirers approach him still, but it is his peers who stall his escape. Narcissa, to tease him about the brevity and bluntness of his speech. Wisteria, to coo about the sweetness of Harry’s. Zinnia, to point him towards handsome wizards, who might bed him free of charge.

Granger, he does not expect. She stands before him, and though she wrings her hands, she stands tall. "Few deserve it more, sir. It suits you." The words sound rehearsed, but her voice wobbles with emotion. "I never th-thanked you. So…thank you. For…for everything." She blinks rapidly and Severus glances away from her tears. "Harry never left your side, you know. When you were…Well." She blinks again and clears her throat. "Will you dance with me?"

He stares at her. "Certainly not."

Granger giggles. "I thought not. Have a nice evening, sir."

The evening would be nicer if it would end. Though Severus has long awaited his time to shine, he’s never craved solitude more.

By the end of the night, he has an armful of Draco on the dance floor, and no Harry to be found. From a far corner, Narcissa watches her son with disapproval. From a nearby table, Ronald Weasley scowls at Severus. They leave Severus to guide a tipsy Draco through a simple waltz.

The song and dance don’t end, even when Severus goes home. The house is still and silent, but within Severus the crowd still surges and chatters. His mind races too quickly to latch onto a single thought.

Even naked, and in bed, he can’t think, can’t sleep. Too restless, too frazzled.

The medal sits on his nightstand in its open box. The gold is pale in the moonlight, the green ribbon dark. Severus traces shapes into the sheets and fools himself into feeling Harry’s skin. The knobs of his spine. The dip of his back.

Almost, he feels Harry’s magic. Flickering flames and sparks of electricity that grow stronger with each passing moment. He closes his eyes to bask in the feel of it, then —

He jolts up. He summons a ball of light into his palm, then throws it. The globe whisks away, as his heart thuds in his chest.

Harry.

The heat of his magic meets Severus’ when the globe finds him. The warmth flows from the globe into Severus’ center. He watches the door, hardly daring to believe as the globe returns to his hand.

Only a glimpse of Harry in the doorway. Rumpled pajamas, eyes big and bright behind his spectacles. His heart clear in every line of his face. Then — the light flickers out as Harry flings himself onto the bed and into Severus’ arms. The breath knocks out of him. Their limbs entwine.

What a mess, his boy; his heart. This is why he lives. Why Death could not hold him.

Harry’s tongue touches Severus’ neck. Severus’ lips touch Harry’s hair. He breathes in…Sunlight clings to Harry, though the sun has long set. Grass, and sweat. Traces of a woodsy cologne, and floral shampoo.

Stay, stay.

He presses his mouth deeper into Harry’s hair, to hold back every reckless word. How can he want for more, when he has a bounty?

"You know that I love you, don’t you?" Harry asks.

His heart falters. Harry shifts, but Severus digs in with his chin and tightens his arms to hold Harry still. Somehow, they are closer than ever. Harry fits snugly against him, as though he were made to be here, with Severus.

"I do," he answers.

He loves Harry, as well, though he will not tell him. Harry already knows, but the absent confession is heavy between them.

He loves Harry so much it hurts. And so Harry must ache with him, as long as Severus can make him. As long as Severus can keep him.

One day, Harry will walk away. He’ll throw himself away on his happily ever after, and he’ll leave Severus worse than dead.

For now, Severus burrows closer to his warmth, and breathes.