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He intended to say it on Harry’s birthday.
I—the subject pronoun.
Love—the verb.
You. Harry. Green eyes, ocean-deep. Flushed, rosy cheeks. Dishevelled hair, salty lips, boyish smile.
I love you.
He’d been planning it for a while, meticulously, down to the smallest detail—a table booked at a restaurant, Muggle and quiet, free from the prying eyes of wizards and witches, away from the cameras and the persistent press. A glass of wine; perhaps two. Severus would then give him his gift. A soft-textured, maroon shirt. A pair of cufflinks, matte black, to go with it.
And then: Happy birthday. I love you.
“Ron called,” Harry informed him the day before. “I invited them to join us, is that alright?”
Severus protested, but Harry brushed it off with a kiss on his cheek. “Are you still afraid of Ron and Hermione, or what?”
There was no point in arguing. Harry was very fond of his friends. If Severus pushed it, Harry would methodically proceed to torture him with complaints and general bitterness about it for weeks.
“You don’t love me,” Harry would often say when they quarrelled. His bottom lip would quiver with emotion, every time. “You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. You wouldn’t care if I left. You wouldn’t even miss me. You’re selfish.”
Selfish.
He was, yes. Severus had stopped giving a shit about the world long before Harry was even born. He didn’t care if his factual remarks were seen as cruel, or if his clear disinterest in almost everything and everyone had people whisper that he was a jerk—a cold-blooded, heartless arsehole.
He was selfish. He did only care about himself—with one exception.
Harry.
Harry, who dug a hole in Severus’ sternum and extricated his very soul. With smooth fingertips, and perfectly trimmed nails, he brushed past Severus’ heart and scattered seeds all around it—seeds of affection, and care, and that wretched thing people called love.
Unimaginable. Bizarre.
But life was bearable with Harry around.
I love you.
It didn’t have to be at the restaurant, whatever. A small change in his plans, that was all. He could say it on the way home or when they lay down in bed. Perhaps when Harry would kiss him.
“Goodnight, Severus,” he’d whisper.
“I love you,” Severus would reply.
Three years of seeing each other. One of sharing a flat. Five since the war.
It was time. He would say it when they’d get home.
And he would have—had they not been ambushed on their way out of the restaurant, had Ron Weasley not been injured enough to have to be transported to St. Mungo’s, his leg almost entirely cursed off.
A cowardly, hectic assault, enmeshed in hysteria and amateurism—a pair of Death Eaters (Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, Severus could tell) gracelessly shooting curses around, shrieking and howling, drunk as fuck. They Disapparated as soon as the Aurors came, leaving behind a bloody mess.
Harry was fine. Arm wounded, glasses broken—but fine. Severus knelt next to Granger, who was crouching over her husband, hands on his thigh, muttering healing spells, holding back tears. The bone was visible. The flesh, burnt.
Harry slid down the wall, staring into the distance, traumatised all over again. St. Mungo’s flying carriage arrived within minutes. Weasley was taken. Harry and Granger boarded along, and the Aurors took care of the rest. The blood was cleaned off the sidewalk, and a swift Confundus was placed upon the lingering Muggles.
Severus went home.
Their wards were intact, but he strengthened them anyway. He raised new, more efficient ones too, even some questionably Dark ones Harry wouldn’t approve of. He blocked the fireplace, and trapped a curse inside the chimney to repel anyone who’d try to get to them through the Floo. He placed a tracker on Harry’s owl, spelt new locks on the windows, and then he waited.
There wasn’t much else he could do. The press would be there. They’d milk this for months, regardless of whether Weasley survived—Severus’ presence by Harry’s side would only feed their delirium and unhinge them further, triggering dramatic snapshots and derogatory headlines.
Harry Potter seduced by Death Eater! The Prophet had printed the first time he and Harry had been seen holding hands. Potter under Snape’s spell! when they were caught having lunch in Diagon. Living with the enemy! when they purchased their flat and moved in.
Severus sat in the kitchen, hands clasped together, until morning.
When Harry returned, Severus felt like saying it more than ever. But it wasn’t the right moment. It shouldn’t be said in sadness. Not like this. Harry’s shoulders were hunched. He seemed tired. He seemed scared.
“Is he alright?” Severus asked, leaping to his feet. Harry looked at him strangely, head tilted. And Severus could have imagined it—but he thought he saw Harry take a small, very small step back. “Is Weasley alright?”
Harry blinked—unshed tears in his eyes, dark circles under them. “I—he’s fine. His leg—they might have to… amputate it. Yeah. But he’s fine. He’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
He was drenched in blood. His hair was matted, his knuckles bruised. The wound on his shoulder had been bandaged.
“Take a shower and lie down,” Severus told him. “A sleeping potion is on your nightstand. Rest. I’ll make tea for when you wake up.”
After a moment, Harry nodded. “Yeah, sure. Okay, thanks.”
It’s been three weeks since Harry’s birthday.
Severus feels like he’ll never say it.
He can’t, not now—not when Harry is like this. Depressed and distant, sleeping most of the time, dreading leaving the house.
Not when he snaps at Severus, or ignores him.
Not when they’re drifting apart.
✧✧✧
“No coffee for me?”
Harry looks up, startled. He is still in his nightshirt, despite it being nearly noon. His curls are tangled; his stubble unshaven. He pours himself coffee, then is about to head back to the bedroom, when Severus’ question stops him.
“You want coffee?” Harry looks puzzled, as if the request is somehow preposterous.
“It’s alright, I’ll make it myself,” Severus responds, though now that Harry doesn’t care enough to serve both of them anymore, he doesn’t see the point of having a cup at all.
Harry stares. Then he shakes his head and slams his mug on the table. Moments later, he places a second mug in front of Severus, and sits down across from him, stirring his own coffee quietly.
✧✧✧
“What do you want?”
Severus was on his way to the living room, when he crossed paths with Harry outside the bathroom. “What do you mean?” He asks, confused.
“You don’t want anything?”
When they first started sleeping together, Harry would ask all sorts of headache-inducing questions. Do you ever think of my mum when you’re with me? Do you still hate me? Do you think of my dad?
Each question more outrageous than the one before it. All of them horrifying.
This one, Severus has never been asked before.
“No, what could I want? I was just going to the—”
Harry storms to the bedroom, slamming the door shut.
✧✧✧
“Why can’t I open any of the windows?”
An electric storm is gathering over London; the rumble of thunder and sharp flashes of lightning erupt over the rooftops. Cold rain is teeming down; the wind howls and screams as darkness falls.
Lestrange and Dolohov could still be out there, hidden in the shadows, waiting.
“I adjusted the wards,” Severus explains. “For your safety.”
“And the Floo?”
“I blocked it.”
“Well—you’ve got to undo all of it, I don’t like it.”
“It’s for your safety, Harry.”
“The house stinks. I need to be able to air it, just fix back the windows or—”
“It isn’t safe—”
“My owl needs to fly, Severus!” He licks his lips (his perfect, tender lips) and presses them into a line, swallowing down his anger. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please.” This time, it is said with impatience; with forced composure, fury sputtering underneath.
Severus looks at him calmly. “I said no.”
✧✧✧
It wasn’t love, not at first.
It was passion. It was hate.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Severus asked him years ago, holding him against a wall in his grimy living room, in Spinner’s End.
Harry attempted to move, a cheeky, arrogant grin on his lips, but Severus pushed him back. Things were that way, for a time—Harry teasing and mocking him, daring him to react, doing everything he could to push Severus beyond his limit.
That night, Severus gave in. He kissed the boy. He crushed him against that wall and devoured his mouth until they were both shaking, out of breath. “I’m too old for you,” he whispered. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
And then—“Yeah.” And Harry smiled against Severus’ lips, as if the thought excited him.
Severus took him to bed not long after that. He fucked him from behind, one hand gripping his hip, the other his shoulder, thrusting into his arse with boiling, sizzling rage.
The next time, they made love.
✧✧✧
“This isn’t healthy for you.”
“I know.”
“You have to tell him—”
“I told you I can’t, Hermione, not this again—”
“Move out, then,” Weasley snaps.
Severus stands in the hallway, behind the door. Harry leans forward on the couch, burying his face into his hands. His friends are rubbing his back, grimacing and sighing, making a show of their worry. Granger’s with child; her enormous belly is sticking out the bottom of her Muggle t-shirt.
Weasley’s new leg, made of brass, clanks loudly as he shifts on his seat. “Move out. Come live with us. You don’t have to explain anything—”
“I can’t leave him—”
“Yes, you can—”
“Harry,” Granger interrupts in that protective, manipulative tone. “This is killing you, and you know it.”
Severus can’t bear to hear more.
✧✧✧
He tried everything, when it began.
He discouraged the boy, insulted him, shut the door to his face, told him it was a silly indulgence, a fling, a mistake that should stop.
You were my student.
So?
I don’t like men. I don’t like boys.
Okay.
“I was a Death Eater,” he resorted to saying when all else failed.
Even that didn’t suffice.
“I do think of your mother, yes,” he said once, only once, out of despair. “In bed.”
A quizzical jerk of one eyebrow; then the green eyes softened. “I don’t believe you.”
They took the Muggle train once, to Edinburgh, to run away for the weekend. No one knew about them back then. It’d only been a few months. Harry leaned on his shoulder, reading a book, earphones tangled around his neck, and Severus watched the scenery out the window, fascinated by the patterns of fate.
✧✧✧
Late at night, Harry stirs restlessly. He rolls onto his side, compressing further the pillow tucked underneath him. His fingers twitch; Severus reaches to touch them.
Harry gasps, eyes snapping open. “What the fuck!”
“What?” Severus sits up.
The tranquillity of sleep gives way to the noise of panic; Harry bolts out of bed and turns on the light, knocking his glasses off the nightstand and nearly tripping over his feet. “Don’t do that again! D’you want to give me a heart attack?”
“What did I do?”
“I’ve asked you—we’ve agreed you’ll sleep on the couch for a while, yeah?”
Severus frowns. When did they agree on that?
“You scared me, you can’t just come in here and—and lie down next to me like —”
“I’m sorry,” Severus says, getting up from the bed.
I love you, he thinks.
Perhaps it is too late now.
✧✧✧
Sitting at the kitchen table, Severus bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood. He shuts his eyes. He presses his hands against his ears.
Thirty-eight minutes have passed since Harry and Draco entered the bedroom.
Severus considers barging in. Catching them in the act. But what act would that be? Draco’s tongue, trickling delicately down Harry’s curved spine, over the gooseflesh of his backside and pale thighs. His nose pressed into Harry’s hair, inhaling the scent of crushed daisies and sweat.
Will Severus stomach witnessing it?
Twenty more minutes, and the bedroom door creaks open. Footsteps reverberate from the hall, heavy on the old floorboards. Draco saunters into the kitchen first, lazily buttoning up his shirt.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Hello, Draco,” Severus says darkly, venom churning in his chest. He spits out the name like it’s shit.
“You said he wouldn’t be here,” Draco tells Harry, eyes on Severus.
“That’s not what I said,” Harry responds tiredly, turning on the tap and filling a glass. “He comes and goes. Hey, Severus.”
Severus sees white. He uncoils from his seat and rounds the table with astonishing speed, so abruptly that Draco staggers backwards and plasters himself against the wall.
“Leave,” Severus whispers, his voice murderous. “Get out of my house.”
Draco, the little wimp, looks at Harry. Harry gives him a nod. “Leave,” he agrees, his tone flat and indifferent. He doesn’t even look at either of them; his eyes remain fixed on a plate in the sink.
Draco flees.
A fundamental, inescapable quality of all Malfoys: running from consequences the moment the fun ends.
It could be laughable—but it isn’t. Severus feels cold, betrayed and humiliated. “It hasn’t even been a month since your friend nearly died, and this is what you choose to do with yourself. Bring a Malfoy home to fuck. While I’m sitting right here, a room away, worrying myself sick about your wellbeing and safety. How dare you.”
Harry stays quiet.
Severus bangs his fist on the wall. “You insisted on this! You insisted on giving this—us—a go, you insisted on buying a flat, living together, this was all you, your idea, your wish, your dream—when I warned you from the start that you were too young for such a commitment, that you’d change your mind—”
Harry snorts at that, which only serves to infuriate Severus further.
“I told you that you wouldn’t always want me,” he spits, the bitterness in his voice impossible to suppress. “And yet you convinced me. You convinced me to do this, for you.”
I love you, he wants to say.
But how foolish it’d be now.
“You think I don’t want you?” Harry asks, leaning back against the counter, arms folded over his chest, looking up at Severus with uncertainty.
“Go fuck yourself, Potter.”
Harry sighs. He digs his nails into his upper arms, but otherwise remains still.
“Has this happened before? Have the decency to tell me the truth, at least. Have you fucked others before?”
Harry shakes his head. “I already told you, just Draco, that one time. And I haven’t seen him since. It won’t happen again, it was just—it’ll never happen again.”
Severus doesn’t understand. “What one time? When?”
“In September, remember? When Draco came over?”
September? Wasn’t it September now? It should be—Severus feels dizzy. “That was now. He was here just now.”
Green eyes peer at him through smudged, crooked glasses. Harry looks miserable. “That was five months ago, Severus.”
✧✧✧
“Is it any good?”
Harry ignores him. He’s sitting by the fireplace, reading a book. Severus blinks. Harry is in the shower, washing his hair. It’s longer now; Harry is threading his fingers through it to detangle it.
“I asked you a question.”
Harry spins around, nearly slipping on the slick tiles. “Hey!” He pulls the curtain over his lower half, panting. “What’d you want?”
“I asked if the book you’re reading is any—”
But Harry is not reading a book. He is in the shower. Wasn’t he just reading a book?
Severus walks out.
✧✧✧
“You’ve grown out your hair.”
“Hm?”
“It was shorter yesterday.”
Harry flops down on the couch, stretching a leg onto the coffee table. “It sure was,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes.
And it may be his ketchup-stained sweatshirt, or his sickly complexion, but Severus finds himself pitying him.
I pity you, he’d snarled at Harry back in Spinner’s End, long before their first kiss—when Harry had crept closer, on the couch, his hand dropping to Severus’s knee, then travelling up, up, dipping down the inner side of his thigh. Severus hadn’t jolted up, hadn’t slapped his arrogant hand away—he’d simply turned his head toward him, and said it with sour disgust, his tone cold enough to make that hand recoil in shame. I pity you, Potter.
It’s a different kind of pity now.
Severus suspects it’s mostly concern.
He sits down next to him, thinking of what to say. He parts his lips, but wavers; he’s frightened to death, he realises. He’s frightened to death of rejection. “Let’s go out tonight. It’s been a while.”
Harry huffs. “You don’t think it’s dangerous anymore? Death Eaters everywhere and all that?”
“We’ll be careful.”
“Fix my windows, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Remove the curse from my windows and unblock the Floo. If going out is safe all of a sudden, then surely cracking open a window once in a while isn’t a bloody crime!”
“You don’t understand what they could do to you.” Severus grits his teeth. “You can’t imagine what they’re capable of. If they break in—”
“No one’s going to break in—”
“If they get their hands on you—”
“No one cares about me.”
“You’re all they care about. They want revenge. They’ll never stop.”
“Cool. Whatever. Just go away for a bit, will you?”
Sometimes, even more than I love you, Severus wants to tell him he hates him. “Are we not going out, then?”
“We’re not going anywhere, Severus, just leave me the fuck alone!”
✧✧✧
Excitement melted into routine. A year into seeing each other, Harry referred to them for the first time as a couple. They were in Severus’ bed—sweaty, naked, out of breath. Severus had propped himself up on an elbow, and was tracing invisible patterns on Harry’s throat—following a muscle down the cavity of his collarbone, travelling upward along a vein, diving behind an ear.
Harry smiled. “It’s our anniversary today.”
And understandably—with a well-justified scowl—Severus froze. “What?”
“One year exactly. Since the first time.”
“I wasn’t aware you were keeping count.” Severus pressed his fingers, ever so lightly, against Harry’s windpipe. A subtle warning; Harry tilted his head back, offering him access. He always provoked him like that; the boy was impossible to satisfy. He always wanted. He wanted more, more, more—kept wanting, no matter what Severus gave.
“Of course I am. Don’t all couples do?”
And then Severus’ hand was squeezing, choking him. “We’re not a couple,” he hissed, only for Harry to thrust up against his thigh.
“Yes we are,” Harry breathed, eyes closed. “We sleep together. We wake up together. We do everything together. We should move in together and—”
“You’re a fool.”
Harry chuckled. He patted Severus’ wrist and Severus released him. Harry inhaled deeply, rubbing his throat. “I mean it, though.”
“That is why you’re a fool, Potter.”
“Come on.” Harry pushed Severus’ leg away, sitting up. “Think about it. I spend so much time here it’s basically like we live together anyway. The only difference is we’d be somewhere better. We could find a flat. In London.”
Severus dismissed it. He told him it was unthinkable.
A year later, Harry brought it up again.
Severus relented.
✧✧✧
“I love you,” Harry murmurs in the dark. They are lying down on their sides, looking at each other quietly.
And Severus could say it, he could say it back—but Harry is scared. It shouldn’t be said in fear. He had a nightmare again; he woke up shaking, gasping for air.
“I’m here,” Severus reassures him.
“Yeah, I know.” Harry snorts, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going to.”
More tears.
Severus sighs. I love you too. I’m here, I love you. “Was it the war?”
That’s what their nightmares are usually about, both Harry and Severus’. Crippling, illogical, agonising dreams of Hogwarts crumbling down, of Voldemort winning. Red eyes shining in triumph, a serpentine hiss ringing in their heads. The Dark Mark: burning on Severus’ forearm, dazzling up in the sky.
But Harry shakes his head.
“What, then?”
Silence.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“No.”
Harry never kept any secrets. Not from Severus. He was an open book, begging to be read, eager to belong, enthusiastic to be learned.
He was desperate for connection.
He’s different now.
There are miles between them, stretching longer every day.
“I’m here,” Severus repeats.
Harry nods, sniffling. “Thank you.”
✧✧✧
They bought the flat and moved in.
It was madness. Severus knew they’d regret it, no doubt about that, yet he feared they’d regret it soon, too soon, in a month or two they’d resent each other profoundly and they’d have to deal with the awkwardness of selling the flat, splitting the money, and parting ways for the rest of their lives.
Disturbing in every sense. The boy’s reputation would suffer immensely. His friends would oppose this, or, even worse, would accept it, which meant that Severus would find himself trapped in a social circle consisting of former students.
There was that as well. The age gap was better not to think of at all. It was perverse.
They’d be miserable. They’d suffer.
That was what Severus told himself.
“Keep your eyes closed.” With a gentle but insistent touch, Harry pushed him through the door. “Stay here.”
The rustle of curtains being pulled aside; the warmth of sunlight on his face.
“Okay. You can open them.”
They were in a study.
In the middle of it stood a mahogany desk, equipped with everything Severus could ever ask for: an oil lamp, an assortment of feather quills, ink pots and notebooks—a stack of envelopes, sealing wax, parchment. Even a crystal ashtray and a matchbox, for the rare times he fancied a smoke, placed neatly next to a row of potion vials. The walls were covered in books, all the way to the ceiling. A few shelves were empty.
“For the ones you haven’t bought yet,” Harry said. He bit his lip. “So. What do you think? Your own space. For your research.”
Severus walked to the window.
In a delicate vase on the sill, a vibrant mimosa bloomed.
He perceived all at once, with a strange passivity, that Harry was serious about this. That he wanted it to work.
“I like it. Thank you.” Severus picked up a quill, observing it. He did like it. He did like all of this, very much.
Perhaps… Perhaps, they didn’t have to be miserable. They didn’t have to suffer.
Months passed.
In the kitchen, Harry hugged Severus from behind, smiling against his shoulder. In the shower, barely awake, he leaned on Severus’ chest, the hot water pouring down on both of them as Severus washed Harry’s hair. In the bedroom, Harry kissed him, caressed him, and, sometimes, tickled him.
Severus would laugh, head thrown back onto the pillows, raising his arms in surrender.
He learned the sound of his own laughter thanks to Harry.
✧✧✧
They’re quiet in each other’s company. Their steps echo in the flat, the sound of a leaking pipe loud in the dead silence.
Severus doesn’t know how to fix this.
✧✧✧
Empty beer bottles lie on the floor. The dishes in the sink have piled up so high they seem ready to topple over. Dust is accumulating in every corner.
Severus finds Harry in the study. The desk’s surface is black; some ink must have spilt, staining everything.
Harry is sitting in Severus’ chair, which he’s moved to the window. He’s wrapped himself in a blanket, knees to his chest, cuddling a bottle of cheap whisky.
The bookshelves are all empty.
“What happened to my books?”
Harry looks up, surprised. “Hm? Oh. I sold them.”
Severus shifts on his feet. “Why?”
A tentative smile lingers on Harry’s lips. He’s drunk; his cheeks are flushed, bright pink and wet. “Because I’m chronically unemployed,” he replies, his voice coarse. “I needed the money. Sorry.”
“You should have asked first,” Severus says, at a loss for words.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “I suppose I should have.”
✧✧✧
“I want to make love to you,” Severus whispers in Harry’s ear.
Harry turns over sleepily. The orange light of a lonely streetlamp seeps through the blindfolds; it shines in the boy’s wistful, curious eyes. “How?”
Severus comes closer. Harry draws away.
“You don’t want to?”
Uncertainty; a nervous shake of his head, and a sibilant intake of breath, before he licks his lips, nods, and rolls onto his back to slacken against the pillows, eyes closing. “Alright.”
Severus covers the boy’s body with his own, pressing his lips on Harry’s neck.
Harry gasps; he twitches under him, half-pleasure, half-pain. Severus moves to his lips. They’re dry, but he lets Severus feed on his open mouth, offering him his tongue despite the tension in his muscles, the stiffness of his jaw. His bare knees catch and compress Severus’ waist; then a whimper falls out of his mouth and he jumps up, stumbling out of bed.
“N-no,” he stutters.
Severus kneels up. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t. Sorry, I c-can’t.” It sounds like a sob and an accusation, both at once. It sounds like a plea.
“Why not?” He offers Harry a hand. “Come here.”
Harry doesn’t. Severus blinks. He’s alone in the room, and the sun has risen.
✧✧✧
“Stop it.”
Harry hurls his weight against the window, shoulder-first. He recoils slightly, grunting in pain, then does it again. The glass quivers and shakes, but otherwise remains intact.
“You’ll hurt yourself, stop!”
Harry bangs his fist on the glass. He picks up a chair and throws it at it with force. His knuckles are bleeding; streaks of blood cover the windowpane.
“I said stop, Potter!”
“Undo it,” Harry rasps, spittle flying from his mouth. His chest is heaving; he sways back, out of balance. “Let me open the windows, just one.” He lifts up a bloody, shaking finger. “Let me open one window only. Please.”
“It isn’t safe, and you know it.”
“PLEASE!” He bends down, fingers pulling his hair. “Let me open the windows, Severus. One window, please. One. I’m begging you.”
Severus places his palm on the glass. He can feel his wards, palpable, fierce, indestructible against his skin.
He could remove them, of course.
But it isn’t safe.
✧✧✧
“You look like shit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You can’t keep living like this, for Merlin’s sake.”
It’s just Weasley this time—pacing around the kitchen with that bulky, screeching leg, sipping a beer as Harry drops on a chair and opens a second bottle.
“It’s been years, mate.”
“So?”
“Come live with us for a bit. Just—for a month or two. See if it makes a difference to your health.”
“My health is fine.”
“Yeah, your mental health is shit. You could sell the house and—”
“No.”
“I’m sure someone would—”
“No one would buy this house. And I’m not leaving him.”
“Hermione insists—”
“Hermione’s busy enough with two kids as it is. I won’t saddle you with my issues too, no.”
Weasley half-sighs half-moans. “Mate, I’ve kidnapped you before when you needed out of your Uncle’s house. I swear I’ll do it again if I have to. If you’re not willing to do anything about it, at least ask him what he wants—”
“I have asked, he doesn’t know—”
“Ask again, then!”
✧✧✧
Every May, Harry’s nightmares would peak.
The yearly celebrations over Voldemort’s death were to blame, but Severus knew he’d never talk him out of attending. The boy was delusional; the belief that self-sacrifice was essential for world peace and harmony had been ingrained into him by Albus Dumbledore himself when he was still a child. He wore it like a second skin. He bowed his head and lived by it as if it were the word of God.
Kingsley only ever asked once: The public needs you, Harry. They rely on you. They trust you. They need to see that you’re happy, and we need them to see that the Saviour is on good terms with the Ministry. Do you understand?
Harry was soft, mouldable like dough under people’s fingers. He wasn’t going to say no. He would never put himself first.
Every May, he’d attend. He’d be who they wanted him to be, and afterwards he’d fall apart. Numb and absent-minded for days, irrationally agoraphobic, short-tempered and needy.
The neediness was the worst.
Harry is fine, everyone said. He’s doing great.
They didn’t know him. They didn’t know shit.
Only Severus knew.
War trauma could hardly manifest amidst the chaos of the battlefield—and that was why it came after.
Harry’s eyes would burn when Severus would accidentally brush past him, startling him with the simplest touch. He’d jump up in the middle of the night, screaming. He’d clutch Severus’ shirt, seeking comfort. He’d cry. He’d kiss Severus with that bottomless, unearthly need, clinging to him and shivering, ranting under his breath, sharing secrets he’d never told anyone.
His warm, sticky body would press against Severus’, and the need would consume him.
He’d bite Severus’ nipples, drag his lips across the hairs of his chest—dip a tongue into Severus’ belly button, the drying tears on his cheeks moistening Severus’ skin. He’d bite back a sob, sometimes, a hand flying up to his scar, and Severus would ask: “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“It hasn’t hurt since he died. I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. And his mind was filled with it—with pain, and death, and the memories of the war, and the fear he was taught to dismiss and suppress for the sake of his so-called bravery. His teenage self was coming up for air, experiencing all at once everything he’d never been permitted to feel.
“You’re not in the mood for this, stop,” Severus would hiss in the dark, but Harry would shake his head, persistent, adamant, impatient. He’d push Severus back to the mattress and take his cock in his mouth, gripping the base of his shaft and pinning him down.
Severus would hate himself, those nights. It’d feel wrong. It’d feel heinous.
But it was what Harry wanted.
✧✧✧
Apart from delivering long speeches at Kingsley’s bidding, Harry never talked about the war. Never acknowledged it.
Severus knew that game. In fact, he’d once played it. Pretend like the bad thing never happened. Pretend like it’s gone.
He also knew one could never win it.
He tried telling Harry that. He tried asking.
“Was Petunia good to you? Did she ever mistreat you?”
“No, it was fine.”
Severus knew it had been awful.
“Do you miss speaking Parseltongue?”
“No, why?”
But Harry always stared at snakes a little too long when they appeared on the television, and slowed down his steps when they would walk past grassy areas, hoping to glimpse an adder.
“Do you ever think of him? The Dark Lord?”
At that, Harry would scoff, and roll his eyes. “Of course not!”
But some mornings, he’d wake with a strange rash on his forehead, evidence of a long night of scratching at it with his nails.
Habits as such couldn’t just end only because the war had. The boy had been a Horcrux most of his life.
“You can’t keep running away from what has been done to you,” Severus told him once. “This denial of yours will be the greatest mistake you will ever make.”
Harry, of course, didn’t listen.
✧✧✧
More than anything, Severus misses the way Harry would stroke his hair.
The way he’d kiss the palm of his hand, and his wrist.
✧✧✧
“Weasley is right.”
Harry looks up. He is in bed, wrapped in a blanket. He’s been in bed all morning, curled up like that, watching the sunny sky through the window.
“You are miserable here,” Severus continues calmly. “Perhaps our—situation has run its course. Perhaps it’s time to part ways. We barely talk anymore. We’ve lost our connection. You know it as well as I do, you wouldn’t have cheated otherwise.”
“I never cheated on you.”
Severus snaps his head toward him. “You brought Draco here—”
“Years ago. Just once. And it wasn’t cheating anyway.”
Years? It can’t have been—it was a few months ago. “What was it, then, if not cheating? What do you call it when you live with a person you claim you love and yet you moan like a whore when another fucks you?”
Small and helpless, Harry shifts under the blanket. “What do you want?” He asks.
That stupid question again.
✧✧✧
Once, Severus caught him crouching over his old school trunk, staring at something. He’d closed it shut as soon as Severus entered the room.
“What were you looking at?”
Harry shrugged, getting up and dusting his jeans. “Nothing. Some old stuff.”
But Severus knew him. He approached the trunk, unlatched it—
“Leave it, it’s nothing, really.”
Harry’s hand grabbed his, stopping him. Severus paused. He kept his hand on the trunk until Harry released him, stepping back. Severus opened it.
It was them. A perfect photo of them, young and happy. Lily, in James Potter’s arms, smiling wide. Severus picked it up carefully, lowering himself to the bed. A thick layer of dust covered their faces. The wooden frame was discoloured and cracked.
“It’s just—it’s always been on my nightstand,” Harry said, both nervous and somewhat defensive. “I know you don’t want my dad’s face around, I didn’t mean for you to see—” He took a deep breath. “I’ll just shove it in some drawer or something, give it back.”
An agitated hand stretched out toward him, fingers spread. Severus looked at it.
He’d feared this; he’d feared the past would resurface to haunt them. He feared Lily and James would eventually find him, cast their condemning eyes on him and silently curse him for touching their son.
But it was just a photograph. All Harry had from them.
Severus placed it on the nightstand.
At night, he did not look at them. He did not even glance their way.
Harry was all that mattered.
✧✧✧
Harry is kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the dirt off the tiles with a wet towel. Severus blinks. Harry is lying on the couch. He blinks again. The house is empty.
He waits by the door, anxiously, and only calms when Harry returns.
“Where were you?”
“To get groceries,” Harry replies, toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside. His socks have holes, and are covered in lint.
Severus blinks. The crystal ashtray has been moved to the bedroom. It’s filled to the brim with spent cigarette ends and the stench of smoke.
When Harry sleeps, he holds Severus’ wand.
✧✧✧
Andromeda’s cottage in Warwickshire was a cosy, quiet retreat, far from the bustle of London life. They’d finished dinner over an hour ago; the aroma of freshly baked bread and stew lingered in the air still, and the woods crackled in the fireplace, filling the room with a gentle glow.
Severus rested his head on the sofa's cushions, stroking Teddy’s back. The boy had fallen asleep on his chest as soon as Severus had allowed him to climb on him—a routine they had cultivated many visits ago.
Severus was far from comfortable with all of this; he wasn’t used to being seen with anyone, ever, let alone Harry Potter himself. Andromeda was a Black, after all—the urge to look down on scandalous affairs was in her blood, despite her having been a nonconformist once too. Gossip and general sourness were in her blood just as much—part of Severus couldn’t shake off the certainty that Lucius and Narcissa would hear about this, if they hadn’t already.
What would they think?
How pitiful, how twisted Severus surely appeared—prancing around with a man twenty years his junior, a former student, the Boy-Who-Lived, playing lovers, paying visits to family like a couple.
Or how shameless. Lucius would be quick to assume it’d begun when Harry was still a student. He’d tell the others—anyone who wasn’t rotting in Azkaban would eventually know. They’d laugh at him. They’d come up with crude, nauseating details of how Severus likely groomed Harry from very early on.
“Hey.” A whisper; Harry sat beside him, carrying a plate of biscuits. He placed it on the coffee table and came closer, one leg folded under him. “What’s wrong?”
Andromeda was still in the kitchen—Teddy shifted a bit on Severus’ lap, sighing.
Harry looked at them warily. Disappointment crossed his face. “Is it him? Because of—his dad?”
Severus stared at the fireplace, his hand still on Teddy’s back. “He’s just a boy,” he whispered back.
A crooked smile curved Harry’s lips. “I was just a boy and you hated me just fine.”
Severus released a long breath. Simpler times, he thought—hating Harry had been easy, effortless. Pleasant, even. Loving him was a constant war.
“Fatherhood suits you.”
Severus’s drowsiness vanished in the blink of an eye. He lifted his head. “Don’t you start getting any ideas now.”
“Not yet,” Harry said, with an audacious, far too-confident grin. “One day, though.”
“Is that so? How?” Severus asked through clenched teeth. “Shall we scour the streets for lost children to kidnap, or would you rather I impregnate you when we get home?”
“We could adopt.” But Harry’s smile had shifted to something else now. He wasn’t joking anymore. His eyes were serious; his shoulders a little tense.
Severus gaped. “Have you been thinking about this?”
Harry nodded. “Not now, obviously. But in four, five years, yeah.”
Severus looked away. A single question burned his throat: You intend to be with me in five years?
But of course he did. They bought a flat. What did Severus expect?
Harry yearned for a family his entire life. Nothing else could ever complete him.
The photo on the nightstand was proof enough.
They took a long walk afterwards, through the village. They strolled down a dirt path and paused at a stone bridge, to observe the waters. Harry held his hand, his fingers bright red in the winter cold.
“Ask me again in five years,” Severus said.
✧✧✧
“We could have adopted,” Harry says. They are sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace; a Christmas tree has been put up by the window. “Move to the countryside, find a nice little cottage, like Andromeda’s. With a garden. Plant stuff. Raise a kid. It would’ve been nice.”
They could have. Despite it being imprudent, senseless, impossibly awkward to explain to anyone who knew them—despite Harry still being a child himself in so many ways, and so hurt—despite how permanently life-changing it’d be, the rigid responsibility it would require—they could have. “Would that make you happy?”
Harry hugs his knees, staring into the fireplace. Golden shadows flicker across his face; he smiles. “Yeah. Very much.”
And Severus knows—he knows he’d do anything to make Harry happy again. “We could, then. We could do it.”
Harry hugs his knees tighter. “No, we can’t.”
✧✧✧
He never doubted that the boy loved him. He never doubted that Harry trusted him.
But that wasn’t all.
It wasn’t why Harry had initially sought him out, why he appeared on his doorstep again and again.
I’m old enough to be your father. I was a Death Eater.
Sometimes, when they fucked, Harry would roll his head to the side and stare at the faded Dark Mark on Severus’ arm. Severus would try to distract him; nudge his face with his jaw, kiss him, shift his attention elsewhere.
But Harry wouldn’t budge.
He liked to look at it. Severus suspected it was turning him on.
He never doubted that the boy loved him.
But something deeper, darker, lurked underneath. Harry was broken.
The war had broken him, and Severus was all he had.
✧✧✧
“I would like to invite your friends for dinner tonight,” Severus announces, after a lot of thought. “I understand their opinion of me is rather—unfavourable, at the moment, but I would like to make an effort to change that.”
Harry, who was in the process of mopping the floor, stops short. His eyes widen. “Is that important to you?”
It isn’t, not really. But he wants them to stop trying to influence Harry against him, and he cannot see how else he could go about it other than showing them kindness. He can never befriend them, not really—but he can show them that he’s not the monster they think him to be. “I—suppose so.”
“Like, very important?”
“Moderately,” Severus replies unsurely. “Why?”
Harry sets the mop aside. “How long have you wanted that for? Severus—focus—is that what you want?”
Severus thinks. “Not long, I believe I came to the decision this morning.”
Silence. Harry’s shoulder sag. His smile vanishes. He picks up the mop again. “Never mind, then.”
✧✧✧
Sometimes, Harry screams, cries, and sets the living room on fire. He throws things on the windows, trying to break them.
Other times he swallows down one sleeping potion after the other and sleeps for days.
✧✧✧
He brings Draco over again, eventually.
Draco is different this time. Hair slicker, down to his shoulders, jaw firmer and perfectly shaven. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore. He looks like a man. He looks like his father.
After they fuck, Harry drifts off; Draco sneaks to the kitchen and goes through the cupboards in search of snacks. It’s peculiar, watching him be this comfortable in the flat Harry and Severus bought together.
It’s devastating.
Barefoot, in boxer shorts and a white shirt, Draco drops on a chair, ripping open a bag of crisps.
Not that much like his father; Lucius would be appalled.
They stare at each other quietly. Severus thinks of all the times he could have helped him—really helped him, guided him truly—yet threw him to the wolves instead, letting him figure it out alone. There was a bond there, he supposes, a long time ago. Draco looked up to him. Draco trusted him.
“Leave.” It’s Draco who says it this time.
“This is my home,” Severus replies, astonished.
“It doesn’t matter. You should leave now.”
Severus’ gaze drops to a bite mark on Draco’s neck. He presses his lips together.
Draco understands; he rubs it with the collar of his shirt, as if he can somehow wipe it off. “Are you jealous?” It isn’t intimidation—he seems genuinely curious. “You shouldn’t be. It’s you he wants, anyway.”
✧✧✧
And sometimes, there was no pain at all.
“Kiss me,” Harry demanded, grinning against his mouth.
Severus looked around them—the beach wasn’t exactly empty, despite what Harry had promised. A couple of families sat near the shore, and a young woman was swimming not very far from where Harry and Severus stood, chest-deep in the water.
Harry gripped Severus’ jaw and turned his head toward him. “Ignore them. They don’t care.”
“There are families here.”
Harry splashed him. The water was cold, but the day was sunny. “I told you to kiss me,” he repeated, tightening his grip on Severus’ jaw. “Now.”
Severus kissed him.
Harry pulled him underwater—the ocean enveloped them, and they held their breaths, never breaking the kiss.
Salt, submission, and love.
I love you, Severus thought for the first time that day.
It was then that he decided he had to say it.
✧✧✧
Harry is with Draco in the living room, fighting. They’re beside themselves, spitting out hateful, vile threats, clenching their wands, pointing fingers.
“I don’t care what you think, Malfoy!”
“Of course fucking not, when have you ever? When did I ever matter to famous Potter—”
“Oh, cut the shit—no one asked you to be here, walk out if you don’t like it. Go on, I promise I won’t give a fuck, I swear it!”
“You’re pushing everyone away—”
“You were never close to begin with!”
“Maybe I’m trying! Maybe I am trying to get close to you!”
“Well, that sucks for you,” Harry croaks breathlessly, with a pathetic, downward smile. “I’m not available.”
✧✧✧
“Thanks, Kingsley. Take care,” Harry said as he escorted Kingsley to the door.
Severus waited in the living room, arms over his chest, staring at a framed photo of him and Harry on the wall. Having been found in Harry Potter’s flat, wearing a bathrobe, at three in the morning by the Minister of Magic himself wasn’t how he’d imagined he’d break the news to Kingsley that yes, indeed, the Prophet was saying the truth, he’d moved in with the boy and were now living together.
Kingsley would find out sooner or later, anyway. Everyone would. Everyone had.
And that was the problem.
The door closed; Harry walked past him, fishing a bottle of whisky out of the sideboard and drinking straight from it as he paced around the room. “Fuck them. Fuck Lestrange. Fuck Dolohov. I’m not gonna go into hiding like some bloody coward, I don’t care. I’m not afraid of them, let them come to me. Let them try. I’ll show them.”
“How very brave you are,” Severus said in a silky, dangerous tone. “I admire it, if I’m honest. It’s not often you see someone so dedicated to their own demise.”
“Oh, sod—I faced Voldemort, alright? You really think I can’t deal with two stupid arseholes who—”
“—who broke out of Azkaban specifically to avenge the death of their Lord, Harry, for once in your pointless life think!”
“My pointless life? Really?”
“I wonder if you’re thrilled. If this excites you. Why bother with self-preservation when you have heroism to cling to, hm? Tell me, Harry, will they be singing your praises when you’re six feet under? Will it please you?”
“What do you want me to do, Severus? Run away? Go into hiding? Again? I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, no thanks!”
“They will torture you first,” Severus spat. “They won’t begin with the Cruciatus. They’ll warm you up to it with curses of their own creation, so brutal and dark that will have you begging for an Unforgivable instead. They’ll break your bones, each one of them. They’ll strip you naked, they’ll violate you, they’ll laugh at you as they dehumanise you. You’ll be relieved, when the Cruciatus finally hits you. They won’t lift it until your mind is gone. And then they will kill you.”
Harry swallowed, lips pressed together. He did not have to admit his fear. Severus could see it in his eyes. “They’ve—done that b-before?”
Severus’ eyes remained fixated upon him until, in terror, Harry lowered his gaze.
“You don’t know what they’re capable of,” Severus continued, and it was his turn to feel the fear churn in the pit of his stomach. “The press had forgotten about you, before us. You’re all they’re talking about again. Where you go, who you meet, where you live. You see, now, why I was unwilling to move forward with this—why living together was a mistake, why all this out and proud attitude of yours was reckless and rushed. You should go into hiding, yes. You should follow Kingsley’s advice and sell the flat, leave the country, stay on Polyjuice for a while and disappear.”
“And us?”
“Your safety is the only thing that matters.”
“You’re willing to leave me, then? Are you serious?” Harry huffed, rubbing his face. “Is that how easy it is for you to part ways? Just like that? You don’t love me.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. You wouldn’t care if I left. You wouldn’t even miss me. You’re selfish. Who is to tell me that you’re not using this as an excuse simply because you want to leave me—”
“I will not leave you, I am trying to protect—”
“I don’t want to be protected, I want to live my life without having to think about Death Eaters anymore! Can’t I just do that for a bit? For fuck’s sake!”
“Harry—be reasonable—if Kingsley can provide a safe house as he said, we should move there for a while—I will come, we will both go,” he clarified to ease Harry’s frustration, “until the matter is resolved. Together. Alright? Let me fire-call him and—”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to hide anymore. I can’t. I want to be happy, with you, here. That’s what I want.”
I love you.
Sometimes, Severus thought Harry was so broken he wouldn’t even believe him.
✧✧✧
“I will kill anyone who touches you,” Severus murmured, face buried into the crook of Harry’s neck. He pressed his lips on Harry’s jawline, thrusting faster. “I will take apart anyone who dares hurt you.”
Harry spread his knees further apart, surrendering.
✧✧✧
“Ron called. I invited them to join us tomorrow, is that alright?”
“You’re not serious.”
Harry pressed his lips on Severus’ cheek. “Are you still afraid of Ron and Hermione, or what?”
“I booked a table for two. And I know what you’re doing. I thought we had an agreement—”
“No, I never agreed.”
Severus had been standing in front of the wardrobe’s mirror, trying out different ties, in preparation for tomorrow. He’d begged Harry to cancel—they could celebrate here, preparations be damned, or at the very least use Polyjuice, but Harry would not hear of it. One hour, Severus had then said, relenting to Harry’s unyielding stubbornness. One hour, then we’ll go home.
With his friends there, an hour would melt into two, three, in the blink of an eye.
And Harry knew so.
And he’d done this on purpose.
“You’re in denial, again.” Severus tossed the ties on the bed, where Harry lay sprawled. “All I’ve asked of you is to lay low for a short while. That’s all I’ve asked, Potter.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Harry was brutal in his heedlessness. Cruel, as he childishly bit on a nail, watching the ripples of light flicker across the ceiling, mocking Severus with his silence, dismissing the conversation with the briefest smirk on his lips.
“I understand,” Severus tried, composing himself and holding back an atrocious amount of anger, “that being on the lookout for so many years has left you drained and unwilling to keep fighting. I am aware of how desperately you crave peace.” That got Harry’s attention; he looked at Severus, his previous abrasiveness now replaced by sadness. “I wish I could give that to you. I wish I could offer you life-long, permanent safety. I can’t. The world is merciless, Harry. It doesn’t care for your wants. If you refuse to watch out, you’ll get yourself killed.”
Severus could see now how blessed he had been in his long-lasting solitude, away from the afflictions of hopeless romance. Why people willingly chose to go through this was a mystery to him. It hurt to love Harry.
A smooth part of the boy’s abdomen was revealed as he yawned, stretching his arms toward the headboard. His sadness gave place to a coarse flush. He smiled.
An artless, brash, unsubtle attempt to distract Severus from the subject.
But it worked. After a moment, Severus climbed on the bed.
As simple as that, the conversation was over.
✧✧✧
Severus wonders if they’ll ever go to the beach again.
It had been nice.
✧✧✧
“Since when are you smoking?”
“A few months.” Harry takes a drag and releases the smoke, watching Severus intently as Severus steps over a plate left on the kitchen floor and sits on the chair across from him. Harry’s eyes darken. “D’you want one?”
There is a pause, during which Severus considers accepting. Then, “No, thank you.”
Harry raises a mocking eyebrow. “Really? How come? Come on.” He shoves the pack towards Severus with unnecessary aggression.
Severus stares at it.
“Go on.”
He’s not familiar with the brand; its colours are quite bizarre, purple and pink and yellow, and the putrid smell of tobacco is just—he’d rather not. “I’m not in the mood now.”
“Okay, light mine.” Harry places the lighter on the table. He looks at Severus coldly as he puts out his cigarette directly on the table, takes out a new one and holds it between his lips.
Severus’s gaze drops to the lighter, a Muggle Zippo patterned with spades. “Why?”
Harry shrugs. “Why not?”
“You can light it yourself.”
“But I want you to light it.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Liar.” Harry leans closer, grabbing the lighter, glaring at Severus with staggering hatred. “You know,” he says. “You know, you’re just pretending you don’t.”
✧✧✧
Severus does know, he supposes.
He can even remember if he tries.
✧✧✧
Weasley and Granger stop visiting. Draco too. Harry buys a telephone, a Muggle one, but Severus’ wards render it useless. He tries the fireplace again, and, after hours of fiddling, gives up.
The house is a fort. Only with Harry’s clear permission, and only through the front door, can someone walk in.
But no one seems to want so anymore.
✧✧✧
It happens on a night like any other, unexpectedly.
Harry falls apart.
Drunk and dejected, he tries to smash the windows, sets the couch on fire, casts a curse on the fireplace, but doesn’t stop.
He keeps going. He keeps going until the grandfather clock explodes into splinters, until the fridge crumbles down onto itself, like a delicate tissue, until he injures his hands and bruises his shoulders, throwing himself against the windows with force.
He moves to the bookshelves—he kicks the ones lower to the ground until they snap in half, whips out his wand and slices the curtains, all the while shaking, his skin glimmering with sweat, his eyes mad.
“Harry.”
Severus’ presence aggravates him further. Harry bares his teeth at him, before raising his wand and turning Severus’ chair into dust.
“Unlock the windows.”
“Stop it.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“Harry—”
“You’ve got to tell me.” And there it is—the anger all gone, as fast as it came, now replaced by childlike helplessness and tears. “Please, Sev.”
Severus doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to help him.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Harry whimpers, dropping his wand. His knees buckle. He sinks to the floor.
Severus follows him.
They kneel together on the carpet as Harry cries. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want—”
“Think!” He bellows. “Think what it might be—isn’t there anything you want? Anything you’ve not done that you would’ve—liked to? Something, anything, I don’t know, break up, propose, buy a broom, dye your hair, is there anything you haven’t done that you wanted to?”
Severus thinks. But the question makes no sense to him. He wants to pull Harry close, embrace him, hold him to his chest and make all of this go away. But—“What are you asking?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Why—”
“Just answer the question, Severus.”
I love you, he thinks. The timing feels wrong, wronger than ever. “There is nothing.”
“The has to be something, Severus. Please. Please, I can’t live like this anymore.”
Live with you, he means. Live in this house, he means.
Severus knows that. He knows. “Harry, what are you asking, exactly?”
And Harry draws in a breath. Shuts his eyes. “I’m asking if you have any unfinished business. Here on earth.”
Severus knows.
In a way, he supposes, he has always known.
He has always known why they don’t touch. Why they don’t kiss anymore.
He has always known that the blood Harry was covered in when he came back from St. Mungo’s, that awful night, was Severus’.
And he knows that he should have left, after he shoved Harry aside and took Dolohov’s curse, sacrificing himself for that boy who somehow fell in love with him and found comfort in his arms.
He knows he should have left.
But he came home instead.
He waited.
There is one thing he still hasn’t said, after all.
✧✧✧
He doesn’t exactly remember dying, though he recalls being in Harry’s arms as he did so.
✧✧✧
He remembers the rest.
Walking out of the restaurant, his hand in Harry’s, Weasley and Granger following after them, joyfully blabbering about the food. He remembers the curses flying toward them, the street darkening, the Dark Mark in the sky. He remembers knowing what they'd do to Harry if they captured him.
He remembers killing both Dolohov and Lestrange with a slash of his wand, stepping in front of Harry, shielding him with his body as Dolohov’s last curse hit him in the chest.
✧✧✧
“How long has it been?”
The sun has risen; Harry is sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the mess he created the night before. Debris, dust, ashes everywhere. He seems drained; his head flops back on the couch as he stares at the ceiling.
“Four years.”
Kneeling in front of him, Severus raises his hand. He hesitates, inches from Harry’s cheek. “May I?”
Harry nods. He lifts up his head, meets Severus’ eyes.
Severus touches him. With a faint wince, Harry presses his face into his hand.
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“No,” Harry says softly. “Just cold.”
Severus passes a thumb over Harry’s lips.
“Kiss me,” Harry whispers, leaning further into the translucent hand.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Does anyone know? Apart from your friends and—” He doesn’t want to say Draco’s name. “Does anyone know that you live like this?”
Harry shakes his head.
Severus’s anger re-emerges. “What have you done to yourself? Why?”
“I can’t leave you,” Harry says with passive simplicity. He smiles. “You haven’t left me, so. How could I leave you?”
“I’m not here,” Severus growls. “You’re—” alone? He can’t say that.
“Yes, you are. You’re right here, look at you.” Harry snorts, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. “You’re right here.”
✧✧✧
“I’m sorry—”
“No.”
“No, I am—I didn’t listen—you tried—”
A bitter part of Severus wants to tell him that yes, it is Harry’s fault, that yes, he should have listened. But it’s hardly relevant anymore. It wouldn’t change anything. “It is not your fault.” Tears. Severus can’t look at them. “It isn’t your—”
“Do you forgive me?”
No, he wants to say. “You were in pain,” he says.
Harry snorts. “Yeah, and look where that got me. No pain at all now.” He laughs, leaning forward into Severus’ chest, and stays there for a while, cold, shivering.
✧✧✧
Harry goes to bed.
Severus waves a hand over the windows, and lifts the curse.
✧✧✧
He’d been meaning to say it for a while.
I—the subject pronoun.
Love—the verb.
You. Harry. Green eyes, ocean-deep. Flushed, rosy cheeks. Dishevelled hair, salty lips, smiling.
He never thought it would mean goodbye. He never thought it would be like this.
But Harry must move on. It is time.
Severus lowers himself to the mattress, sitting beside him. He brushes his knuckles against Harry’s hand.
“Harry.”
Harry stirs in his sleep. He half-opens his eyes. “Hm?”
“I love you.”
The end