Chapter Text
Cover art by me :3
***
Harry couldn’t really remember how or when it started, but he remembered each and every single moment it happened.
The earliest recollection he had was around the time when he fucked up with the Occlumency lesson. He remembered fleeing from the dungeon. He remembered running until his lungs burned, he remembered collapsing in a dark corner where no one could find him, and just hyperventilating.
Everything around him crumbled to dust. Everything he ever believed in, everything he ever yearned for. Everything that kept him together, giving him a solid grounding.
Harry barely remembered throwing up, but he did remember the pain. He remembered hyperventilating to the point he couldn’t breath, but he couldn’t faint. He didn’t allow himself to faint, and for a brief second of fucked up humour, Harry wondered if the Occlumency lesson had worked, after all.
He sat there in the dark, sobbing his eyes out, breathing hard. His body heated up like a malfunction furnace, and he shook violently as if wearing nothing in a snowstorm.
For some fucked up reason, it was Snape that found him. It might not be 10 minutes since the moment he fled the dungeon, or it could be hours, Harry did not know. But he would not forget the face Snape made when he saw Harry curled into himself on the floor, vomit smeared everywhere, and tears streaming down his face.
Something strange happened at that moment, and Harry could see it. He could almost feel it, thick and almost tangible in the air. Snape’s face was a mixture of anger, confusion, and something that resembled pity.
There was no hatred there, though.
For a moment, it was as if they had been frozen in time, and for the first time, in the darkness, Harry could see Snape’s face clearly.
He was thin, too thin for someone who was eating Hogwarts’ meal everyday for the last 16 years. His hair was not as greasy as Harry had seen it a few days prior. He must have washed it one or two days ago. His hair was not thin at all, and a few thick strands clung to his face. His nose, though overly large, didn’t really look ugly from this close. In fact, Snape was not that ugly if Harry didn’t add a layer of hate in front of his lens. He was just not conventionally handsome. Not hard on the eyes, that’s what he was.
He must be crazy, Harry concluded.
In the midst of the most pathetic situation of his life, he was still able to think stupid things like how not ugly Snape was.
Snape hated him, what was the point of thinking good things about the man. He should hate the man in return, because…
Because what?
Harry bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.
If it were him, he would not think of Dudley’s son, who was the exact image of him, in kind.
In fact, with that kind of humiliation his father and godfather had put Snape through, Harry was surprised the man hadn’t killed him yet.
Snape was a fucking terrible teacher, and he would humiliate Harry by asking questions he could not answer, but he protected him, too, constantly.
Harry didn’t know what to think.
Despite thinking that, it seemed like Harry had been in thought for quite a while, because Snape looked like his patience was running thin, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. He looked at Harry’s curled up body one more time before he huffed and parted his lips, trying to say something, but then stopped and inhaled uncomfortably before sighing.
Then, he reached out with his hand.
His hand.
Harry looked at bony, long fingers, and he was astonished that it was so…
No, he wouldn’t say beautiful. He wouldn’t…
Harry looked at Snape again, and the man was looking at him as if looking at a really annoying child who was throwing a tantrum. He frowned, and whenever that frown was present, Harry knew the man was in a bad mood. He wondered how he knew that. He wondered how much more he knew about the man that he wasn’t aware of. For years, he had been careful around Snape, after all.
Reluctantly, Harry reached out, and when their fingers touched, Harry knew that it was the very first time they came into physical contact with each other. It was normal for students and teachers to not touch, ever. The fact that they were touching was actually what’s highly unusual.
Snape’s hand was warm, and his hand was a strange combination of very soft skin and very hard callus. They were callouses from holding the knives, from crushing ingredients, from holding the spatula and wands to stir. They were callouses from holding wand and pen tightly, they were evident of the man’s long, long hours of hard work.
Harry was suddenly aware of how human Snape was. He realised an obvious truth that Snape was also a person. Nothing he had was given freely to him. He was bullied in school, he worked and worked and worked until he was a potion master. He practiced duelling, he marked paper until he became worthy of his many titles, and he had worked hard to become who he was today.
He was a human, and he was a teacher.
And there was no reason for him to tolerate a student like Harry, there was no reason for him to tolerate a child with a look that reminded him of his worst nightmare. There was no reason he, a man who had earned the position of being the second best Occlumency master, had to endure Harry’s ignorance, laziness, and shortcomings.
Harry looked at Snape’s face, and the man held his gaze with a frown. He was studying Harry, wondering.
Harry knew what he was thinking about, and he wondered how he could know without Legilimency.
But he didn’t say anything.
He took Snape’s hand, and he focused on how warm and rough they were. He focused on the spot where the rough skin crossed with soft skin, and he marveled at how much he could understand a person by holding their hand.
For a moment, Snape’s hand twitched, as if he wished to withdraw, but then he let Harry do what he wanted. Harry looked at them for a long time, and once he realised how inconvenient this was for Snape, he looked at the man.
Snape looked confused, slightly annoyed, but again, there was no hatred in his eyes, not anymore, and Harry wondered what he was thinking.
Reluctantly, Harry’s hand slid off Snape’s. The man’s eyes darted to his own hand, and again, he looked like he was holding off his bitter remark.
It was a peculiar night, and though it was indeed unpleasant earlier, Harry didn’t really hate this moment.
Snape turned on his heels, with a clear sign for Harry to follow him. His wand shone at the tip as he led Harry through the darkness of the castle.
Harry followed him, and in a moment of bursting bravery, he reached out and clutched the hem of Snape’s coat.
Snape seemed to notice, but he didn’t make a comment. They made their way through the dark, and Harry’s mind idly trailed off, thinking about how fucking dark the place was, and how it would be nice if the wizard just use electricity like civilised human beings, instead of living like cavemen from the 17th century.
That thought made him chuckle, and once more, Snape tensed slightly.
The man must have thought Harry crazy.
When they reached the Gryffindor tower, Snape stopped and looked at Harry as if he was expecting Harry to behave.
Harry was still clinging on Snape’s coat, and he looked at the man, then at the sleeping portraits. He wondered if they were really sleeping, and he wondered if he took Snape’s hand again, would they tell every single portrait in the castle by breakfast tomorrow.
Harry advised himself against it.
He gave Snape a wobbly smile, and then he walked to the Fat Lady’s portrait and gave her the password.
The next day, his Occlumency class was cancelled.
***
Harry didn’t go to Snape’s office after that, and during classes, their interactions were as tense as it could get, but something else had shifted.
Harry would stay up at night, rubbing his fingers together in a way that made Ron concerned. Hermione even thought that he had developed some kind of OCD due to his stress.
Harry didn’t tell them about that night, and he tried not to think about it by rubbing his fingers together.
He knew how it would turn out, should that memory be found by Voldemort. He knew how, as a spy, Snape would be put in unaccountable risk, and he distracted himself the only way he knew how.
He did read about Occlumency after that, and he knew with certainty that Snape had chosen the most complicated way to build the fortress of his mind. That was why he could be a spy for Dumbledore. But Harry, his mind was a mess, and sitting still to build a fortress was impossible for him.
In fact, Harry had asked Hermione, and she told him not many people could silence their mind and build a fortress to organise their memories as the book had described. Normal witches and wizards could live their whole life, never able to master mind magic. For many cases, it might be easier, and she had wondered how. So she had read.
The same book that told her Harry might have developed an OCD suggested that those with Autism might be more adapted to magic like that. Since it was a muggle book, Hermione had to make the connection herself. And even though Harry didn’t know a thing about autism or OCD, he was willing to sit down and listen to her explanation.
He asked then, what about him. And they had searched. By the time they found the closest resemblance to Harry’s state of mind, which was something called ADHD, Hermione had been deep in thought, while Harry was thinking about Snape’s hand again.
After one week, Hermione had given Harry a suggestion. If his ADHD made it difficult for him to arrange his thoughts and memories the way Snape did, and he couldn’t build a fortress around it, why not mess it around even further.
Harry had agreed to try, and in fact, it was so much easier than silencing his mind.
Instead of building layers of protection around it, Harry shuffled everything around, protecting each and every one of the important memories why he pushed and jiggled the unimportant memories around.
The first time he didn’t have a nightmare about Nagini, but seeing a silly memory about Dudley burning his own pants off, he had laughed himself awake.
He had succeeded, and the first one he wanted to tell was Snape.
Gosh, it had felt so wrong, and so right at the same time.
Harry wished to tell the man the moment he had a chance, and he wanted to see how the man’s face would change.
Would he be astonished that Harry had succeeded? Would he be surprised, angry, embarrassed?
For once, Harry wanted to know.
Thinking that, he sat in the dark, unable to sleep, and he wrapped the memory of that night carefully in another layer of magic.
Should Voldemort meddle with his mind and try to find his most protected memory, he would have to go through layers and layers of protective magic, then layers of dumb memories, wrapped in layers of adult magazines, before he could even reach it.
Harry wouldn’t let him.
Harry chuckled as he practised his own kind of mind magic, and for a long, long time, he wanted morning to come.
Morning never came.
Not anymore.
Before Harry even had the chance to get close to Snape, the attack happened, and once more, Harry’s world crumbled under his feet.
***
It was Snape that found him, once more.
It was the dead of the night in Grimmauld Place, and Harry stood in a small, dark corner that no one of the Order would even want to wander close.
He stood there, silent, barely breathing. His mind was numb, his throat hoarse, and his fingers colder than the dead.
He might as well be dead.
When Snape came, Harry barely twitched. He turned, and when he found the man standing there, far too close to him, covering the whole corner with his tall frame, Harry suddenly felt so safe.
He felt like the clog of cotton in his lungs had been removed, and his tears fell once more.
They fell silently, and Harry’s breathing barely hitched, but it flooded his vision, dimming the light from Snape’s wand nevertheless.
Snape looked at him for a long time, contemplating, and Harry stood there, tears falling freely.
Time seemed to slow, and by the time a decision was made, Harry was utterly tired.
When Snape took half a step forward, moving in Harry’s personal space, Harry immediately closed that space, stepping just half a step toward him. Their bodies touched, and Harry leaned in the man’s solid chest and cried, screamed, and shook, all in heartbreaking silence. Snape turned the light off, and when the darkness embraced them both, Harry immediately wrapped his arms around Snape’s waist. He pressed even closer, and Snape didn’t push him away. He didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t push Harry away either.
Harry cried until he was tired, and when both his tears and his strength ran dry, he found his chest lighter than ever. He also found that he was able to bury his face in Snape’s chest now, that he had rubbed off both tears and snot on the man’s coat, and that Snape had endured all that and was capable of not touching Harry at all.
Harry imagined Snape with a wet coat, smeared with tears and snot, and probably some saliva, and he started giggling.
Snape froze, and for a moment, maybe, he might have thought that Harry had gone mad, and that made Harry laugh even harder.
Finally, his maniac laughter had forced Snape to push him away. The man had scowled when he spotted the state of his coat, and even in the darkness, Harry had felt it. A tingle of magic so powerful and fresh, coming from the man in front of him.
He reached out, then, to find the wet spot on Snape’s coat, and his fingers were met with crispy dry fabric. Traces of magic were still lingering, and it had felt different.
Harry realised, then, that Snape had not used his wand, nor had he uttered a word.
It was wandless and non-verbal magic, something very few wizards could do.
Harry’s mind started wandering again, and it was half an hour later that he realised Snape had left him.
Harry didn’t care then.
His chest was light, his mind was somewhat free from grief, and his body was slowly being filled with excitement.
He returned to his room, and he found a pen and a note. He then managed to doodle some strings while he thought very intensely about wandless and non-verbal magic.
By the time Remus found him, the paper was dark with noodles from Harry’s pen, and while Harry looked light and happy, Remus looked very concerned.
***
Harry’s first hyperfixation, as Hermione put it, was the Half-blood Prince’s book.
During that time, he had not slept, had not eaten, and sometimes, he would stay long hours in the Room of Requirement to study that book. He was obsessed, and in the Requirement Room, he was even provided with books to learn more about the things he found in the Prince notes.
It was like a whole new world, and Harry found himself wondering if it had been Snape’s book. He wondered if this was how the man had learnt the subject, and this was the reason why he loved learning all the different ways a potion could be brewed.
Harry had tried, once, to fix the recipe he saw in his old book, but his mind was too swarmed with thoughts and possibilities that he found it extremely difficult to pick one option. He was overwhelmed by too many choices, and so Harry had given up after half an hour.
He had stuck with learning the books, and he had succeeded so many times following the Prince’s recipe.
The first time Harry got an O for his Potions essay, he had run to the dungeon right after curfew and knocked on Snape’s door without a thought.
After 3 consecutive, furious knocking, Harry suddenly realised how dumb it was that he had rushed to the dungeon without a thought, and he froze, just in time Snape yanked the door open with a scowl.
He looked at Harry, raised an eyebrow, and Harry chuckled nervously before thrusting his paper to Snape’s face then ran like an idiot.
The next morning, Harry’s paper found him through the aid of an unknown owl, and coming with it were a few red lines, written in a very familiar handwriting that made Harry grinned throughout his breakfast. He didn’t tell Hermione or Ron, because it didn’t feel right. He wanted it to be his own little secret. He wanted whatever strange friendship he was having with Snape stayed his own, without judgement from anyone.
It had become a routine, then. But Harry had found a better way to show off his grades. Whenever he received a good mark, he would push it through the gap at the dungeon’s door, and Snape would return to him with extra comments and critics the next morning.
Sure, during the year, Harry was plagued with Malfoy’s strange behavior and his hyperfixation of the Prince’s book that barely let him sleep, but Harry was happy, nevertheless. He practised his Occlumency, his wandless magic, and his potion skill. He thought and he wondered. He barely slept or ate, but well…
When Slughorn hosted his Christmas party just before the students returned home, Harry had reluctantly joined. He found himself thinking again, whether Snape had been at Slughorn’s party during his school years. Judging from the old man’s obsession with networking, though, a student like Snape would not be taken seriously, despite his talent. And that thought made Harry sick, for some reason.
When Snape found him, though, Harry found that his mood had vastly improved. They exchanged a few words, and nothing was mentioned of their strange routine. It had been a while since Harry came into close contact with the man outside of the classroom, so he followed both Snape and Malfoy outside.
Of course he took into consideration the man and Malfoy’s strange conversation. There had been a moment where Harry doubted Snape’s loyalty, but then he reminded himself that Dumbledore trusted Snape, and that a man like Snape, a man who offered Harry comfort when Harry was mourning Sirius, would not betray them.
He brushed his doubt aside, and he followed Snape when Malfoy had hastily ran off.
When they reached a corner, Snape suddenly stopped and grabbed Harry’s Invisibility Cloak off. When he found Harry, there was no emotion on his face, but Harry knew without even using Legilimency, that the man was surprised, and somewhat worried. He was worried how much Harry had heard.
Harry studied his face, and then, before Snape could say anything, Harry took his hands. Snape froze, and Harry was unfazed. He touched and caressed Snape’s hands. He found each and every single callus on the man’s hands. There hadn’t been any new ones from one year ago, but Harry had missed them. He had forgotten almost all of them, and he needed to refresh his memory.
Snape was either too stunned to react, or he just barely tolerated Harry. Finally, it was Harry who was aware of their surroundings and reluctantly let go. Snape looked at him, his eyebrow raised, as if asking Harry a question. Harry didn’t answer, and he stepped forward to hug Snape before both of them had the chance to do or think anything else.
It was brief, and Snape was stiff, but Harry enjoyed it nevertheless.
When he let go, he cursed that it was not dark around them, and he cursed that he had not chosen a better time or place.
***
Harry had thrown himself in a hurricane of tasks later, just so he could distract himself, and it worked marvellously. He studied, got private ‘lessons’ with Dumbledore, practised his magic, lived in the memories of his contact with Snape, studied the Prince’s book, figuring out what Malfoy was up to.
He was busy, and the only freetime he had was during the darkness of the nights, where he would lie and think about Snape.
Sometimes, he would go out. Sometimes, he would run into the man, and sometimes, their hands would touch briefly when the man took him back. There had never been a Detention, and Harry wondered if it was Dumbledore’s order.
Every single time, their hands would linger impossibly close together, but only on very rare occasions did Harry dare a touch. Snape never yelled at him, never got angry, and he never pushed him away.
So Harry wandered every night. If he was found by Snape, the night would end pleasantly.
If he was not, he would go to the dungeon in hope of being found by a potion master. When he snapped out of it and realised how dumb that was, he would return to bed with disappointment.
Soon, Harry received Dumbledore’s first order, and he was sent to retrieve a memory from Slughorn. He had used his Felix Felicius, and once he gave Dumbledore the bottle, he had run to the dungeon.
Snape opened his door and found a half drunk, half high Harry, and he didn’t say a word when Harry pushed him inside and hugged him tightly.
He did freeze, though, and after he had locked the door, Harry had laced their hands together and did not let go.
Snape was pinned awkwardly on the door while a teenager hugged, held his hand, and giggled like a maniac.
It was the best night of Harry’s life, and probably Snape’s strangest.
They stood there for a long time, and when Harry started to get sleepy, he reluctantly moved back, though his hands were still laced with Snape’s. It felt so nice, and Harry had smiled at Snape when it happened.
The man looked deeply into Harry’s eyes, and when Harry smiled and said nothing, Snape sighed and leaned in. Harry’s breathing and heartbeat froze immediately as Snape’s lips touched his cheek. Something in his head exploded, and Harry suddenly realised how his action might look.
The kiss was still warm and slightly moist on his cheek when he looked at Snape with astonishment on his face. The man was rigid and frowning, and Harry knew immediately how he was expecting disgust, rejection, and even some yelling.
But no.
Harry was on a fucking Luck Potion, so everything that happened to him at the moment was his luck .
Harry’s heart raced as he shook. And when Snape looked utterly broken and hurt, Harry leaned in and kissed him back. A soft kiss on the cheek, lingering far longer than what’s considered innocent.
And something in Snape broke as well.
They stood there in silence, and when they parted, something had shifted between them.
***
From then on, every week, Harry would go to the dungeon at the dead of the night on Saturday. He would knock, and Snape would pull him in, and they would hug without saying a word.
Harry loved the way Snape relaxed against him, and he loved the moment the man buried his nose in his neck. Harry would slide his fingers in the man’s slightly greasy hair, stroking gently. He would place his hand on the small of the man’s back.
He enjoyed such moments where he could visibly feel how Snape let go and leaned on him for comfort. He was almost as tall as Snape now, so when they hugged, Harry only had to tip his toes a little bit to reach his favourite position. It was beyond nice, and they never had to say anything.
They never kissed again, but every time Harry left, he would look at Snape, silently asking, silently offering.
Snape never took it, but he would touch Harry’s cheek briefly with his fingers before pushing Harry away.
He looked pained, in those moments, and Harry would love nothing more than to lean closer and kiss those frowns again. But he didn’t.
Everytime, he would leave with his heart aching for more, his lips tingling for that sensation of Snape’s smooth skin.
He was aching with want.
Harry had never been the sharpest, but he was not stupid either. He knew his affiliation with Snape was not normal, and he knew something had changed between them.
It took him a long, long time. And after his accident with Malfoy, he was even more certain.
After bringing Malfoy to the Infirmary, Snape had found Harry in front of his office. He had angrily dragged Harry inside, and Harry had hugged him with crushing force and started hyperventilating almost immediately.
It had taken Snape a long time to calm Harry down, given how Harry didn’t even let him go.
After that, they didn’t have any other contact, but Harry knew .
He knew with certainty how deep he had fallen.
Harry had thought long and deep that night, and he had come to a conclusion.
He knew how he felt about Snape, knew how deep his emotion ran. He knew there was no running away, and he decided to face it.
Judging from how Snape had behaved around him, Harry dared to hope that the man shared the same emotion.
So, they could…
Harry’s heart raced at the possibilities.
But he also knew how risky it was for both of them.
Snape might be killed, and Harry…
Well… Harry might be killed as well, anyway?
Harry chuckled.
No.
Maybe they could finally come to an agreement, and they could figure out how to kill Voldemort together. Harry was getting so close with Dumbledore after all. Maybe, Snape could help him learn how to duel, and he could fight Voldemort. After that, Harry would take his NEWT and become a teacher, just so he could stay at Hogwart with Snape, and they could be a couple.
It was wishful thinking, Harry knew, but he couldn’t help himself.
Multiple possibilities rushed across his mind, and he was so giddy with it.
He would tell Snape.
He would tell the man how he felt, and they would think of something together, he was sure of it.
Yes!
Yes they could do this.
Harry could do this.
Harry got out of the bed, didn’t really care about his dorm mates, and rushed outside.
He felt like there’s spring under his footsteps, and he imagined how he would kiss Snape deeply on those thin, pink lips of his. He had wanted to taste those lips for so much longer than he dared to think about it. And now, now he would…
Harry walked through the Fat Lady’s portrait hole, and there, he found Dumbledore smiling,
“Good evening Harry. Would you like to accompany me on an adventure?”
Harry froze as he looked at the Headmaster in front of him, and as he nodded, the man’s smile became radiant.
He took Harry’s hands, and everything twisted around him.
Morning never came.