Chapter Text
On the damp pavement, just a few steps from a dimly flickering streetlamp, a small group of fifteen-year-olds had gathered. One was chewing on a cigarette butt, another gripped an empty beer can with pale fingers. One was six feet tall, another barely reached his chest. But they had one thing in common—no bloody shame.
It was 3:59 a.m.
At the centre of the group, their cocky little ringleader—the towhead with a weasel-like glint in his eye—stood slightly apart, commanding their attention with a conspiratorial whisper.
“Over there…” He raised a finger. “See those boarded-up windows on the third floor?”
A flurry of eager nods. Wide, expectant eyes.
“What do you reckon? Why d’you think they’re boarded up?”
The first to blurt something out was a squat, chubby boy.
“Well, uh… Ah, bollocks—” he cursed, shaking off the dirty puddle water he’d just stepped in. “Dunno. Guess no one lives there?”
The towhead gave a sharp nod, eyes darting around the group, itching for a better answer.
“Any other guesses? Look properly. See how everything around it is blackened—like it’s been burned? Looks like a tumour, doesn’t it? But the flats next to it are fine.”
A second boy—tall, broad-shouldered, clearly a year or two older, and already tipsy—lurched out of the circle, lined up a shot, and hurled his crushed beer can at the window.
Missed by a mile—and smacked the chubby kid instead.
“Oi!” The boy yelped, hopping back.
“Doesn’t mean no one lives there,” the drunk idiot snickered. “Could be busted windows, could be renovations… could be someone superstitious…”
“Or something,” another voice added.
“Or m-m-maybe someone… d-d-dead—”
The whole group turned, perfectly in sync, to stare at Four-Eyes the Stammerer.
Getting warmer,” the towhead murmured, curling his finger in a beckoning gesture.
The group shuffled closer. Someone even spat out their chewed-up cigarette butt to give the story their full attention.
“Ages ago, there was an old hag living up on that floor—a witch, they say.
You know, real nasty business. Spells, charms, even… curses.”
At the last word, the towhead rolled his eyes and dragged a finger across his throat for effect.
“They’d queue up outside her door, right up to the stairwell—sometimes even spilling down the stairs! Swarming in, day and night. Mostly women—not that it made a difference.
At some point, the neighbours had had enough. Properly kicked up a fuss. Said she’d turned the whole place into a bloody waiting room. Couldn’t even pop out for a loaf of bread without stepping on some poor sod waiting their turn. You lot following?”
A wave of nods.
“And then…” The towhead’s voice dropped. “Then—she died. Five years ago. No family. No will. Flat left empty.
But some of ’em kept coming. Kept queuing up, knocking on the door. Word gets around slow, yeah? How were they to know she’d been dead for ages?”
“Yeah, yeah, fair point—oh, uh—sorry…”
The chubby boy had spoken, but this time, they all turned on him at once, a chorus of hissing shushes.
The towhead just grinned and carried on.
“And then—one night, dead on four a.m...” He grinned wider, catching Four-Eyes glancing at his watch.
“There was a scream—from the third floor. Straight out of a horror flick. Woke the whole building.
Neighbours came tearing out in their pyjamas—some in nothing but their bloody underwear! And right there, in the corridor—stood this girl. Frozen stiff. Just pointing at the wall. And right there…”
He licked his lips, eyes gleaming, and paused for dramatic effect.
“Well? What was there?”
The big lad couldn’t take it anymore, shifting uneasily despite his two hundred pounds of sheer bulk.
“The flat—was gone.”
A good dozen pairs of eyes bugged out at him like he’d lost his mind.
“What d’you mean—gone?” Nameless sceptics whispered among themselves, finally giving voice to their unease.
“Pfft, yeah, right,” the big lad snickered.
The chubby boy scratched his head. Only Four-Eyes believed him straight away.
“Just like that. The flat—gone. Vanished. And the door? Just… disappeared. And the weirdest part? No one saw it happen. Just a blank, bare wall left behind. Not a mark, not a trace, nothing. But wait—there’s more.”
The murmurs died down. The towhead went still all of a sudden. The grin melted off his spotty face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Darker.
“The next night, it happened again. Another scream—this time a man’s. Rough. Choked. Once again, the whole building woke up. Came running out half-dressed, same as before. And guess what? The door was back. Same door. Old. Peeling paint. Just like before. But here’s the thing… It wasn’t where it used to be. It was on the wrong wall. Where no flat should be. Just concrete. Nothing but solid wall. The bloke from across the hall—he called the cops. Thought someone was messing with the building. And, well, you know how the police are… Didn’t show up till morning. By then, everyone had gone back to bed, sleeping soundly.”
Poor Four-Eyes was chewing his lip now. A fat bead of sweat rolled down his shiny forehead.
“And when they finally got there… There was no door. Fined the bloke for wasting their time.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. The towhead, who’d started the tale so confidently, seemed to be scaring himself now, more with every word.
And now, he just wanted to get it over with. Swallowing his words, throat bobbing.
"After that night, strange things began to unfold on the third floor. The man from across the hall? He moved out within a month. The rest of the neighbours barely slept a wink. Some nights, they heard awful, wailing noises. Other times, deep, rattling thuds—like someone dragging heavy furniture across the floor. But seriously—who’d be doing that in a cursed flat at five in the bloody morning? And that’s when they started calling it cursed. They ripped the third-floor button out of the lift. Taped it over. Nobody dares live there anymore. If they take the stairs, they don’t linger. Some even run. Wouldn’t you?"
He let the silence stretch, tension coiling in the air, waiting for the nods.
Then, his eyes gleamed, narrowing slightly.
Only one person hadn’t nodded.
The big lad shifted awkwardly, rocking on his heels, suddenly sheepish.
"You don’t believe me, do you?"
The lad hesitated. Said nothing.
"Then keep listening. About a year ago, things got even stranger. It wasn’t just the sounds anymore. Wasn’t just the door appearing and disappearing. Something else started happening. Right here, outside the building. People started noticing… something. Some swore the wailing wasn’t only coming from inside anymore—they could hear it outside as well. And a few of them, standing right where we are now, spotted something perched on the window of the cursed flat. A bird. Not a pigeon. Not a crow. Not the kind you’d ever see in London. It had enormous yellow eyes. And it never moved. Just sat there. Like a taxidermy piece. For hours. Sometimes days. At first, no one paid much attention—it’s just a bird, right? Not bothering anyone. But then, more and more people started noticing. One day, it was gone. Then it was back. Always the same. Always motionless. And then this one bloke from the fifth floor—nosey type—decided to keep an eye on it. So he came outside. Right here. Spread out a towel on the grass, sat himself down, and just… watched. And you’ll never guess what happened next."
Everyone held their breath—and so did the towhead.
"By nightfall, a proper little crowd had gathered here on the grass. Some bright spark decided to turn it into an event—brought out drinks, got comfortable, staring like they were at a séance. And just as they started heading home, sure it had all been a waste of time—when suddenly—!"
He flung his arms wide, eyes bulging fit to pop.
"Then—just like that—the bird flared its wings, shot forward, and dove straight through the window. A closed window. Like it wasn’t even there."
The air thickened, humming with tension.
The chubby boy shrank into himself. Four-Eyes’ mouth flapped open and shut like a fish gasping on dry land. Even the big lad looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
"And that, lads, is why the window’s boarded up. Sealed off that very night—from the outside, mind you, with a ladder. Not a single soul dared to try opening it. Or, God forbid, peek inside. Lucky the curtains were drawn, eh?"
The towhead gave his greasy hair a shake, then added, almost too casually, "Not that I’d know firsthand. I live two streets over. Some old codger next door spun me the tale. Thought I’d give you lot a proper scare, for a laugh."
He let out a short, breathy chuckle.
A collective exhale followed. Some frowned, shaking their heads. Others nudged the towhead—part amused, part annoyed. Then, out of nowhere, Four-Eyes let out a laugh—a wheezy, asthmatic chortle, like a kettle reaching its boil.
That was all it took.
The whole lot of them broke into fits of cackling, giddy with leftover nerves. Emboldened now, they turned away from the cursed building. If they ever did check out that flat, well… it wasn’t happening tonight.
None of them noticed.
None of them saw the two enormous yellow eyes, unblinking, tracking their every step.
Perched deep within the oak’s dense branches, Hedwig watched.
***
A howl of cold wind wrenched him from sleep.
Harry responded with a raw, instinctive sound—his throat scraped dry, his eyes stung as if filled with sand, though he hadn't even opened them yet.
He was never one to get cold easily. But now, the chill ran deep, sinking into his bones like something alive. Blindly, he groped for the blanket, pulled it tighter around himself, curled his toes against the creeping frost.
Sleep had its ways—it clung to him, stretched the moments between waking and awareness, wrapping itself around his mind like mist. In that quiet, it was easy to surrender. To drift. To forget.
Forget the tangle of choices and consequences. Forget, even, his own name.
And so, nameless and cocooned in warmth, Harry lay still, a faint smile curving his lips. His body felt light as air, his thoughts weightless, bobbing like a feather on the surface of a dream. He might have lingered there longer, palms shielding his closed eyes—
—if not for the whisper.
"Severus…"
The name slipped from his lips before he even knew it was his own voice.
Harry jerked upright, breath hitching, eyes staring into the dark.
Sleep shattered like glass.
And in its place—awareness, hesitant and fragile, brushing against the edges of his mind.
He let it in.
A flash—blinding, sharp as a blade.
He saw himself. Hunched over, hands buried deep in his pockets, a cigarette burning between his lips.
London at night. A neon haze humming in restless waves—the crush of voices, the tide of bodies, the thick, cloying scent of cheap spirits and damp brick.
A door banged shut behind him—too heavy, too loud. Someone muttered a curse. He barely noticed. Where the hell was he? And why was it so empty?
Stale beer clung to his nostrils. The air was thick with smoke and the low murmur of men hunched over battered tables, exchanging cards—some Muggle nonsense he never quite understood.
And that one—dead drunk, head lolled back, mouth open, a puppet with its strings cut. A bomb could go off, and he’d still be snoring.
Pathetic.
No. This wasn’t right. None of it was right. He had to get out of here. This was all wrong. He wasn’t about to sit around playing the fool with a pack of strangers.
Wait.
A voice.
Sharp. Clear.
And, oh, fuck—interesting.
Bright eyes, sharp with life. Dust swirled in the dim bar light, settling over empty bottles and waxy tabletops—but she wasn’t dust.
Daisy.
That warmth of hers—too much, too real. Enough sincerity to drown the world. Enough to crack it wide open, magic and all.
Where the hell did she keep it?
Laughter.
At him.
Right. Cheers for that. Now he had to know why.
Cold steel eyes.
Had Severus always looked at him like that?
Pain—locked away, caged in the hard lines of his face. Hiding it was easy. A parlour trick. Look, Professor—watch closely. Aren’t you impressed? Just a minute. Just read me. Play along. I’ll swallow the shards of your voice, let them carve their way down my throat. Just don’t go.
Gone.
Coward.
Coward!
Something curled beneath his ribs, something bared its teeth, something burned at the corners of his eyes. Breathe. He had to breathe. He had to move.
Daisy—where was that honeyed glow in her eyes? No, she wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t let her.
Smile for her. One last time.
Hold that tiny, perfect hand.
His heart about to hammer itself free.
Run. Now. Before she remembered him. Before she ever had the chance.
Ah.
So he hadn’t left, after all. Still there. Not a ghost. Not a fevered trick of the mind. Shadows didn’t smoke. And they sure as hell didn’t smell like that.
What happened next?
Oh, fuck.
Severus happened.
Harry jerked upright—like a fist had slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs in one brutal strike.
A sharp, ragged gasp. He tore the blanket away, heart hammering, ribs seizing tight, locked in a vice of breathless panic.
His eyes—wide, frantic—raked through the dark. Searching. Straining. Too long. Too hopeless.
He caved first.
A breath, barely there—Lumos.
A frail light sputtered into existence, flickering unsteadily, as if afraid of the dark itself.
And then—
The bed. Empty.
A hollow, glacial dread spilled down his spine.
"Severus," he whispered, voice catching, as he turned wildly—wandlight shaking, dragging over shadows.
The curtains—drawn. Heavy. No stir of air. The pillow beside him—cold beneath his touch. He pressed his fingers against it, hesitating, as if some warmth might still linger there.
Nothing. Only silence.
No glasses. Gone.
A slow, gnawing dread curled tight in his chest, slithering beneath his ribs, coiling around his lungs.
His breath came shallow, lips pressing together as he exhaled through his nose, unsteady. His gaze snapped back to the heavy curtains.
They didn’t move.
Then where had the draft come from?
A rustle.
Harry’s head jerked up, every muscle locking tight. The door was open. Beyond the flickering glow of his fragile Lumos, something stirred—black fabric shifting in the dark, a hem caught mid-motion.
He recognised it. Even without his glasses. His breath hitched, chest clenching around the rush of air—
Then he moved.
Bare skin slapped against the freezing wooden floor as he flung himself from the bed, bolting into the corridor.
"Severus!"
The name tore from him, hoarse and cracked, as his feet scuffed against the splintering planks. His Lumos flickered, casting fractured shadows, warping the walls. The corridor stretched with them. Too long. Too endless.
He kept moving. Hands outstretched, fingers dragging over doorframes, groping blindly ahead as his own light tricked his eyes, bending the shapes before him.
One door. Another. Another.
He stepped inside. Reached forward—
Nothing.
Only empty spaces. Hollow, breathless voids.
Doors. Six of them.
The sixth slammed shut behind him.
A fractured sound wrenched from his throat—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. The cold lashed at him, slicing through his naked skin, down to the bone.
Harry sucked in a breath—sharp, desperate—
And ran.
He didn’t look. Didn’t think. Just ran.
Away from the hollow, lifeless rooms. Away from the endless corridor that swallowed every door behind him.
A few agonising seconds passed—seconds that stretched, twisted—
And then, far ahead, a glimmer of light.
Harry choked on a breath, legs burning, lungs screaming—he pushed forward, faster, harder. The light surged closer as he tore through the corridor in wild, frantic strides. Too bright.
He clenched his eyes shut, blinded.
"Harry?"
His body folded forward, chest heaving. His breath hitched, rasping, broken. He had never run so fast in his life.
"Harry, can you hear me?"
His head lifted—dazed, drowning in the lingering haze of fear. And there, perched on a high barstool, wrapped in the very same black robes Harry had been chasing—
Severus.
"Harry…"
The voice was gentle.
Relief crashed over him, vast and all-consuming.
"Severus—what the hell—why is it so dark in here? Why are all the rooms empty?"
Harry’s voice was a ragged echo in the silence, breath short, uneven. He forced himself to inhale, to slow the frantic beat of his pulse.
"I was scared shitless—what kind of place have you dragged yourself into?" He let out a nervous, half-breathless laugh. "Christ, even Grimmauld Place feels like a luxury suite compared to this."
He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through the relief.
"And you… why did you leave?"
A strange feeling crawled over his skin, creeping, cold.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Heat flooded his face as the realisation crashed into him—he was naked.
His limbs moved before he could think—awkward, scrambling—his bare skin met the worn wood of the stool as he all but threw himself onto it, legs snapping shut. He swallowed, biting down on his lip.
"Uh—sorry. About… this."
Silence.
Harry frowned.
Severus wasn’t answering.
Wasn’t reacting.
Something thick and suffocating pressed at the edges of his mind.
He swallowed, throat suddenly tight.
He blinked.
And for the briefest moment—
A lurch.
Like there was nothing beneath him.
Like the world had just—dropped.
"Severus…"
"What?"
"You don’t have a face."
A slow, exasperated sigh.
"What absolute nonsense, Potter."
A creeping chill traced the length of Harry’s spine. He shivered but didn’t move.
His eyes stayed fixed on the figure before him—tall, still, draped in endless folds of black.
And yet the black wasn’t still. The robes—deep, bottomless—were shifting without weight, flowing like something liquid.
Like something alive.
Like wings poised mid-flight.
"I’m not an idiot, Severus." Harry’s voice came quiet, flat. "I’m looking at you. But I can’t see you."
A pause.
"Is that so."
"What time is it?"
"I don’t know."
Harry pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing slow circles, then let his gaze drop lower.
He stared from beneath his lashes—at that blank stretch of skin, smooth and taut, where a face should be.
His own voice sounded distant, strangely dull.
"Why can’t I see your face?"
His stomach dropped.
Severus laughed.
Soft. Unbothered.
"Because, Potter," he murmured, "your eyes are closed."
***
"Ha—ah!"
A fever-bright gleam. Blown-wide pupils devouring the colour of his irises.
Harry’s eyes flew open, wild and frantic, breath tearing from his lungs in ragged gasps.
A low, lingering laugh echoed through his skull, curling at the edges of thought.
Heat—everywhere. Molten, rushing, flooding through his veins.
"Easy. Easy. I’m here. I’m with you."
"Severus!" Harry rasped, hands shooting out, grabbing at the face above him, barely stopping himself from lurching upright.
Dark strands of hair fell across his vision—he swept them aside, traced the sharp line of a jaw, skimmed his fingertips over parted lips—strangely pink.
Since when had they been soft like that?
He pinched the narrow bridge of a nose—let out a breath of laughter when it scrunched up in protest.
Real. Warm.
Of course he had a face.
And those eyes—not just eyes. Abyssal voids. Endless. Depthless.
"A dream," Harry murmured absently, lost somewhere in them.
His hands lingered, palms pressing, testing, shaping—pulling at lean cheeks, smoothing them down again, like a child shaping clay with restless fingers.
Severus, solid beneath his touch—not clay, not pliant, not meant to be shaped—twitched slightly at the pull of his skin, but didn’t stop him.
Why pull away when there was a better way to stop him?
A whisper of warmth against his forehead—soft as the flicker of a candle.
Harry froze, fingers digging into sharp cheekbones.
Severus had never done this before—
He hadn’t known Severus could.
"You haven’t slept?"
The words slipped out, hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Can a gaze hold you like a touch?
Harry wasn’t sure.
But beyond the worry dissolving in that gaze, in that presence, something flickered—something…
"I slept. For a while."
The voice was quiet. Steady.
"Until I heard you calling me."
Harry forgot how to breathe.
His fingers slowly loosened their grip as Severus lowered himself down, closer—skin to skin—long, dark strands spilling around them like a curtain, shutting out the world.
A pale hand slid beneath the damp nape of his neck—warm, warm, warm.
It was there to pull him closer.
"Tell me what you dreamed of," Severus murmured, his nose tracing idle, invisible patterns against Harry’s throat.
Harry parted his lips, then swallowed hard, breath hitching.
His lashes burned. He let them fall shut, let himself exhale, let a slow, helpless smile curl at the corners of his lips.
Every time that hand ran through his hair, a tiny sun ignited in his chest.
"I don’t want to. It’s stupid," he whispered.
And then, simply—
He hugged Severus.
"You’ll tell me," came the response, laced with amusement. "And we’ll decide just how stupid it really was, won’t we?"
Harry flinched.
We
We
We
His throat tightened.
"I warned you," he muttered, small, almost childlike. "So if it’s awful, it’s your fault, not mine."
A familiar snort. A quick, ragged breath.
Harry clutched at the sound.
"It was…" He hesitated. "It was a dream where I woke up."
And he talked.
Slowly, carefully.
And though the things he spoke of were awful, terrible, twisting—his lips still curled in treacherous, fleeting smiles, and laughter flickered in his voice, because Severus’s nose kept grazing his skin, teasing, tickling.
He wouldn’t even have noticed when words ran out—when the story reached its end—if Severus hadn’t suddenly let out a quiet chuckle, his lips brushing against Harry’s temple.
"See?" he murmured. "Not such a terrible dream after all. And hardly stupid."
There was a pause.
"After all, a man without a face is just—"
Severus stopped.
His breath hitched.
Because Harry had pulled back just a little—just enough to look at him.
Big, green eyes.
"Severus…"
A pause.
"I think I—"
"I know."
A whisper.
"I do too."
For a long moment, they simply studied each other. Perhaps the moment ended when the first timid ray of dawn peeked over Severus’s shoulder.
"I take it you have no intention of sleeping?" Severus inquired suddenly, lifting a brow in a manner so distinctly his.
Before answering, Harry kissed that very brow. Then he nodded.
"In that case," Snape murmured, catching his lips before they could stray further, "get dressed. We have work to do."
***
That morning, she wasn’t walking to work—she was soaring.
Her thick, springy curls bounced with every hurried step, and the hem of her breezy summer dress lifted in playful, fleeting waves, teasing glimpses of her soft, creamy thighs.
Passersby—men with places to be, important things to do—found themselves pausing mid-stride, necks craning, their destinations momentarily forgotten.
In the restless, churning hive of the city, her beaming smile split through the morning like a sunbeam through storm clouds—impossible to miss.
Daisy felt light. Buoyant. Full.
Because clutched to her chest was a whole box of real tea—Earl Grey, jasmine green, pu-erh, oolong, and… well, it wasn’t as if anyone was guaranteed to come in looking for them.
But that didn’t matter.
She just couldn’t wait to set them all out, line them up, let them take their rightful place.
Humming under her breath, she hoisted the box higher, wedged it against her hip, fumbled for the key—twisted it hastily in the lock without so much as glancing—
And the moment she stepped inside, reaching blindly for the light switch—
The box slipped.
It hit the floor with a soft, scattered thud.
Her honeyed eyes blinked—round, wide, doll-like—trying to catch up with what they were seeing.
Through the towering, crystal-clear windows, sunlight poured in, warm and golden, filling every corner of the space.
It danced across the chandeliers in playful glimmers, skimming over the polished wooden floor, sliding up smooth walls in liquid ribbons of light.
Two dozen grand oak tables stood in neat, measured rows, each surrounded by chairs of exquisite craftsmanship—elegant, yet inviting.
From somewhere behind the long, pristine bar, a cash register gleamed—gleamed so new, it almost looked smug.
Daisy could’ve sworn it winked.
She blinked back, dazed, bending to gather the fallen box, her jaw practically on the floor.
With a breathless little huff, she dragged it over to the counter—then hurried to the door, just to be sure.
Stepping outside, she tipped her head back, pressing a hand to her unsteady heart.
Above her, swaying gently in the morning breeze, hung the sign:
Paradise found.
She might have stayed there forever, staring up at it, fingers trembling at her chest, blinking away the glimmer in her eyes—
If not for the voice behind her.
A voice she knew.
"Morning, Daisy. I was thinking… you wouldn’t happen to have any tea, would you?"
A pause.
"For two."
She turned sharply, breath catching, gaze darting between the two figures before her.
"Green…" she whispered, eyes locking onto the pale face in front of her.
The young man frowned slightly, casting a questioning look at his companion.
And the other—expression unreadable, a slow, deliberate nod of his sharp chin—smirked.