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Chapter Text

From the heights of a London high-rise, the bustling square below resembled a sprawling, multicoloured anthill. The ants—Londoners, to be precise—never stopped moving. Each was rushing somewhere, for some unfathomable reason, and the sight of it all made him lick at his dry lips, cracked from too many smirks. The city lights shimmered playfully in the rounded panes, misted over with the evening drizzle, as if extending an invitation. And the temptation was so alluring that refusing it might well be a crime.

No one heard the soft pop as a small figure materialised out of thin air onto the damp pavement. A moment later, the grey silhouette dissolved into the crowd, its owner falling seamlessly into step with the dozens of polished shoes surrounding him. One might have wondered what was so gratifying about the act—after all, the young man was grinning with an almost indecent delight—but there was no one to ask. No one here had ever known his name. Certainly, no one had held a Friday edition of the Daily Prophet in their hands.

A moving photograph on the front page captured the unlikely image of the vanquisher of Voldemort, beaming with uncharacteristic joy, while a furious red-haired girl—youngest of the Weasley brood—stood beside him, her expression livid. Bold, oversized lettering screamed the scandalous headline:

BREAKING: THE BOY WHO DEFEATED THE DARK LORD… DIVORCES!

The young man slowed his pace, much to the irritation of those still hurrying purposefully around him. His green eyes darted playfully over the few particular "ants" who had chosen to pause for a breather.

There it was!

Harry Potter let out a triumphant whistle. Across the street, loitering near the entrance of some forgotten, godforsaken pub, stood a slouched, middle-aged man. His attire was respectable enough, but the comically ill-fitting top hat did little to flatter his hunched frame. In his sinewy hands gleamed the object of Potter’s interest—a pack of premium tobacco.

One might have admired the man’s composure when, quite suddenly—as if by magic!—one of the cigarettes lifted itself from the packet and sailed away into the night. He merely furrowed his thick brows, shook his head, blinked thrice as if clearing his vision, and then carried on down the street. On the move, he tucked the pack into the pocket of his long coat, evidently reconsidering his intent to smoke.

With a sweeping, jesting gait, Potter crossed the road—not at a proper crossing, but at a spot outrageously close to one. An ageing car let out a furious honk, its brakes screeching in protest. In response, the young man flung up his hands in exaggerated penitence, spun theatrically on his heel, cast a pointed glance at the zebra crossing mere feet away, and smacked his palm against his forehead. The pantomime was convincing. The driver’s expression shifted—marginally less enraged now, so Harry deemed it safe to step onto the pavement.

A grin tugged at his lips as he tilted his head back, squinting at the peeling sign above the very pub where he had just pulled his little stunt.

"Lost Paradise"

"Lost indeed," Harry muttered, pushing the heavy door shut behind him.

The pub’s interior was every bit as unpleasant as its exterior had promised. Compared to this place, The Leaky Cauldron might as well have been a high-society establishment. Here, the air reeked of cheap liquor, smouldering cigarette butts, and the unmistakable stench of someone’s digestive misfortune. The sparse furnishings—scuffed wooden tables and chairs, some even missing a leg—coupled with dim lighting gave the place the feel of a dungeon. Only, instead of torches, the soot-darkened walls were lined with trembling oil lamps.

Two grotesquely oversized chandeliers dangled from the tattered ceiling, swaying listlessly—as if perplexed by their own existence. Listless, because they didn’t work. Their shattered glass casings, meant to protect the fragile filaments, seemed instead to be scheming how best to drop shards onto Harry’s head. On another night, he might have found the notion amusing.

Tonight, however, he was busy scanning the room—impatient for the next act in his improvised entertainment programme.

The patrons—rather inconveniently—were few.

Two gentlemen, tipsy but not yet drowned, played cards over pints of beer. An already far-gone, bloated fellow had sprawled himself over an old ale cask near the wall, humming tunelessly between sporadic, uncoordinated claps. And finally, a fourth figure—somber, nondescript—had claimed a solitary spot in the furthest corner, their back turned to the room.

Harry bit down on his cigarette and let out a disgruntled sigh—only to be interrupted by a hoarse, almost masculine voice from behind.

"Oi, lad! You ordering, or just here for the scenery? You can gawk from outside, y’know."

Harry turned toward the source of the alcohol-roughened rasp and brightened. How had he missed the most vital element of the whole composition?

"Madam, you wound me!" he declared, bowing grandly to the pub’s landlady.

She was a well-built, full-bosomed woman, diligently wiping down a succession of greasy glasses, her expression one of distinct displeasure. As Harry hopped onto a barstool, she shoved a glass ashtray across the long, sticky counter, sending it skidding noisily to a stop right in front of him.

"How very kind," Harry murmured, nodding graciously.

He fished a handful of loose change from his pockets.

"I'll have a pint—something dark, perhaps?"

"Ain’t got dark," she huffed, as though personally offended by the very suggestion.

"Then whatever you have."

Truth be told, it hardly mattered. His thirst gnawed at him, and summoning a drink with Aguamenti under these circumstances would have been downright rude.

His gaze followed the amber liquid as it sloshed into the glass, catching the dim light in lazy glints. Taking a deep, satisfied drag from his cigarette, Harry watched as the pint landed before him. He grabbed it instantly and downed it in one go.

The landlady’s expression softened. She smirked knowingly and tilted the half-empty bottle in her hand with a lazy flick of the wrist.

"Another?"

"You read my mind," Harry shot back, grinning as he mirrored her smirk.

Finishing off another round, he stubbed out his cigarette and reached for a third—though with noticeably less enthusiasm.

That was when an earth-shattering snore tore through the pub, so sudden and thunderous that Harry nearly cricked his neck whipping around to witness the awakening of the drunken lump in the corner.

The scene was almost theatrical. It seemed the man had startled himself awake, jerking so violently that the barrel beneath his considerable backside gave a precarious wobble. But the old drunk was nothing if not experienced; he caught his balance with practiced ease, slumping back against the grimy wall with all the dignity of a man who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art. A shame, really, that he drifted off again before he could witness Harry raising his pint in a mock salute.

"Oi, what’s your name?" came the landlady’s voice, drawing his attention back.

She had finished polishing glasses and now leaned against the counter, arms folded—her rather generous cleavage put proudly on display.

"Harold," Harry lied smoothly, nudging his pint away. His thirst had been satisfied.

"And what’s a fine young man like you doing here alone, Harold?"

Harry met her gaze—large, honey-coloured eyes, softened by the faintest creases at the corners. Genuine curiosity lined her face.

"And what’s your name, ma’am?"

"Daisy. Just Daisy," she replied, waving away the formality.

"Tell me, Daisy—are you married?"

It was a rude question, and he knew it.

But Daisy merely clicked her tongue, let out a deep sigh, and propped her plump chin on one hand.

"Lost my husband last year. Heavy drinker, the bastard," she muttered, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret too bitter to be spoken aloud.

"Drank himself to death in the end. The kids tried helping—got him into rehab and everything. Didn’t do a damn thing. Kept a bottle stashed under his pillow even in the clinic."

A pause.

"Bloody disgrace."

"I’m so sorry," Harry murmured.

"Oh, don’t be," Daisy snorted, shaking her head. "Not like he was much of a loss. If life couldn’t teach him a lesson, maybe his bloody coffin will."

Her laugh was hoarse—utterly devoid of mercy.

Harry felt an odd urge to ask what had made her so cynical.

Instead, he said, "I’m alone, too. Always have been."

Daisy’s brows shot up.

"No! A handsome lad like you—no sweetheart to speak of?" She leaned over the counter with an exaggerated creak of protest from the wood, giving him a once-over. "Have you seen your own eyes? Bright green, playful, looking straight into your soul even through those glasses. And that hair—thick, wild, black as midnight. And the scars, well—those only make a man more attractive."

Her gaze settled meaningfully on the lightning bolt at his forehead.

"My husband, now—no matter how many times I walloped the sod, he never had a single scar to show for it. So don’t go feeding me that nonsense, love!"

"I’m not making things up!" Harry protested, sounding rather offended. "I don’t have a fiancée."

"Not even a tiny one?"

"Not even a tiny one."

Daisy fell silent, drumming her nails against the countertop as she watched the last of the tipsy gentlemen stumble their way out.

Straightening up, she turned back to Harry with unexpected seriousness.

"Well, never mind, Harold. If you haven’t met true love yet, it just means the time wasn’t right. Fate has a way of sorting these things out."

The words struck a chord.

Propping himself up on his palms, Harry leaned forward on the barstool, something sparking in his widened eyes.

"Fate, you say?" His voice was edged with genuine intrigue. "Daisy, I don’t believe in fate."

"What do you mean, you don’t believe?"

"Just that. People have a tendency to blame fate for everything—every strange coincidence, every little twist of luck. But the truth is, they’re just afraid. They can’t bear the thought that there’s no such thing as fate at all."

Daisy huffed, brows furrowing.

"What a load of nonsense."

Her expression shifted—from warm concern to open displeasure—which only amused Harry further. He decided to fan the flames.

"Tell me something, Daisy… Suppose that in exactly twenty seconds, that little green bottle over there—" he gestured lazily to the shelf behind her"—were to fall to the floor, but not break. Would you call that a coincidence?"

"Things like that don’t just happen," she said, with the air of someone pitying his ignorance. Then, after a brief pause, she added, "And even if it did fall, it would definitely shatter."

Harry shrugged, took a slow sip of his beer, and regarded Daisy from beneath his lashes. Then, shifting his gaze to the dusty wall shelf, he began counting in his head.

Three seconds.

Two.

One…

"Ah!"

The sharp crash of glass rang through the room, making Daisy jump and spin around.

Her mouth fell open. A hand clutched at her chest, as if steadying her racing heart.

And there it was.

Resting proudly on the scuffed wooden floor, just inches from the lace hem of her skirt, sat the very same green bottle. Completely intact. Upright, no less.

Harry cursed himself under his breath. Unbelievable. Honest people queued for hours in stuffy theatres for illusions like this, and here he was—pulling off cheap parlour tricks with wandless magic.

As poor Daisy struggled to make sense of it, Harry cast a quick glance around the pub, ensuring there were no unintended witnesses to his little display of impropriety.

"But how—how did it… fall?" she stammered, pointing at the bottle in bewilderment.

Her eyes darted wildly between the floor and Harry, as though searching for a logical explanation.

"It fell! And it didn’t break!" she exclaimed, so loudly that the snoring drunk let out a particularly violent snort in his sleep.

For a few fleeting seconds, Harry watched as Daisy clutched at her head in sheer bewilderment.

But to him, time had stopped altogether.

He suddenly found himself thinking that the rasp in her voice had a peculiar sort of charm. That in her round, flushed face—rosy from either drink or shock—there was something ineffably delicate, almost celestial. The dark honey of her wide, childlike eyes shimmered with pure, unguarded wonder, and for the briefest moment, Harry was seized by the desperate urge to define it.

Catching himself, he raised a hand in a quick, feigned cough, masking the telltale twitch at the corner of his lips from that trusting gaze.

Sincerity. That’s what it was.

"Harold, did you see that?" Daisy pleaded.

Harry gave another exaggerated cough and fixed her with the most solemn look he could muster.

"I saw it," he nodded gravely. "Like magic, wasn’t it?"

Daisy shook her head with such fervour it seemed she’d already forgotten he was the one who had predicted the whole thing.

"No, no, no! Mag—" she began in an excited squeak, but then caught herself.

Straightening her shoulders, she lifted a finger in the manner of a schoolmistress.

"You’re a grown man, Harold. Magic is for fairy tales. And fairy tales—" she said with utmost conviction "—are for children. This—" she bent down, picked up the troublesome bottle, and wagged it reproachfully in his face "—this was an astonishing, an absolutely extraordinary coincidence, my dear boy!"

It took all of Harry’s self-restraint not to burst out laughing.

But he was too deep into his role now.

Seizing the moment, he leaned dramatically over the counter and clasped her hands in his own.

"You’re right, Daisy! Absolutely right! No such thing as magic—who’d have thought? Just a coincidence, pure and simple!" he declared with exaggerated enthusiasm, nodding so fervently he might have been a novelty toy on a dashboard.

Daisy beamed, patting his hand before exhaling with satisfaction.

Somewhere, a quiet chuckle broke the air.

Harry heard it—or at least, he thought he did.

Daisy, however, seemed oblivious. She had already turned away, busying herself with the dishes as if nothing had happened.

Harry frowned, casting a glance over his shoulder.

The pub was nearly empty now. And the only possible source of that laughter was the same shadowy, unremarkable figure seated in the farthest corner.

"Daisy, have you got a cigarette?" he asked over his shoulder, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the dark silhouette.

"Eh?" Daisy called back, the clatter of plates not ceasing.

"I said, do you smoke?" he repeated, louder this time.

"Oh… No, Harold, I don’t," she replied absently.

Harry had somehow known she didn’t.

His eyes remained fixed on the straight-backed figure cloaked in black, as though willing a hole to burn through the fabric.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly what had so thoroughly ensnared his attention.

Perhaps, he mused, he had every right to take offence at that peculiar little chuckle.

The thought was enough to set him in motion. He slid off his stool, stalking toward the stranger with a slow, predatory gait.

Harry came to a halt just behind the man’s chair, wetting his lips in anticipation before leaning in—far too close—to murmur, smooth as silk, into his ear:

"Would you care to share what you found so amusing?"

His pulse quickened as he took in the long strands of black hair obscuring the man’s profile. From an outsider’s perspective, he must have looked utterly deranged.

He held his breath, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he waited.

A reaction. That was what he wanted.

Surprise. Alarm. Irritation. Fury. Aggression—anything. It was a craving, a lifeline, as vital as air to the drowning, as an oasis to the parched.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

And yet, the figure before him remained unnervingly still.

Then, as though moving in slow motion, the man turned to face him—calm, deliberate.

That face.

Harry barely had time to process it before a familiar voice cut through the space between them, smooth as black velvet.

"For Merlin’s sake, Potter, keep your distance. You reek of alcohol and substandard tobacco."

The sound hit Harry like a slap.

But years of practice weren’t wasted—he needed only a fraction of a second to smother the flicker of reaction beneath a well-worn mask.

A slow, wicked grin curled at his lips as he met that impenetrable black gaze.

"Professor Snape!" Harry exclaimed theatrically, throwing up his hands. "What an unexpected delight!"

Clearly, Professor Snape did not share in the sentiment.

His stare—sharp as a scalpel—dissected.

Harry, undeterred, seized the chair opposite, dragging it toward him with no ceremony. He dropped into it, crossed one leg over the other, and sprawled like he owned the place.

Snape folded his hands atop the table and leaned forward just a fraction, his head tilting to one side. A few strands of ink-dark hair fell over the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

"Potter." A greeting, barely. Something faintly resembling a nod. "Taking up acting, are we?"

Harry leaned back, rocking idly against the wooden chair.

There was an ease to his posture, a deliberate nonchalance.

He did not shy away from Snape’s scrutiny.

On the contrary, he studied him—boldly, brazenly. His gaze drifted, lingering unapologetically on the arch of a sardonic brow, the distinct hook of his nose, and the finely shaped lips, curled into their signature sneer.

Snape had hardly changed.

Perhaps the shadows beneath his eyes had deepened. The crease between his brows was more pronounced.

"You haven’t changed," Harry mused, nodding toward the teacup idling at the table’s edge. "Interesting choice of venue for an evening of civilised tea-drinking."

"The same, however, cannot be said for you," Snape countered smoothly. "One might suspect the heroic burden of saving humanity has done you no favours—wandering about Muggle taverns after dark. The price of fame, is it not?" He stretched the words out, rich with exquisite derision.

Just like old times.

"We’re not at school anymore, Professor Snape," Harry said, deliberately emphasising the title. "No points to deduct. No detentions to assign."

Not a single muscle twitched on his face. He simply kept studying the smirking man before him.

"Perish the thought, Potter. Hogwarts rules never quite applied to our resident celebrity, did they?"

"Touché," Harry ignored the barb with an easy shrug.

And then—the silence.

It stretched on—seconds, a minute, perhaps three or more, he couldn’t tell.

Two pairs of eyes locked in unwavering scrutiny, searching for answers to unspoken questions. A conversation passed between them, one that required no words, a silent dialogue that only they could understand.

Harry was the first to break from it, drawn back by a glimpse of movement behind the bar. Daisy stood frozen, watching them with wary curiosity.

He finally looked away, narrowed his eyes, and lifted a hand in greeting.

His grin was so wide it nearly split his face, flashing his teeth in an exaggerated, almost blinding display.

Daisy brightened, forming an exaggeratedly round 'okay' sign with her fingers in return.

But the silence at the table had thickened, the air growing heavier with each unspoken thought.

"So, how have you been, Professor?" Harry asked casually, settling back in his seat.

"Nothing to complain about, Potter," Snape said dryly.

Long fingers idly traced the rim of a half-empty glass. "My life suits me perfectly well."

"And what exactly didn’t suit you about Hogwarts?"

Snape scoffed, a quiet, pointed sound.

He took a deliberate sip of his long-cold tea, lingering with the cup near his face, nearly burying himself in it.

Yet even with the porcelain barrier, Potter’s stare bled through—relentless, watchful, prying.

Irritating.

"I suppose you imagined my fate was to waste away in servitude, trapped among drooling imbeciles who couldn't tell asphodel from daisies," Snape drawled. "A charming thought. Unlike you, however, I lack masochistic tendencies."

He grimaced slightly, then cut sharper, colder—

"I reached my limit, Potter."

"And the relocation?" Harry’s voice remained smooth, melodic. "Was that just as necessary?"

Something sharp, dangerous, flickered behind Snape’s eyes.

"You ask too many questions," he murmured, fingers tightening around the cup. His face tensed, drawn taut for the briefest second, before smoothing out—his lips twitching in something resembling amusement.

"Just don’t pretend," he went on, voice rich with sarcasm, "that you actually care who’ll be assigning detentions to you and Weasley’s future offspring."

"So you don’t read The Daily Prophet anymore, Professor?"

Harry was baiting him.

He knew it.

He was skating on thin ice, testing the limits of how far he could push.

And, strangely, Snape was indulging him.

How far could he go?

"And should I?" Snape’s tone was cutting. "Potter, there are far more pressing matters in this world than Quidditch league tables or, Merlin forbid, a subscription to that wretched tabloid. Believe me, the fevered delusions of Rita Skeeter are of absolutely no concern to me."

If he was lying, he did so masterfully.

There was nothing to call him out on—no tells, no cracks.

And yet, given that their conversation with Daisy had undoubtedly been overheard, Snape could hardly have missed the obvious.

Let's put that to the test, shall we?

"In that case, you must be unaware that I got divorced?"

Snape’s brows shot upwards.

"Really, Potter, I hardly expected to be regaled with such salacious details of the Golden Boy’s private affairs. I suppose I ought to offer my sincerest condolences, but I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong person for that."

His voice was sharp enough to carve glass.

"Oh, perish the thought," Harry drawled, rolling his eyes theatrically. "I wouldn’t dream of inflicting such a burden upon you. My point was—there is no offspring. Nor will there ever be."

There it was.

Snape went completely still.

His spine went rigid, wound tight as a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

"Fascinating," his voice honed to a razor’s edge. "Just how much effort does it take to rattle the unshakable Harry Potter?"

Harry’s breath hitched.

His own name, spoken in Snape’s voice, landed like a curse.

Like pulling a trigger.

"Ironically enough, quite the opposite happened," Harry admitted, shaking his head with mock exasperation.

His voice dropped, smoothing into something silkier as he leaned in over the table.

"Imagine this—I called Ginny by the wrong name in bed."

A flicker of a glance downward.

He could swear that Snape’s fingers—tight around his cup—had gone even paler than usual.

"I see," Snape said flatly.

"Your name, Professor," Harry murmured, low and deliberate.

Glass shattered.

Snape, pale as death, yanked his bleeding hand from the shards and sprang to his feet, his long coat billowing behind him.

A sharp ringing filled Harry’s ears, piercing and relentless.

Somewhere in the distance, a woman shouted.

The man in the top hat. The absurd little dance at the crossing. The drunk on the barrel. The bottle. The fright, then the relief in those warm brown eyes—

None of it mattered anymore.

Nothing—except the tremor in those fingers, fumbling over buttons.

Harry tilted his head back, watching through heavy-lidded eyes. Every movement. Every crimson bead welling up on torn skin.

He let out a bitter chuckle.

He knew exactly why Snape wasn’t looking at him.

Why he couldn’t allow himself to look.

Because it wasn’t just the cup that had shattered. Snape’s mask had gone with it.

"Ah. Running again."

No response.

Snape turned away in silence.

"Like a rat abandoning a sinking ship."

He could have Disapparated in an instant. And yet, he didn’t.

He just stood there.

Still. Soundless.

A chair scraped against the floor. Rising to his feet, Harry closed the distance between them.

Snape wasn’t much taller, Harry noted absently, as their clothes almost brushed.

"Like you fled from Hogwarts," he murmured.

Warm breath ghosted over the back of Snape’s neck.

"Like you ran from the Order ceremony. From your own home, in the end."

There was no going back now.

Harry had crossed the line long ago—gone as far as it was humanly possible to go.

And yet, Snape’s silence only goaded him further.

He rested his chin on Snape’s shoulder, lips curling into a dark smile.

Slowly, almost weightlessly, he dragged his nose along the rigid line of Snape’s throat, breathing him in—

That scent—intoxicating.

"What were you running from?" he whispered, lips barely moving. "From my letters? Or from yourself?"

He grinned at the sharp, unsteady exhale that brushed his ear.

"I saw the Pensieve, you know. You want me."

You have no idea what you’re saying, Potter," Snape finally rasped, his voice low and strained.

Even now, even cornered, he still clung to control.

The thought was maddening.

Harry only scoffed.

"Oh, but I do. After all, you gave me those memories yourself."

"I never intended—"

"—to live?" Harry supplied.

And nearly stumbled back as Snape spun on him—

Like a hawk striking its prey.

"What fucking life?!" Snape snarled, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders. "Tell me—what life, Potter?!" he spat, giving him a violent shake.

His black eyes burned with rage, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched.

"You should have let me die, you idiot! Die and be rid of this curse! But, as always, you just had to ruin everything!"

Now it was Harry’s turn to fall silent.

Snape’s face was livid with rage, his skin flushed a deep, dangerous red.

And Harry—God, Harry—would have given anything, anything at all, to press his parched lips to the fever-hot veins pulsing at his temples.

His ears thundered, his skull rattled like a drum beneath an unrelenting hammer.

It took him mere seconds to realise what that sound was.

His own heartbeat.

A fire flickered to life in Harry’s eyes—a mirror of the one raging before him.

He drank in the venomous precision of those pale lips, the sharp flicker of lashes trembling with anger.

His mouth twisted into the manic grin of a St Mungo’s lost cause.

Snape was still speaking—his words a low, furious torrent—but Harry barely heard them.

Or perhaps he’d gone deaf entirely.

It stretched on.

Forever.

Or longer.

Until dark spots unfurled in his vision.

Dust, damp, the suffocating staleness of the Shrieking Shack.

A sharp crack of Apparition—then nothing.

A silence so deep it hollowed out his chest.

Within it—just barely—a half-strangled rasp.

A door creaked open, its sound slicing through the hush.

Tentative footsteps.

A small, terrified gasp—Hermione’s voice.

A body—motionless, crumpled.

Collapsed against the freezing wooden floor, blood seeping into the grain.

A head lolling limply, strands of hair sticky and matted.

The wound on his throat—a gaping, unspeakable wreckage.

Screaming red against ghostly white.

Harry was on his knees before he even realised he'd fallen.

Before he felt the sting of torn skin meeting rough floorboards.

Before he could think, he was pressing his hand to the wound—

Trying to hold it in. Trying to shut out the horror sinking its claws into his gut.

Because nothing—nothing—had ever chilled him to the bone like the wet gleam of black eyes, locked on his in pure, pleading desperation.

He had never seen them look like that before.

"Take them..." The words barely more than a breath.

Harry choked on his own breath.

A trembling hand rose from beneath a cuff—once white, now drenched, soaked through with blood.

It reached out.

Undefined, uncertain.

And then—

Tears.

Slipping, spilling, streaking down waxen cheeks.

Harry forgot to breathe entirely.

"Please," chapped lips begged.

The nightmare shattered—

Ripped apart by the jarring force of reality as the real Snape—alive, alive, alive!—wrenched away from him.

Harry jolted back to the present, breath snagging in his throat.

His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps as he stared, dazed, at the dark silhouette retreating into the shadows.

Running.

His vision blurred.

"Coward," he whispered.

The sharp echo of retreating footsteps slammed into him—kindling something raw. Something feral.

"You pathetic coward!" he roared.

"Depulso."

The reply came without hesitation.

The last thing Harry saw before he was thrown backwards was a blinding flash of light.

Raw, crackling magic tore through the air—hurling Harry into the wall.

His body crumpled, knees buckling. A sharp hiss of pain escaped through clenched teeth.

A shriek tore through the air—high, panicked, deafening.

The drunken howl of a man toppling from his barrel.

Hundreds of jagged shards—shattered oil lamps cascading down like glass rain.

The cacophony hammered against his skull, white-hot and piercing—

Yet, somehow, it grounded him.

Slowly, the world came back into focus.

Snape was gone.

Reparo," Harry breathed, fingers adjusting the bent frame of his glasses—the only thing miraculously still perched on his nose.

The spiderweb cracks in the lenses smoothed out at once.

And as he looked up, Daisy was running towards him, her face twisted in frantic concern.

Harry couldn’t help but smile.

Weary. Lopsided. But real.

The worry in her eyes was so raw it propelled him upright—clutching at the wooden leg of a table, groaning as he did—just to steady himself before she could reach him.

"Harold! What in God’s name—what the bloody hell just happened?!" Daisy shrieked, throwing her hands up. "I only turned my back for a second—just one second—and then you were screaming, and then—"

Her eyes widened, horror-stricken.

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as if afraid to name what she had just seen—like a fish floundering on dry land.

"Easy, love, easy now. It’s fine—" Harry murmured, trying to catch his breath as he took a step toward her.

"Fine?! You call this fine?!" Daisy gasped. "Stay right there—don’t move! Are you mad, boy?" She seized him by the forearms, frowning in fierce disapproval. "You need an ambulance. And then the police—"

"No ambulance!" Harry interrupted sharply, flashing her a meaningful glance as he gestured downward. "Look, Daisy—see? Not a scratch. Come on now, let’s sit down—come on."

He slipped an arm through hers, guiding her away with gentle insistence.

He barely listened as she mumbled about unholy spirits and "that nosy devil," her voice carrying a mix of disbelief and fear.

As they made their way back, Harry’s eyes landed on the same man—the one who had toppled over just moments ago. Now, he lay sprawled on the floor, snoring in blissful ignorance.

Harry let out a breathless laugh. And envied him.

That effortless, oblivious slumber.

He eased Daisy onto a barstool.

"This is how it always goes for me, Harold. Always."

Her voice barely broke past her lips.

When Harry met her gaze, the warmth in her brown eyes had dimmed.

"Useless. That’s what I am, Harold. A failure. Everything I touch—falls apart."

She gestured vaguely at the empty room, her lips twisting into a bitter little smirk.

The rasp of her bitter chuckle coiled tight in his chest.

Harry braced his hands on the bar, leaning in slightly as he studied her—

The flush in her cheeks. The delicate lattice of fine lines around her mouth. The scatter of freckles, the odd constellation of moles. The faintest dusting of ginger fuzz above her lip.

He memorised them—every last detail.

"Back when he was still alive…"

Her voice cracked, and she coughed into her chubby fist before pressing on.

"This place was all he cared about. Not just the drinking—no, he wasn’t just here to drink. He came in an hour before opening, every single day. Kept this place immaculate. Dusted, swept, polished every bloody surface he could get his hands on—like he had a damn motor in his bones."

This time, her laugh was barely more than a breath.

"You get what I’m saying, Harold?"

She laid a hand over his wrist, squeezing gently.

Keeping him there, as if afraid he might disappear.

A quiet plea lingered in her eyes.

"I do, love," Harry murmured, voice quiet, steady. "Of course I do."

His fingers traced the roughness of her skin, a quiet gesture of comfort.

"And then he was gone."

Daisy’s voice rasped, breaking on the words.

"If I’d only known what he got himself into for this bloody pub."

She sucked in a sharp breath, blinking hard.

"I was a fool. A stupid, stupid fool. He died, and the debts—"

Her mouth twisted, shoulders rising in a sharp, painful shrug.

"The debts were mine."

She gave a hollow little laugh, swiping at her face before the tears could claim her.

"I tried. God above, I tried. But it’s been a year, and I’m still drowning in it. Every last penny goes to paying them off. And my kids—I can’t ask them, Harold. I just can’t. They’ve got their own lives, their own worries. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could fix everything, but now—"

She waved a hand again, gesturing to the ruined, empty pub.

"Look around, Harold. Tell me—who in their right mind would want to set foot in this place?"

Harry jerked forward, as though hit by a sudden jolt of electricity.

Daisy gasped, startled—

And then—his hands were on her face.

"I do, Daisy!" The words burst out, raw and desperate. He gripped her flushed cheeks. "I do—do you hear me? I do!"

Her mouth parted in stunned silence, lips trembling.

Tears clung to her lashes, shimmering like pearls.

She was frozen, wide-eyed.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"Don’t blame yourself. Don’t you dare," he murmured, wiping away the damp trails on her cheeks, his touch impossibly gentle—

As though she were something rare, something precious.

"You’ll be alright. Trust me, Daisy—will you? I knew, didn’t I?"

His lips quirked into a soft, breathless laugh.

"I knew your little bottle would fall… and not break."

Daisy trembled beneath his touch.

"B-but how could you have known, Harold?" she whispered, her eyes impossibly wide, impossibly honest.

Something in them stole the breath from his lungs.

He pulled back.

Slowly. Carefully.

His fingers twitched.

He reached into his pocket.

His hand closed around his wand.

He swallowed hard, his throat constricting.

Turning away from her, from those eyes that saw too much—

From himself.

And then—he spoke.

"Obliviate."

A voice not his own—foreign. Hollow. Stripped of warmth.

Harry stood there.

Motionless.

Staring blankly at the battered bar, at the scratched tabletops, the crooked chair legs.

Listening to the hush of the ruined bar.

Seconds passed.

Or maybe a lifetime.

Until—

"Oi, lad! You ordering, or just here for the scenery? You can gawk from outside, y’know."

Chapter Text

For a fleeting moment, Harry’s face twisted in pain. He let out a sharp, rattling breath, his weakening fingers pressing against his temples. With slow, deliberate movements, he massaged them, eyes squeezed shut, willing away the inexplicable wave of melancholy that had gripped him.

The air hung thick and stale, pressing against his lungs with a suffocating weight. And then came the thought—sudden, irrational, yet utterly convincing. If he lingered here even a moment longer, the walls around him would stir to life. They would shudder, shedding their peeling paint like a snake sloughing its skin, and close in—crushing him like an insect beneath their weight.

The absurdity of it almost made him smile.

Just enough to be convincing.

Turning to the landlady, his gaze flickered over her ample frame, distant, unseeing, as though she weren’t even there. His voice, low and detached, barely stirred the stagnant air.

"Apologies, ma’am. My mistake."

And then he was gone, tearing for the door, not once looking back.

Anyone who has spent time swimming—whether often or only once in a while—would know the feeling. That first desperate gasp when a swimmer, submerged too long, finally breaks the surface. And even if one hadn’t, it was easy to imagine—the way starving lungs seize upon oxygen the second they are allowed.

That was exactly how Harry Potter inhaled the night air as he stumbled outside.

Doubling over, hands braced against his knees, he dragged in deep, greedy lungfuls of damp, cool air—like a drowning man finally reaching shore. But with it came something else.

Something cold.

Something slithering deep in his solar plexus, slick tendrils creeping upward, coiling tight around his heart.

That uneasy sensation—the kind that whispers: You’ve left something behind.

Something important.

Harry let out a low, mirthless chuckle, shoulders trembling with the force of it.

Whatever it was…

The devil alone knew.

And, as if summoned by thought, the devil appeared.

A quiet huff sounded behind him.

"Welcome to Hell," the devil should have said.

Instead, he merely leaned against the damp stone wall. Silent.

Just to be sure, Harry blinked.

To confirm this wasn’t some fevered delusion, some cruel trick of shifting shadows cast by the lonely streetlamp.

But no.

It was Snape.

Still there.

Still watching.

Straightening, Harry squinted against the flickering light before stepping into the waiting embrace of darkness.

He had to admit—he had little strength left for theatrics. That sharp, mocking smile? It would have to wait. Perhaps he ought to feign surprise—after all, Snape, for reasons unknown, had yet to leave. But even that felt beyond him.

Snape wasn’t looking at him, of course.

Not that Harry particularly minded.

The only coherent thought in his head was how much he wanted a cigarette.

And then—though surely he hadn’t spoken aloud?—a pale hand slipped from the depths of a long black coat.

A flicker of silver.

Long fingers drumming against a sleek case.

Harry let out a dry chuckle, noting the dried blood on those fingers, but held his tongue.

The hawk, engraved into smooth metal, gave a single elegant flap of its wings as the case clicked open.

Harry watched the cigarette being drawn from it like a man awaiting execution watches the blade descend.

He didn’t know which to envy more—the cigarette, snug between those thin, unsmiling lips, or the lips themselves.

And then—though Snape curled his mouth in distaste—he did something unthinkably generous.

Without so much as a glance, he held out another cigarette.

Harry snatched it.

As though afraid Snape might change his mind.

Turning it between his fingers, he eyed it with vague skepticism. What were the odds it was poisoned?

His lips twitched.

No—if Snape had ever wanted him dead, he would have done it with his bare hands.

"Not like that!"

Harry caught himself the moment Snape’s wand twitched upward.

Oddly, no cutting remark followed.

Instead, Snape simply watched as Harry stepped closer.

Cigarette clamped between his teeth, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers searching. Somewhere in the folds of fabric was the lighter—liberated, once upon a time, from an oblivious Muggle.

There.

It took three stubborn flicks before the sparks finally caught.

Shielding the flame with his fingers, he leaned in.

He never noticed the damp strand of his hair brush against Snape’s nose. And he certainly never noticed that Snape was looking at him.

Like this.

This was how a cigarette was meant to be lit, Harry thought, taking the first deep inhale.

Why? Who the hell knew. But lighting it with a wand? An insult to decency itself.

If it were up to him, every idiot who dared desecrate the ritual with a lazy flick of a wand would be sent straight to Azkaban.

Lost in this deeply profound revelation, Harry let his eyes drift shut, exhaling the first drag in a long, slow stream.

And fuck. It was good. Indecently good.

A faint, bittersweet taste—like chocolate.

His spine met the cool stone behind him, and when the next lungful of smoke hit, his knees nearly buckled.

Because that’s what happens when you inhale really good tobacco.

His boot scraped over the wet pavement as he slid lower, sinking into a crouch. What he must have looked like from the outside, he neither knew nor cared.

He smoked like that—slow, reverent—like the act itself held some deep, sacred meaning only he could understand.

And if he could—if only he could—he’d stop time entirely. Stretch the moment into eternity.

Harry had almost—almost—forgotten the other presence beside him.

And then—

Something shifted.

It was so slight, so strange, that it made him pause mid-inhale.

His breath hitched, pupils dilating.

A sensation. Soft. Subtle. But there.

A gentle press against the edges of his mind—

As if someone were testing the lock on a door.

The shield snapped into place before Harry had even thought about it. Seamless. Effortless. Like second nature.

Like he had spent the past five years practicing Occlumency every single day.

The truth, of course, was that this was the first intrusion he’d felt since Voldemort had crumbled to nothing but ash and bone.

And, oddly enough, Harry realized—

He’d missed this.

The thrill of it.

The game.

His gaze flicked up, tracking the other man’s face—searching, searching—

And there.

There it was.

Something sharp, something bright, something unspoken.

A silent challenge. A dare.

A slow grin curled at the edges of Harry’s mouth.

Lazily, deliberately—taunting—he tipped his head back.

He took another drag, exhaling the smoke in a slow, languid sigh.

And let the devil in.

***

“M-Mr. Potter, y-you must understand, this case is… q-quite extraordinary. Such a rare poison—”

“The only one who must do anything here, Mr. Feare, is you.”

Potter’s voice was a low, measured snarl, his words drawn out through clenched teeth. He loomed over the trembling man—an immovable slab of ice.

His stare alone—mad, nightmarish—was enough to bury Feare six feet under.

Such was the sheer, unbridled fury behind it.

“O-of course, M-Mr. Potter, w-we will do everything in our p-power!” Feare stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of sheer terror.

A loud crack split the air.

Harry’s fist collided with the wall.

Feare jerked violently, a pathetic shudder running through his frame.

Harry tilted his head, slow and deliberate, eyes dark with warning.

“Oh no, Mr. Feare.”

He stepped in, closer—far too close.

“You won’t ‘try.’ You will do it.”

His breath ghosted over Feare’s ear, a velvety whisper, low and lethal.

“You do know that Voldemort is gone, don’t you?”

The name alone sent Feare recoiling, a strangled squeak escaping his throat as he pressed himself flush against the wall, as though willing himself to disappear into it.

“More than that,” Harry continued, and his voice—that voice—was a slow, curling heat against Feare’s skin. “There are no words in the English language to fully express the sheer pleasure—the unimaginable pleasure—I took in ending him.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

“I wanted him to suffer,” Harry murmured. “I wanted him to suffer so badly, Mr. Feare, that when he died—”

His lips curled into a grotesque imitation of a smile.

“—I was almost disappointed.”

His fingers twitched, hovering just over Feare’s throat.

“So hear me out.”

His touch was featherlight, unbearable in its gentleness.

“If anything happens to Professor Snape—”

His fingers trailed lower, brushing over the thudding pulse.

“If, because of you, even a single hair falls from his head—”

A slow exhale. A heartbeat, measured.

“I will kill you.”

No hesitation. No theatrics.

Just cold, undeniable truth.

“And I won’t need a wand to do it.”

His hand shifted, fingertips resting right there—where the pulse hammered frantically against thin skin.

“I’ll use these very hands—” the pads of his fingers pressed just slightly, just enough to make Feare’s breath stutter—“and wrap them around your delicate little throat.”

A whisper now, soft as silk.

“Right here, where the vein throbs so prettily.”

The slightest pressure. A mere suggestion of what could be.

“And I will squeeze.”

Another pause. A long, excruciating one.

“Slowly.”

Feare bolted.

His footsteps pounded down the corridor, frantic, desperate, tripping over themselves in his sheer terror.

And the moment he vanished from sight—

Harry’s smile vanished just as quickly.

Like it had never been there at all.

His legs felt like lead.

Each step dragged, the weight of his body an unbearable burden. He stumbled down the dimly lit passage, drawn forward by the only door left ajar—the one spilling a faint, pulsing light through the crack.

Inside—

A body.

Still. Motionless.

Harry froze at the threshold. His breath hitched, his chest tight. The weight pressing down on him suddenly became too much, and he braced himself against the bedside frame, bent over, as if trying to hold himself together.

His numb gaze lifted—

Drawn to the ghostly projection hovering in the air.

Translucent. Flickering. Soft. Steady.

A muted glow of pulsing green. A rhythm. Weak. But still a rhythm.

Yes.

That was the sound of Severus Snape’s heart. Beating.

His throat locked.

He forced himself to look down.

The sight crushed him.

A thick cocoon of bandages—stained deep with blood—wrapped tight around a throat where no living skin remained.

Lashes—fragile, nearly transparent.

Brows, drawn together, even in unconsciousness—etched deep with pain.

Harry sucked in a breath—

And broke.

A ragged sob tore from his throat—

Then another.

And another.

They ripped through him, clawing their way out of his chest, raw and merciless—until he was choking on them, until his entire body shook with the force of them.

His hands—fingers curled, clutching at his own ribs—shook. His breath hitched. A shallow, broken thing.

He doubled over, forehead nearly colliding with the mattress.

The weight of it all—this room, this sight, this moment—

Crushing.

His fists pressed hard against his mouth, a desperate effort to choke it back—to stop. But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

And so—

Harry sank to his knees.

And wept.

***

The air was thick, unmoving.

With a sharp flick of his wand, Harry wrenched the window open—but even the night breeze did nothing to ease the suffocating weight in his chest.

He slumped into the armchair, boneless, graceless, like a sack of potatoes dumped onto the floor.

His teeth toyed with his lower lip, fingers idly rolling a dried-up quill between them—a thoughtless motion, something to keep his hands from curling into fists.

On the desk, the inkwell sat untouched. A single sheet of parchment lay beside it, abandoned. Waiting.

For what, exactly, Harry couldn’t say.

Out of pity for them, or perhaps some sudden surge of frustration, he hunched forward and began to write.

Minutes passed in the same relentless cycle—a flurry of scribbles, a pause, a sharp stroke of his quill scratching them out. Muttered curses. A shake of his head.

And then—

A voice.

Unwelcome. Grating. Slipping under the door like a cold draft.

"Harry! I made dinner. Come eat in the kitchen."

Had that voice ever been pleasant to him?

His breath hissed out through his teeth. Sharp. Irritated.

For a second, he simply sat there, jaw tight, fingers white-knuckled around the quill—until he forced himself to exhale.

One. Two. Three.

By ten, he had just enough restraint to answer:

"I'm not hungry, Gin. Eat without me."

For a moment, silence stretched between them—brief, almost hopeful.

The door swung open without so much as a knock.

Harry shot up from his chair, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. His faded eyes reflected nothing but exhaustion.

He hated when people entered without knocking.

He hated Weasley.

"Harry," Ginny chided, arms crossing as she frowned. "You've been locked in here for five hours. And you haven’t eaten all day—" her gaze flicked toward the clock, "—not a single bite! You can’t keep doing this to yourself. When will you finally understand—"

She knew, of course. She always had.

Harry forced himself to look at her, to actually focus.

"And you, Gin? Will you ever understand?"

Ginny had a habit of pretending not to.

Whenever he said something she didn't want to hear, she'd do the same thing—avert her eyes, tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear, fidget with something meaningless. She played the fool astonishingly well.

Her debut performance had been the day of their engagement.

Harry had kissed the corner of her forced, smiling mouth—nothing more.

Later that evening, when the noise had died down, when they were finally alone, he'd told her:

"I don’t love you, Ginny. Not even a little."

And she had laughed.

Not a hollow, bitter laugh. Not the kind that betrays pain or disbelief.

No—bright. Crystalline. So perfectly, unbearably convincing.

Now, she opened her mouth, as if to answer.

Then—she didn’t.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Her gaze dropped.

A flick of fingers—tucking her hair behind her ear.

Perfect. By the book.

The door clicked shut. Soft. Inevitable.

And something inside Harry clicked with it.

He flinched—as if slapped.

Slowly, he leaned forward. His fingers closed around the inkwell, turning it over—as though seeing it for the first time.

Then—a sharp inhale. A blur of movement.

Crack.

The impact split through the silence, ink splattering against the doorframe in thick, dark rivulets.

Harry watched, drinking in the sight with a grim, unnerving satisfaction.

Until—

A rustle. Beneath him.

His gaze snapped downward.

A scowl twisted his lips.

The parchment had slipped from the desk, now blemished with a spreading black stain.

With a sudden, forceful motion, Harry snatched it up, smoothing it out with trembling fingers. 

Severus

Professor Snape,

I couldn’t find peace —I’ve been re-evaluating everything since seeing your memories. I’m a complete idiot. I should have figured it out myself. I am endlessly ashamed of what you had to endure. Every morning, it gets harder to peel myself off that bloody bed. Everything feels meaningless. Dead. 

I ran from St Mungo’s, afraid to see you wake up. Afraid to hear what you would say—because, of course, you would have had plenty to say to me. I panicked, like some Hufflepuff first-year, and by the time I finally managed to collect my thoughts, you were already gone.  

I went to Hogwarts, but Professor McGonagall informed me that you had resigned of your own accord. I truly hoped to see you at the ceremony. Honestly, I didn’t even want to go, but I forced myself, just for the chance to see you.  

Professor, please, I need to see you.  

Let me come. I won’t take much of your time. I promise. Just half an hour. If you can spare it.  

We have to There’s so much we need to discuss.

Harry

P.S. You should know that I, too…

The text cut off abruptly.

"No, no, no..."

Cursing under his breath, he began pacing—circling the room in frantic, restless loops. Choked, whimpering noises—like the pathetic whine of a beaten dog—forced their way up his throat.

Then, suddenly—

Laughter.

Of course.

He could see it now—Snape’s face, that sharp, unamused sneer, the inevitable eye-roll—if he ever read this rubbish. No—if he even bothered to read it at all.

What the hell was he thinking?

Since when had Snape ever given a damn about the pathetic wreck inside his head?

"What a bloody idiot!"

Harry groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he smacked himself on the forehead. He collapsed into the chair, holding his breath, forcing himself to read those last few lines one final time.

A minute later—with measured precision—he began to tear the ink-stained parchment apart. First into large chunks. Then smaller. Then smaller still.

As if he meant to grind it down to dust.

Back and forth, back and forth, he rocked—like a broken wind-up toy.

And he tore.

And tore.

And tore.

Muttering all the while, over and over, a breathless, fevered mantra:

"Idiot, idiot, idiot..."

***

Bad idea, Potter. A catastrophically bad idea.

Harry barely registered what was happening—too busy wishing the floor would swallow him whole. Or better yet, that he could smash his own head against something solid and end this misery himself. He was already halfway there, pressing clammy palms to a marble column, his forehead meeting the cool stone in repeated, frustrated thuds.

How the hell was he supposed to know that the International Potions Congress meant forty speakers, three hundred attendees, and a stifling, overcrowded hellscape?

And then there were the masterclass halls—boiling cauldrons belching out noxious fumes, the air thick enough to choke on. He’d spent the better part of an hour squeezing his way through a jungle of self-important golden lapels, pinching his nose against the stench, barely managing to stay upright in the sweltering heat. After trudging through at least a dozen of these damn workshops, he had a sinking suspicion that the final ingredient in one of them might just end up being the contents of his own stomach.

Not that it could possibly smell any worse.

But still. Best not to take any chances.

This couldn’t go on.

Had he known it would be this suffocatingly hot and packed to the rafters, he would have picked someone thinner. His borrowed frock coat was one wrong move away from bursting at the seams, and sweat was trickling uncomfortably down his back, pooling beneath the stiff collar of his robes.

Bloody Brown.

"Merlin, I can’t take this," he groaned, half under his breath.

Three straight hours in this inferno of potioneers, and with every agonising minute, his faith in the plan bled out a little more.

Peering cautiously from behind the column, he swept his gaze over the riot of gaudy ceremonial robes, searching for—no, sod it, he couldn’t even see the bloody exit past that sea of preening peacocks.

With a final, resigned thud of his forehead against the stone, he blew out a sharp breath and waded into the throng.

Sod it. He’d find a way through.

No idea where he’d end up, but anywhere was better than roasting alive in that corridor of boiling cauldrons and airborne toxins.

He pushed forward, at least two hundred feet, muttering apologies whenever his broad shoulders clipped some skeletal gentleman—then ducking his head and picking up the pace before anyone could take it as an invitation to chat.

By the time he reached the end of his personal pilgrimage, his glasses were well and truly fogged from the stifling heat—but at last, at long last, he caught a glimpse of salvation.

A spark of childish triumph flared in his chest.

Grinning, he stretched out a hand—like some weary pilgrim reaching for the light—and took a bold step forward.

And immediately planted his foot on the hem of someone’s robes.

And went down like a felled tree.

If this were some ridiculous Muggle cartoon, he’d probably be seeing little golden stars orbiting his head right about now.

Instead, his forehead cracked against the filthy tiled floor, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.

Flat on his stomach, dazed and wheezing, Harry deeply regretted that he hadn’t managed to knock himself unconscious first.

Then—right above his ear—a voice.

"Charlie, I imagine the prospect of being Levitated does not appeal to you. However, I assure you, lifting you manually is quite out of the question. Kindly spare yourself the indignity and get up."

That voice.

It struck Harry like a hex between the eyes.

Pain, nausea from the potion fumes, even the last remnants of self-preservation—all of it vanished in an instant.

He shot to his feet as if yanked by an invisible string, only dimly registering the sting in his scraped palms.

"Pr—Professor Snape?"

The words barely made it past his lips.

He staggered back, spine meeting the nearest wall, heart hammering, breath coming in uneven gasps.

Across from him, Snape arched a sardonic brow, his lips curving into something dangerously close to amusement.

Harry blinked.

Bloody hell.

He hadn’t actually expected to find Snape here. Hadn’t even dared to hope. And yet—there he was. In the flesh.

And all it had taken was three hours of breathing in toxic fumes and nearly twisting his ankle.

But there was no mistaking it. This was Snape.

Draped, as ever, in his signature black robes—a stark contrast against the riot of jewel-toned fabrics swirling around him.

The nightmare of Hogwarts’ corridors, whose mere silhouette could send any student scurrying for cover, mistaking him—quite justifiably—for a Dementor.

Former Death Eater. Order spy.

And, Merlin’s bloody beard—gorgeous.

How long had it been since Harry had seen those eyes?

Despite every effort to compose himself, watching that pale, sharp-boned face draw closer only made it harder to breathe.

And judging by the flicker of amusement in Snape’s expression—he knew it.

Of course he did.

"Tsk, tsk… Just how hard did you hit your head, Charlie?" Snape drawled, shaking his head in mock reproach. "I distinctly recall requesting, during our last meeting, that you address me by name."

Harry frowned, momentarily thrown.

Last meeting?

But then Snape stepped closer—so close now that Harry could feel the presence of him, the ghost of fabric shifting with the movement—

And suddenly, he remembered himself.

Right. Right!

With almost comical urgency, he jerked forward, hands outstretched in some absurdly eager gesture.

"Of course, of course, Prof—Severus," he blurted.

The sound of it—Snape’s name, spoken aloud, by him—sent a violent jolt through Harry’s stomach.

Think, Harry, think! You prepared for this! So why are you standing here like a complete idiot?

"Your latest paper," he blurted, "was absolutely brilliant! Honestly, I’d never in a million years have thought to modify Polyjuice with Boltrush Feathers—who would’ve guessed? A groundbreaking discovery, really—"

His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip.

"Severus," he added, deliberately.

And nearly collapsed on the spot.

Snape moved without hesitation, fingers closing around his wrist—firm, steady.

The touch sent a static jolt through Harry’s body, lighting up every nerve like a struck match.

His breath caught, his lashes fluttering shut.

"Does it hurt?" Snape murmured, gaze sweeping over the raw scrape on Harry’s palm, dark lashes casting shadows over his unreadable expression.

For once, Harry was grateful for his lack of self-control—because at least his reaction could be mistaken for pain.

Still, this—whatever this was—had gone on too long.

Snape wasn’t letting go.

If anything, he was lingering.

The brush of fingertips over broken skin—light as breath, light as thought—made Harry bite down hard on his lip.

"It’s nothing," he said quickly, turning his face away. "Just a scratch."

Snape made a quiet, skeptical noise.

"Hold still, Charlie," Snape murmured, smirking as he raised his wand.

"Just let this be over soon," Harry thought, watching as the wounds sealed themselves, feeling the phantom heat where Snape’s fingers had been.

Let this never end.

"There," Snape murmured, satisfied, lowering his wand.

Harry swallowed hard.

"Th-thank you, Severus," he managed, shoving his hands deep into his robe pockets.

And then—before he could stop himself, before he could think—he blurted out the single most idiotic question imaginable.

"What are you doing here?"

A mistake. A colossal mistake.

One brow arched. Then the other.

"Charlie," Snape said, his tone bordering on concern, "you’re beginning to worry me."

Then, with a low, indulgent chuckle—

"What else does one do in a lavatory, if not answer the call of nature?"

He gestured, ever so pointedly, toward the two gentlemen vanishing behind the door of the men's restroom.

Idiot.

You absolute, unmitigated idiot.

No. That's it. Enough.

Harry had already regretted coming here a thousand times over. This was unbearable. Two weeks of rehearsing. Two weeks of memorizing someone else’s mannerisms, drowning in potions textbooks—

For what?

For this?

The words echoed again in his skull, laced with that soft, almost teasing inflection:

"I distinctly recall requesting, during our last meeting, that you address me by name."

Charlie Brown.

The man whose curls Harry had thrown into his Polyjuice potion.

The man Snape had smiled at like that.

Who was he to Snape?

Was he someone special?

Was there something between them?

A sick, curling heat twisted low in Harry’s stomach.

He wavered, hand flying to his mouth.

"Yes, well… I—"

His voice sounded wrong. Flat. Hollow.

Harry clenched his jaw, schooling his expression into something that might pass for composure.

"The air in here… it’s stifling. My apologies," he muttered, forcing his gaze elsewhere.

And then, quieter—

"Severus."

He pivoted sharply on his heel, eager to put distance between them—

To escape before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

But he had barely rounded the corner when—

"Charlie?"

Snape’s voice.

Harry froze.

His fists curled tight around the fabric of his robes.

Slowly, carefully, he turned back.

Snape was no longer smiling.

In fact—

For just a fraction of a second, Harry could have sworn—

That in those dark, fathomless eyes, something flickered.

Something strange.

Something unreadable. Unsettling.

Something that sent a quiet, crawling chill down his spine.

"...Yes, Severus?"

A beat of silence.

Then—

"I didn’t know you wore glasses."

***

There’s a certain type of person—one particularly attuned to the world’s countless little imperfections.

Not a perfectionist, exactly. No, they’re quite willing to accept that flaws exist, that things shouldn’t always be pristine. In fact, they might even appreciate a well-placed imperfection.

But what does get under their skin—what gnaws at them, inexorably—is the absence of awareness.

Like when someone—or worse, several someones—is walking straight toward them on a narrow sidewalk and doesn’t so much as consider stepping aside.

Not out of malice. Not even out of entitlement.

Simply because it never occurs to them.

That’s what rankles.

Not the act itself, but the thoughtlessness. The sheer, unthinking disregard.

Because, really—what’s the point of human consciousness if it doesn’t even extend to something as basic as not being an inconsiderate prat?

Society tends to call them misanthropes.

But that’s not quite right.

They don’t hate people. In theory, they can tolerate flaws just fine.

What does infuriate them is when things refuse to align with their personal sense of order. When the world operates without the most basic logic.

And for whatever reason, they see no problem setting themselves apart—elevating themselves just a little above the masses.

Harry Potter was not one of those people.

That said, there were certain things he simply could not stand.

Ginny Weasley’s perfume, for one. That sickly, suffocating sweetness that clung to everything, inescapable within the walls of this house.

Or the endless bottles and tubes cluttering the bathroom shelves—toppling like dominos with the slightest wrong move, when all he’d bloody wanted was his razor.

Or how he always ended up crouched on the cold tile, swearing under his breath, painstakingly picking them up by hand—because really, who the hell takes their wand into the bathroom?

Harry avoided it whenever he could.

Because eating with Ginny Weasley was unbearable.

It wasn’t that she chewed with her mouth open—no, of course not. She followed etiquette perfectly. But the sound. The soft, rhythmic press of her teeth against her food. The faint, sticky-slick smacking as her molars sank into a piece of meat.

It made his skin crawl.

And now—

Now, as he lay in bed, thinking about all of this—

He had to bite his lip to keep from exhaling in a sharp, irritated hiss.

Ginny kept shifting. Tossing. Turning.

Restless. Twitchy.

And though at least three feet separated them, the constant rustling was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Then, suddenly—

She curled up against his back.

And her hand—warm, searching—slid over his arm.

Harry imagined strangling her.

"Stop it, Gin." His voice was flat.

Ginny never did.

"Harry, listen…" she whispered, pressing closer, her lips ghosting over the nape of his neck. "Let’s try something tonight."

A slow inhale. A long, simmering pause. And then—

"I will never," he murmured, each word cutting like a blade, "want to try anything with you."

He tore his arm free.

Behind him—

A dramatic sigh.

Ginny finally withdrew her hand. But she didn’t move away.

"I know, Harry."

Her voice was too calm. Far too calm.

And though he couldn’t see her face, he knew she was smiling.

"I know you don’t love me," Ginny said simply.

Her tone was matter-of-fact. Unbothered. And that—more than anything—unsettled him.

"But I really, really want to make you feel good," she purred. "Truly, I do. You don’t even have to do anything, love. Nothing at all. I’ll take care of everything."

Her lips brushed his shoulder. Her fingers skimmed his arm.

"And if it makes you less—"

She exhaled—a soft, teasing breath against his skin.

"Uncomfortable."

A whisper now.

"Then we could always… blindfold you."

Not at wandpoint.

Not under the strongest Veritaserum.

Not under any circumstance could Harry have explained—why.

Or how.

Or what the fuck he was thinking.

But something about that voice—that careful, deliberate softness—

Made his pulse spike.

Made his body tense.

And he didn’t know why.

He barely registered the way his head nodded. Barely realized that the quiet, barely-there Alright had slipped from his lips. But it had. And that was all Weasley needed.

When the cool silk slipped over his eyes, Harry turned his head—instinctively, uselessly—as if that could somehow save him from the awful realization of what she was about to do.

A strange, unfamiliar vulnerability crept beneath his skin, making the warmth of small, wandering hands feel like a violation. Irritating. No less suffocating than that bloody perfume.

Harry grimaced.

Her hair spilled across his stomach. Not the pleasant kind of ticklish—nothing light, nothing playful.

It was torture.

Like every strand carried tiny, biting needles—sharp, cloyingly sweet, inescapable.

His lips curled in something bitter when her fingers skimmed over his unresponsive cock. And in that moment, a single thought pierced through the static in his skull—

End this. Stop this madness. Right now.

Because no matter what she did, it wasn’t going to happen.

Not now. Not ever.

He wasn’t going to get hard.

Pathetic.

And yet—his throat locked. The words wouldn’t come. His mouth opened. His hand twitched upward—hesitant, aimless—

What was he trying to do? Shove her away?

And why—why had he frozen when her fingers disappeared?

The realization struck him cold.

He was waiting.

As if something else might happen.

Something that would drown out the revulsion.

Please, let me be wrong.  

Let me be wrong.  

Let me—

"Ha-ah!"

Fuck.

Fuck.

He had been right.

His own breath betrayed him—ragged, uneven, loud in the silence.

And then—Weasley’s mouth. Hot. Wet. Relentless.

No hesitation. No teasing.

No slow, careful descent.

She just took him.

And for a few miserable seconds—

Nothing.

Nothing but shame.

Harry crushed his palm over his mouth, forcing himself back against the pillows. But then—

It happened.

His body responded—instinctive, automatic, beyond his control.

Not gently. Not carefully. Certainly not by choice.

She wasn’t delicate, nor was she slow or hesitant. There was no teasing, no careful buildup. She swallowed him down with desperate, unthinking force—like breath was an afterthought, like she had no intention of stopping.

Harry jerked, his hips snapping forward, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat. A sharp gasp tore from him, his entire body seizing as a shockwave of sensation crashed over him.

His eyes flew open.

Not that he could see. Not that he needed to.

Because in his mind—clear as day—he saw it.

Not the red. Not Weasley. Not her. No.

Black.

Black hair, spilling over his stomach, brushing against his skin. And this time—it felt right. This time, he wanted to touch it.

To bury his fingers in it.

To pull. To hold.

To breathe in—not the suffocating sweetness of flowers, but something deeper, sharper. Herbs. Smoke.

His lungs expanded.

For the first time all night, he wanted to breathe.

And when the choked, half-strangled gasp spilled from parted lips, torn from the force of his desperate, instinctive thrust—

It wasn’t hers.

It didn’t belong to a woman.

In his mind, it belonged to a man.

Not just any man—of course not.

Harry was thinking of Snape.

Sharp, blinding images crashed through his mind like an unrelenting storm, scattering the last remnants of reason.

Harry sprawled out, shameless, his legs falling open as his fingers abandoned their place over his mouth—only to find a better purpose.

They sank into soft strands, fisting, tugging hard—dragging down—as Harry arched, hips snapping forward in wild, desperate thrusts.

He wanted this. Needed this.

Wanted it to last forever.

But the pressure coiled low in his gut, unbearable, surging too fast for him to hold it back.

And still, he couldn’t stop.

Not even when ragged, choking gasps sputtered from below.

Not even when frantic hands thumped against his stomach—pushing, pressing—

"Mister Potter."

A voice.

Rich. Smooth. Sinful.

Liquid gold, melting through his mind.

It stole everything. His thoughts, his breath, his very own name.

It took everything. His thoughts, his breath, his very sense of self.

Because Potter—what the fuck was Potter, anyway?

There was only one name. A name no Obliviate could erase.

And then—he shattered.

Pleasure crashed over him, brutal, all-consuming. His back arched in a perfect bow, fingers locking tight, knuckles white—forcing that head down, crushing it closer, until his entire body convulsed, shaking apart with the force of it.

A raw, guttural groan ripped from his throat.

"Severus—!"

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He was off the bed in an instant, as if burned alive.

The blindfold was torn away, his breath ragged, unsteady.

Somewhere in the dark—his glasses.

He didn’t dare search for them. Didn’t dare look.

Because if he did—if he fucking did—

He’d see it.

Disgust.

Horror.

Or worse.

Both.

A second later, his shaking fingers seized his boxers, fumbling them on with legs so unsteady he nearly collapsed.

And then—he ran. Through the dark. Through the suffocating silence.

Out. Out.

Anywhere but here. Anywhere but facing what he’d just done.

The door slammed shut with a sharp crack.

But Harry didn’t stop. Not until he reached the bathroom. Not until he wrenched the handle so hard the hinges rattled—

And locked himself inside.

His hands clutched the cold ceramic of the sink, gripping it like a lifeline. His chest heaved. His lungs burned. His breath—too loud, too ragged, too fucking wrong. His pulse pounded in his ears, thick and sick with dread.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his forehead against the mirror.

What the fuck was that?

Him. And Weasley.

How had he let it happen?

A wave of nausea coiled in his gut.

Finally—slowly—he lifted his head.

Even without his glasses. Even in the blur.

He could feel it.

The disgust. Radiating from his own reflection.

Never—never had he hated himself more.

It seeped into his skin, spreading like rot. Like sickness.

Like filth.

"Filth," he rasped.

The word tore up his throat, raw and desperate.

"Filth—"

His hand shot out, yanking open the mirrored cabinet. Glass bottles tumbled, shattering in the sink.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t even flinch.

Where the fuck was the soap?

"I hate this."

The words wrenched from his lips, barely more than a whimper, jagged and broken.

The faucet screeched as he twisted it open. Water burst forth—freezing, punishing, brutal. His hands plunged beneath it, fingers scrubbing, rubbing, pressing—

Soap.

Rinse.

Repeat.

It wasn’t enough.

Even after a dozen times, his hands still felt filthy.

Of course, he would shower. He had to. But first—first, he had to get rid of this.

This fucking filth.

His arms trembled. His breath came in ragged bursts.

And then—his body gave in.

Harry slumped forward, folding over the sink.

His forehead pressed against his frozen, soap-slicked knuckles—digging in, gripping, clawing at the porcelain as if trying to hold himself together. His eyes squeezed shut.

And he shuddered.

Not from the cold.

Not from exhaustion.

But from the raw, bitter laughter that broke free—

Tearing through the cramped, suffocating space, swallowed whole by the relentless rush of water.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t see how the devil left his mind—he felt it. A sudden, powerful surge of energy, hurling his consciousness into a deep abyss. The darkness was both hollowing and enveloping at once, and the head that had felt twice as heavy only moments before now seemed light, almost weightless. Harry’s skull thudded limply against the stone. Forcing his eyelids open, he suddenly remembered that here, outside this blasted London pub, his glasses were still perched on his nose. The world around him snapped back into focus: that same solitary streetlamp—blinking inexplicably a few times—the empty pavement separating him from an equally deserted roadway. As though the bustling anthill of an hour ago had never been here at all.

And with that renewed clarity came the heat—his forehead still burned relentlessly. Then, it seemed to Harry, as though nature itself, sated with his bitterness, had granted him a small miracle: several big, heavy raindrops fell onto his face. He longed so desperately for that cool relief that, without hesitation, he tipped his head back and stuck out his tongue, revelling in the August rain like a child delighting in Christmas snow.

Harry stayed that way, crouched, arms dangling over his knees, letting the merciful elements wash over his face. He wasn’t smoking anymore—the charred cigarette butt had slipped from his fingers ages ago—but even without it, there was something equally calming, something almost meditative about this moment. The rain sluiced over him, as though cleansing him—an act of gentle reward meant to rid him of the horror he had just been forced to relive.

‘Charlie Brown…’ came an unfamiliar, broken voice, and Harry suddenly realised it was the first time he’d heard it since stepping outside.

He turned his head, gaze drawn to the figure speaking. Beneath an open coat, a chest rose and fell, the thin cotton shirt clinging darkly where the rain had soaked through. Fingers splayed against the wall, nails scraping at the stone. The once-impeccable posture was gone: shoulders hunched, chin tucked low, dark strands of hair plastered across a face… a face half-concealed by damp locks.

And this was Professor Snape?

“Charlie Brown—a graduate of Ilvermorny. You are, of course, aware that there is a School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in North America,” came the monotone voice, regaining its steadiness with each word. Harry caught no trace of mockery. “Two years ago, he successfully defended a dissertation whose bibliography drew heavily on my research. He is now a professor of Advanced Potion-Making and, ironically enough, the Head of Horned Serpent House.” As if returning to himself, Snape pushed off the wall and stood straighter, buttoning his coat.

Harry hesitated for a heartbeat, then looked up at the man in genuine bafflement. His lips twitched into a nervous smile.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked warily. Then he frowned. “What do I care what your Charlie Brown is up to?”

He couldn’t make sense of it. After Snape had invaded his memories, Harry had braced himself for anything—or so he’d thought. He’d expected Snape to Disapparate on the spot, perhaps after firing off one of those trademark withering glares. Or maybe to hurl another curse at him, something nastier than a mere Depulso—something that would leave him unconscious for hours. The very last thing he’d expected was a pointless monologue about Charlie bloody Brown.

Then, with a sharp shake of his head, Snape sent a few heavy, rain-drenched strands of hair flying, finally revealing his face.

And that was no comfort, either.

The black eyes—flat and unreadable. The elegantly arched brows, unwavering. The thin, tightly pressed lips.

The sheer, unnerving calm of it all.

Like the deadly silence before a sto—

“Potter, may a manticore tear you limb from limb!”

Snape moved like a flash of lightning. One second, he was standing by the wall. The next—he had seized Harry by the collar, yanking him up so abruptly that Harry barely found his footing.

“Are you an incurable idiot, or is this just an elaborate act?”

For a split second—pure reflex—Harry nearly shot back, “Both, actually,” but he swallowed the words the moment he saw the murderous glint in Snape’s eyes.

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re on about,” he said instead, surprised at how quiet his voice sounded. Perhaps it was drowned out by the rumble of a passing car.

Or maybe—maybe it was the single raindrop that had just fallen, rolling slowly down Snape’s pale throat.

Harry watched it, mesmerised, as it slid lower.

Lower.

Until it vanished beneath his collar.

A treacherous thought, sudden and uninvited, whispered that he wanted to catch it with his lips. Too late.

The drop was gone.

And Snape—

Snape yanked him closer.

Close enough that if anyone happened to pass by, they’d get the wrong idea.

Or maybe—Harry thought dizzily—the right one.

“Apparently,” Snape hissed, nostrils flaring, “you imagine my patience is limitless. That I must keep repeating myself, hammering the same facts into that thick head of yours until, by some miracle, they actually stick.”

Harry, guessing the question was rhetorical, kept his mouth shut.

"Do you know why I refuse to do that?"

He suspected Snape wasn’t really waiting for an answer. But when Harry stayed silent, simply blinking in confusion, Snape’s expression contorted into something even more cutting.

“Because,” he sneered, “to ward off intellectual atrophy, there exists an entire world of inventions—truly brilliant inventions.”

Harry frowned.

That, apparently, was the final straw.

“Cuckoo clocks, for instance!” Snape barked. “They’ll quite happily screech at you thrice at noon—so you’ll have no excuse to forget!”

But a cuckoo isn’t supposed to chime three times, Harry mused absently. Fortunately, some feeble instinct for self-preservation made him keep that observation to himself. Nor did he dare imagine Snape as the cuckoo—

—which was just as well, because he would undoubtedly have burst out laughing.

And that would have been the end of him.

At the precise moment when the absurdity of their exchange seemed to peak and Harry genuinely began to fear for his life, something flickered out in those black eyes. Snape stepped back.

“Charlie Brown,” he said for the third time, “has been following me at conferences much like the one you so fortuitously attended.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, gaze unfocused, as though he were looking straight through Harry.

"One evening, after yet another of his persistent, insufferable appearances, I finally made it clear that his behaviour was—let’s be delicate—inappropriate."

Snape’s lips curled in something resembling amusement—though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"It was then," he continued, "that Mr. Brown, in a moment of rather touching vulnerability, confessed that, you see, Potter, he was afraid to speak to me. He merely wanted to express his gratitude."

The word was delivered with unmistakable irony.

"And so, after a catastrophic tirade in which he repeated 'Professor Snape' in every other breath, I asked him to call me by my name."

He said it lightly—offhandedly—as though recounting something of no real importance. His tone was quiet, detached, indifferent.

But Harry—

Harry shivered.

The urge to laugh vanished entirely. His eyes, slowly widening, caught the light like two freshly polished Galleons. He was beginning to understand.

“‘Why am I telling you this, Potter?’” Snape went on, his voice smooth and unreadable. “Because my—if you will—connection to Charlie Brown is purely professional. Amical, if you like.”

The realisation struck him—sharp, sudden, with such force that Harry nearly stumbled.

Harry swayed—then moved. And in the blink of an eye, he was there, pressing Snape back against the rain-slicked stone, caging him in. His hands found Snape’s face—pale, wet, breathtaking.

"You—" he whispered, unwell haze clouding his eyes. "You’re justifying yourself."

A breath. A ragged swallow.

"To me."

Snape wouldn't meet his gaze. His brows drew together; his jaw tensed. The corner of his mouth twitched in contemptuous sneer.

Fear.

"Take your hands off me."

The words were low, steady, laced with warning.

"If you value your life."

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After everything Snape had seen—after all of it—he didn’t hate him, didn’t even resent him. No. In his own maddening, Snape-like way, he’d hurried to explain himself.

To him.

To Harry Potter.

Which could only mean…

“I don’t give a damn about my life,” Harry hissed, his fingers tightening against Snape’s impassive face. “Come on, Professor Snape. Do it. Right now!”

His breath came quick, unsteady.

‘You want rid of me? Then fucking do! But you won’t rid yourself of the knowledge that you’re not indiff—’

"Harry Potter, huh? Oh, give me a break. What’s next, Merlin and Morgana pouring his pints?"

The voice—flat, disinterested—came from somewhere beyond the alley.

Both of them turned, heads snapping towards the sound.

Footsteps.

Heavy, hurried.

And not just one pair.

Harry blinked, disoriented, his hands slipping from Snape’s shoulders.

Snape, however, did not look confused. His eyes narrowed—sharp, cold, dangerous.

"I swear it was him! Hurry, or we’ll miss him!" a second voice insisted, shrill with excitement.

"Yeah, come on, exclusive scoop!" wheezed a third.

“If this turns out to be a wild goose chase, lads, don’t expect me to work with you again.”

Closer now—

Their voices, their breathless urgency, their quick, relentless strides—at least three people, maybe more.

Harry should have moved.

Should have pulled away.

Should have run.

Whoever those voices belonged to, it didn’t bode well.

And yet—

He didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not when this—Snape’s body against his own, the deep, steady thrum of his pulse, his scent—was so much better.

So much more.

"Over here! Just round the corner!" came the panting cry, now very close.

Leaves rustled overhead.

Snape exhaled—a long, slow breath, right by Harry's ear.

“You are,” he murmured, voice so low it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, “the most insufferable, shameless—”

Harry barely suppressed a full-body tremor. His teeth caught his lower lip as something hot coiled deep in his gut.

"—boy."

And then—

"Harry Potter!"

A delighted, disbelieving cry rang through the alley—followed by a sharp clap of hands.

"Holy fuck, look at this—he’s not alone!"

"What are you waiting for? Get the shot!"

The words barely had time to register.

Because what happened next—

What happened after—

Couldn’t have lasted longer than three seconds.

And yet—

For Harry—

Time stopped.

Prepared for anything, he turned.

But letting go of Snape? Out of question. His grip on the soaked fabric was ironclad, fingers digging in with a desperation that made his knuckles scrape against the rough stone wall. The coarse wool pulled taut under the strain, the fibres audibly protesting.

And then—light.

Blinding, obnoxious, right in his eyes.

Harry squinted, turning his head slightly in irritation. About ten feet away, a hazy figure loomed—little more than a silhouette against the glare. Blinking hard, he forced his vision to clear—and realised, with mounting fury, that the bastard was pointing a wand straight at him.

A Lumos.

The face remained obscured, but Harry could see the trembling hand barely managing to grip a massive camera. The sheer audacity of it made his blood boil. He was on the verge of snapping—The fuck do you think you’re doing?—when movement flickered at the edges of his vision.

Two more faces.

Round.

And, for some unfathomable reason, bright red.

Harry’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He knew those faces.

The drunkards from the pub. The same ones who had been huddled over their card game, tossing around their last Sickles as though they mattered.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

But before he could process it—before he could react—

Hands.

Firm. Commanding. Unyielding.

Grasping him.

Then—the ground vanished.

The world twisted, smearing into streaks of colour, a sickening lurch sending his senses into freefall. A camera shutter clicked. A deafening crack tore through the air.

Both sounds came at once.

And then—

Harry Potter was gone.

All that remained was a faint, ghostly shimmer.

Silence fell.

Sharp. Ringing.

And then—

“Nooo!”

A voice, raw with frustration, shattered the stillness. Shaking fingers clutched at a freshly printed photograph, watching in dismay as the image sharpened into focus—

A stretch of grimy, rain-slicked brick.

Empty.

***

And then—Harry woke up.

No, no—calm down. That was a joke.

He wished he had woken up.

The hands that had been gripping him moments ago vanished, and suddenly, he was falling—freefalling—his body weightless, plummeting with that sickening, stomach-lurching sensation he knew all too well from Quidditch.

But this wasn’t Quidditch.

No Nimbus to cling to.

No way to correct his dive.

The landing was inevitable.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, his body tumbling across the floor until a final jolt left him in an unceremonious heap. Somehow, he ended up half-sitting, dazed and struggling for breath.

Harry didn’t hurry to stand.

First—his hands.

He stretched them out, regarding his scraped palms with detached curiosity, flexing his fingers to ensure everything still worked. Satisfied he hadn’t lost any limbs, his hands moved to his glasses, adjusting the slightly off-centre frames. They seemed fine.

With a soft grunt, he hauled himself upright, muffling a groan as he straightened.

“Bloody bastards,” he muttered, rubbing at his sore tailbone. “How did I not realise those two were wizards? And dragging the fucking tabloids into this—”

"Get used to it, Potter," came an amused voice.

Harry blinked.

“Did you really think killing the Dark Lord would spare you from nosy journalists forever? You’re the most eligible bachelor in magical Britain. It’s hardly shocking you were recognised. Even in a Muggle pub, there are always spies.”

He blinked, suddenly aware of just how disoriented he was. Had the Apparition scrambled his sense of time—or space? Was he losing track of everything?

He stared at Snape as though seeing him for the first time.

“Where are we?” he asked, not quite recognising his own voice.

He bit his lip harder, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie, trying in vain to keep himself grounded.

Snape arched an eyebrow.

“Take a guess.”

Then—without warning—he shrugged off his coat.

Harry froze.

His gaze tracked the movement, transfixed.

The smooth slip of fabric. The way Snape’s long fingers draped it over the back of a chair. The slow, measured way he straightened, his sharp features unusually relaxed—so much so that when the hem of his black shirt slipped free from his trousers, revealing just a few inches of bare skin—

Harry’s breath caught.

Fuck.

A tantalising line of dark hair vanished beneath Snape’s belt.

“We… we’re at your house?” Harry croaked.

“Brilliant deduction, Potter. Were my hands free, I would surely applaud.”

Tearing his gaze away from one dangerously enticing sight, Harry landed on another—and nearly choked. Snape had tilted his head down, gathering his damp hair into a loose ponytail, a slim hair tie clamped between his teeth.

Harry pinched himself.

Hard.

Ow!

Pain. So—not a dream.

“Can-I-use-the-bathroom?” he blurted, his eyes darting aimlessly about the dimly lit room. In the faint glow of the single visible light source, Snape was the only clear point of reference.

“Straight down the corridor, on the right.”

Harry couldn’t decide which infuriated him more—his own idiotic behaviour, or the openly amused glint in Snape’s dark eyes.

He bolted.

Rounding the corner, he yanked the first door he could find—guided only by the faint silver gleam of the handle in the dark. The bathroom light flicked on instantly, seemingly of its own accord, the moment he crossed the threshold.

Odd.

But he had no time to dwell on it.

Gripping the sink, he hunched over, breathing hard, his eyes squeezed shut.

I’ve seen this before.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

A dry, nervous huff escaped his lips. He inhaled deeply through his nose, pressing his lips together so tightly they tingled, then lifted his gaze.

His reflection stared back at him.

His hoodie was soaked, darkened by splotches both large and small. His hair—even by his standards—was a complete disaster. A fierce flush still burned across his cheeks. But his eyes—

Blown-wide pupils, dark and restless, turned them into twin black tunnels.

Tugging off his glasses, he splashed cold water on his face. Once. Twice. A third time.

It had to help. Had to clear his head.

All right. Step by step.

This morning, Harry—newly divorced and happier for it—had set out for a walk through London, looking for trouble. These little excursions had become routine over the past year. Anything to avoid spending evenings in Ginny Weasley’s company. Out here, at least, he could breathe—untouched by the suffocating sweetness of her perfume.

Besides, his fleeting interactions with Muggles had a calming effect.

Here, no one knew.

No one had any idea that “Harry Potter” was a name of nauseating importance—one that must be spoken with special kindness, with reverence.

The first time he’d wandered these streets alone, he’d felt human.

A normal person.

And that sensation had become addictive.

It helped.

It helped keep him at bay.

After years of reckless searching, Harry had finally made peace with the fact that seeing Snape again was impossible.

Well.

Unless he humiliated himself at another bloody Potions Congress.

But he’d already suffered through that particular disgrace once.

He had no intention of repeating it.

Harry sighed, his gaze detached as he watched the unyielding stream of water cascade down the drain. He thought about how, by the most absurd twist of fate, he had ended up in that dingy, run-down, utterly uninviting pub. He would have left, too—had it not been for Daisy.

They’d talked. Laughed. Her sincerity was disarming, shockingly genuine, and it ignited something in him. He’d joked—just a bit, just enough not to alarm her. And it had felt good. So good.

How he had loved maintaining that glorious façade—the carefree, mischievous, effortlessly confident rogue. Harry had lost himself in it willingly. Let it consume him. He had wanted, more than anything, to forget the boy he used to be—the clumsy, clueless, hesitant idiot. The old Harry Potter bored him to death.

And it had seemed like he’d succeeded. At some point, he’d settled so deeply into the act that he started believing it himself.

It felt right.

It felt comfortable.

Tightening the tap with a firm twist, Harry paused, watching the last drops slide from his pale fingers, one by one.

And then—

Then, the thing he had feared most in the world happened.

Snape happened.

And with it, reality unravelled into something wholly surreal—a bizarre, mind-bending farce that grew more absurd with each second.

The moment he had seen those eyes—

His mind had gone blank.

Even now, hunched over the bloody sink, washed, steadied, breathing—

Harry still couldn’t explain his own behaviour.

It was as though his system had glitched.

And now, it seemed, he was indeed standing inside Severus Snape’s house.

“Potter, do wrap up your global mourning session in there. You’re not the only one in need of the facilities.”

The impatient voice left no room for doubt.

Harry jolted, fumbling to dry his hands, shoving his glasses back into place, and practically launching himself out of the bathroom.

Whether he had somehow slipped past Snape or whether Snape had been elsewhere entirely, Harry had no idea—

Because by the time he stumbled into the sitting room, he was alone.

He exhaled sharply, relief washing over him, and offered a silent prayer of thanks—to whom, he wasn’t sure. In a moment like this, it seemed wise to be grateful to all possible deities at once.

Then, at last, he looked up—

And froze.

The first thing he noticed was the fireplace, its flames dancing hungrily, distorting the air around them in rippling waves of heat.

For several seconds, he stood there, unmoving, mesmerised by the shimmering haze.

Then, shaking himself from his trance, he let his gaze roam the rest of the room.

The dim, flickering glow of a few oil lamps cast long, restless shadows across the walls—just enough light to see by, but not much more.

His attention snagged on the narrow kitchen counter, the very one where Snape’s coat lay discarded.

And beneath it—

An array of square compartments.

Rows upon rows of bottle necks jutted out from them, standing at attention, regal and imposing. Judging by their sheer number, tea was hardly the only thing Severus Snape indulged in on his long, solitary nights.

And once again, Harry clung to his hoodie, as though doing so might somehow impose logic on the absurdity of his current situation.

This place was nothing like a typical wizarding home. If anything, the very layout of the room was painfully Muggle—that was the only way to describe it. Harry noted how the makeshift bar—which he had already familiarised himself with—seamlessly connected the kitchen to a modest living area. A studio, he thought idly, recalling the term Muggles used for such open-plan designs.

Holding his breath, he inched forward, moving carefully and deliberately, as though afraid to disturb anything. A large rug stretched across most of the floor, its fibres so fine and plush that, despite himself, Harry hesitated before stepping onto it. What if he left a stain? Merlin forbid. Instead, he skirted the edge, drawing closer to the wall, where the wooden boards gave a faint creak under his weight. His gaze slipped to two broad armchairs arranged near the fireplace—both sitting on the rug he was so gingerly avoiding. Typical. He sighed, eyeing them longingly, then continued onwards towards a wooden chest of drawers.

It was then that something struck him as odd. Everything here—every single piece of furniture—was cast in neutral, uniformly dark tones. He had no idea why that surprised him. Perhaps it was the memory of school days, of the towering, menacing figure who used to prowl the dungeon corridors. Maybe that explained why seeing Snape—hair tied back, shirt partly undone—felt so bizarre. Just like the complete and utter absence of anything remotely Slytherin: no green, no silver, no house emblems reflecting the fanatical loyalty he’d once shown. But then again—why should there be? Snape had left Hogwarts a long time ago.

A quiet, amused smile flickered across Harry’s lips as his fingertips skimmed over the rough grain of the wooden surface.

Merlin’s bloody underpants.

Snape’s house.

Snape—who sat in that chair.

Snape—who drank whisky—or whatever else he fancied—at that coffee table.

Snape—who pulled dusty, ancient tomes off that meticulously arranged shelf.

Harry had no intention of rifling through his books—not that he wasn’t curious, but something else had caught his attention.

Something small, faintly gleaming in the dim light. Resting on top of the chest of drawers.

Rising onto his toes, he craned his neck for a closer look—

And nearly swallowed his tongue.

His green eyes widened in shock.

Crumpled, torn, its pages folded and battered—the Daily Prophet lay abandoned on the wooden surface.

“Believe me, Skeeter’s delusions are the least of my concerns.”

Snape’s voice echoed in his mind, slicing through the moment like a blade.

Harry frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. Because staring back at him from the front page, smirking with infuriating audacity—

Was himself.

So Snape had lied.

Not that Harry had expected anything different.

How else would Snape behave towards him?

The real question was—why was the paper in shreds?

"Curiosity will be the death of you, Potter."

Harry jolted so violently that he nearly knocked over the chest of drawers. Despite the fact that Snape had spoken with uncharacteristic softness, Harry still braced himself for immediate retribution.

But none came.

Snape remained where he was, standing by the sink, turned away.

And whatever he was doing—he was doing it loudly.

Snape remained where he was, standing by the sink, turned away.

And whatever he was doing—he was doing it loudly.

“Mind if I sit?”

“By all means. Unless, of course, you prefer standing.” Snape scoffed, bent over the sink, hands buried in a pile of dishes.

Harry made a valiant effort not to stare at his back—it wouldn’t be polite, after all—but his gaze refused to shift from the elegant line of Snape’s shoulder blades, stark beneath the fabric of his shirt. He hesitated, shifting awkwardly before murmuring, “But your rug…”

Snape turned, a slow arch of his brow revealing mild amusement.

“And what, exactly, is stopping you from taking off your shoes?”

The moment Harry’s bare feet sank into the rug, a shiver coursed through him. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let the sensation envelop him.

With the second step, his toes burrowed into the plush fibres—warm, impossibly soft—sending a slow wave of pleasure up his spine. The fire crackled beside him, its heat radiating through the room, wrapping everything in a golden glow.

Harry stood there, motionless, savouring it all. The faintest flicker of a smile curved his lips.

Safe.

The thought startled him, and his eyes snapped open.

How? How had he gone from near panic to this?

As though his body sensed its own betrayal, fatigue descended in a sudden, crushing wave. His legs gave out before he could think to stop them, and he dropped into the deep cushions of an armchair, slumping back as his half-lidded gaze strayed towards the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he asked, still tracing idle circles in the rug with his toes.

Snape—sleeves rolled up, two crystal glasses in one hand, an expensive-looking bottle in the other—was making his way straight towards him.

“Poisoning you, obviously.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped Harry.

The moment only grew more surreal as Snape, without hesitation, nudged off his own shoes. Harry’s gaze dipped, lingering on the pale curve of his ankle. His fingers drummed absently against his lower lip.

“From your hands,” he murmured, voice low, unrecognisable even to himself. “I’d take the poison gladly.” A wry smirk tugged at his mouth. “What will you do with the body?”

Harry managed to lift his gaze in time to catch the flicker in Snape’s eyes. The sudden intensity sent a jolt through him, and he bit down on the pad of his finger without thinking. Snape, evidently rattled by the unexpected remark, merely huffed—a quick, wordless sound—before pouring the amber liquid into the glasses.

Watching him, Harry felt his pulse settle into a calm, measured rhythm. He breathed slowly, deeply, through his nose, letting his limbs go slack against the chair. The turmoil, the heat, the anxiety, the gnawing confusion—none of it remained. In its place was a blessed, weightless void. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease. It was as though something inside him had finally fractured—broken in a way that couldn’t be repaired. He welcomed it.

This strange, surreal reality—the sheer absurdity of it—ought to have set him on edge. Yet it blanketed him like a dream: warm, familiar. He gave himself over to it, unresisting.

“Judging by what you’ve chosen… to confide in me,” Snape began, swirling his glass and crossing one leg over the other, “it seems you’re in rather pressing need of a conversation.”

“As you can see, Professor Snape, I’ve managed to stay alive all these years.” Harry’s lips twisted into something wry, something bitter. “If you can even call that living.”

Then, with a small exhale, he conceded, “But, as usual, you’re absolutely right. I did want to talk to you.”

His eyelids drooped half-shut. Snape tipped his head back, swallowing a generous mouthful of whisky, and for a moment, Harry could only watch.

The way the sharp line of his throat moved with each leisurely gulp. The dark strands of hair that had come loose, framing his pale face, curling against his neck. And just beneath them—a faded scar. A jagged, ghostly echo of the past.

Snape set his nearly-empty glass on the table with a crisp clink.

“Then I grant you that opportunity right now. By all means, Potter.” His voice was low, expectant. “Speak.”

Huh ?

Just like that?

Harry took a deep breath, then leaned forward, swallowing a quick sip of his drink before letting himself sink back into the chair. His gaze flickered to the fire, watching the orange glow shift and quiver.

And then—

He spoke.

“I’ve had more than enough time to label whatever I felt that day.” His grip on the glass tightened. “But, truth be told, I’ve failed spectacularly. I still don’t know what it was—finding you like that.”

He paused, voice turning rough at the edges.

“My mind just wouldn’t process that the blood on the floor was yours.”

His eyes flickered up to meet Snape’s. A moment passed—a heartbeat.

"And in that moment, Professor… I didn’t hate you."

Those words landed between them, heavy in the quiet.

“All the resentment—every last shred of anger—vanished. Just like that.”

Harry swallowed hard, gaze dropping back to the amber liquid in his glass.

“I only knew one thing.” His lips twitched—not quite a smile. “Even a bastard like you didn’t deserve to die.”

Silence again.

Then—

A soft, barely perceptible chuckle that wasn’t Harry’s. Dry. Frayed at the edges. If he had to guess—nervous.

His fingers curled around the glass, watching the firelight break and refract in the whisky.

“But like an idiot, I stood there, letting that pool of blood spread at my feet.” He scoffed at the memory, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. “Pressing down on your wound with my hand, as if that’d do anything. Utterly useless. That's what I was. And when your eyes started to fade… it was like watching the life seep out of you, bit by bit.”

His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

“Of course, I acted when you told me to. I gathered everything. But—” His voice faltered, rough and unsteady. “If it weren’t for Hermione, I—”

“You’d have let guilt gnaw at you for a few days, then brushed it off as a bad dream,” Snape cut in icily.

“Maybe,” Harry allowed without hesitation, the ghost of a smile vanishing from his lips. “Maybe if you hadn’t decided to give me your memories.”

"I already told you—I didn’t expect to—"

"Yes, yes, you ‘didn’t plan to survive.’ How convenient."

The words came out sharp and barbed, nearly furious. Harry pressed his lips together, his entire body tense. Then, with a breath, he leant forward and set his glass aside, as though the scotch itself were at fault.

“At first, nothing made sense—literally nothing.” His voice dropped to a strained whisper. “It was a jumble. Nonsense. Utter madness. I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t dreamt it all.”

He inhaled hard through his nose, hands gripping his knees for stability.

“So I watched them again. Every single one. Starting with your school memories of my mum—” he bit down on his lower lip, “—and ending with those nights in the dungeons. All of it.”

Silence.

Harry could feel the weight of Snape’s gaze on him—assessing, dissecting—but he didn’t look away. Instead, he lifted his chin, meeting those dark eyes head-on.

"I went through all five stages, Professor."

Snape’s brow arched, his mouth twisting into something wry and faintly derisive.

“How impressive,” he sneered. “I seem to recall you never making it past the second.”

“Live and learn,” Harry shot back, raking a hand through his hair, ruffling it further for no real reason. “For ages, I refused to believe what I’d seen—kept telling myself it was impossible. Just accepting that you’d never been the person you pretended to be took me an entire month.”

His breath caught, as though the sheer truth of that still astounded him. Snape’s expression barely shifted, but Harry didn’t notice. He was lost in the restless, spiralling rush of his own thoughts, eyes unfocused, gazing beyond the firelight as if seeing something else entirely.

He chewed on his lower lip, then forced himself to continue.

“I avoided saying your name—couldn’t even get it out. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. It followed me everywhere. The moment I woke up? You. Shower? You again. Forcing down some tasteless breakfast? There you were, stuck in my head.”

A quiet, hollow chuckle scraped out of Harry’s throat.

“When Voldemort was gone, I thought—the nightmares would finally stop. I thought I’d be free.”

His lips twisted into something joyless, something bitter.

“Should’ve known better.”

Harry blinked away the thin, glassy haze that fogged his vision and stared straight ahead. Snape stayed silent, fingers idly scratching at the thick upholstery of his chair. His gaze—heavy, dissecting—was fixed on Harry, as though peeling back layer after layer, prying into the most guarded corners of his mind. And that was the problem.

Because Harry had the creeping suspicion Snape already knew everything he was hearing.

A shiver coursed through him. He shifted uneasily, gripping the armrests, lowering his head onto his clasped hands.

“Keep going.”

“At some point,” Harry said, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears, “I realised I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Back then, I was still living at Grimmauld Place. I completely lost it. I couldn’t bear to look at my own reflection—it turned my stomach. Any time I passed a mirror, I thought…” He swallowed thickly. “I thought I was looking at some bloody Inferius staring back at me.”

His breath hitched.

“One day, I went through all four floors. Even the attic. Just to get rid of every mirror. But it still wasn’t enough.”

He drew in a shaky breath.

“So I gave in. I went to St Mungo’s. I had to know—I had to see.”

A pause followed. His fingers twitched against the upholstery.

“They told me you’d been placed in a magical coma, that you were stable—but I needed to see you for myself.”

His mouth felt dry as parchment.

“You called it guilt? Yeah, maybe at first. But it didn’t take long for that guilt to twist into something worse. Something unbearable. For the first time in my life, I hated myself. Hated the way I spoke to you, the way I thought about you. Hated that I’d been so fucking blind—”

God, why wouldn’t Snape say something?

Why just sit there?

Harry turned to him, practically willing him to react. A scoff, a sneer—anything that might cut straight through the tension. Hell, he’d settle for being thrown out onto the street. Some kind of response.

Something.

But Snape’s face remained unreadable. He wasn’t even looking at Harry. His gaze stayed on the fire—watching the dancing flames—his profile stark in the dim light. His once slicked-back hair, now freed and drying in soft waves, framed his features so sharply it almost seemed unreal.

The noble, straight line of his nose. The pronounced cheekbones. His lips—set in a thin, bloodless line.

Harry’s chest tightened. He felt as if he could barely breathe, like his lungs were shrinking. Tugging at the collar of his hoodie, he tried to steady himself.

“I was so busy hating myself,” he went on hoarsely, “that I didn’t notice… everything else.”

He swallowed hard.

“It took seeing you, unconscious, in that hospital bed—” he paused, voice trembling, “—to realise what my own mind had blocked out. I’d—” Harry’s breath caught. “I’d forgotten. Completely forgotten everything I saw in the Pensieve.”

For a moment, words failed him. Snape, however, filled the silence with quiet precision.

“A defence mechanism,” he murmured, his voice deeper, rougher than before. “A subconscious response. In extreme stress, the mind prioritises survival. It buries any memories that might lead to greater trauma. Locks them away. Bolts the door, so to speak.”

Harry shivered.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah. That. And then… the moment I saw—”

The body.

The word nearly slipped out, but he bit it back just in time.

"The moment I saw you, it all came back."

He let out a slow breath.

"And it wasn’t just your double life. It was—"

He faltered, falling silent. He knew Snape was watching him now, dark gaze intent, unyielding, like a blade.

“I was terrified.” His voice came out barely above a whisper. “Because your memories—what they showed me—about me… it felt impossible.”

A beat of silence. Then Snape’s soft reply.

"So you hovered between anger and denial."

No sarcasm. No wry twist. Only calm, certain understanding.

As Harry poured out his confession, the room’s flickering light seemed to draw him deeper into that familiar darkness—the same suffocating place he’d been lost in before.

“I never—” He pressed a fist to his mouth, choking on the tightness in his throat. After a moment, he forced himself to try again. “Never thought… that something like this was even possible. What I saw… it felt, at best, absurd. All I wanted was to run. To hide from it.”

He bit down on his lower lip again, tasting blood. The raw sting kept him grounded in the moment.

“So you decided to get married, just in case?”

Harry shook his head, frowning as though Snape had said something utterly ridiculous. Then, lifting his gaze, he held Snape’s eyes—dark, intense, indecipherable. For the briefest second, something flickered there. Something like understanding. As if Snape suddenly realised how absurd the question was. As though the answer was etched into Harry’s very being, plain as day.

Or perhaps it was just a trick of the firelight.

“Have I ever decided anything?” Harry muttered, his gaze sliding to the half-empty bottle of scotch as though it were part of the conversation. “My entire bloody life, someone’s always expected something from me. Even after I finally did what I was supposed to—still, it wasn’t enough.”

His voice cracked. He coughed, forcing air into his lungs, and pushed on.

“If what I’ve already told you isn’t enough, I’ll spell it out—” A sharp, bitter laugh escaped him. “I’m an idiot, alright? A useless, thick-headed fool. I panicked. And the moment I did, everyone—oh, everyone—came rushing to save me. Because, of course, the whole damn world knows what’s best for Harry Potter. Everyone except Harry Potter himself!”

His fingers clenched around the glass with such force that the delicate crystal scraped across the table, the sound echoing in the silence. Without thinking, he knocked back the rest of his drink in one go. He didn’t see Snape flinch.

“That’s right, Professor,” he spat, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie before collapsing back into the chair. “Ginevra Weasley—the best thing that’s ever happened to me. ‘Lucky bastard, aren’t you? ‘” He scoffed, his voice slipping into a cruel imitation of Ron’s.

“‘Harry, you’ve no idea how happy I am for you. Molly’s been going on and on about how romantic your proposal was—’”

This time, the impression was so spot on, it might as well have been Hermione herself speaking.

Then silence.

Still. Deathly silence.

Harry felt it, pressing heavier by the second, clawing at his lungs, tightening around his chest. And then—

“I never proposed to her!”

The words tore out of him, hoarse, furious, his hands flung up in helpless frustration. “I was completely out of my mind! She got me so pissed I couldn’t remember a damn thing—and I was glad. Don’t you get it? I wanted it! I wanted to forget. To forget about you! If I’d only—”

"Enough."

One word.

Sharp as a whip.

And it cut right through him.

Harry flinched as though struck, his breath catching in his throat. Then—just like that—he obeyed, lips snapping shut, trembling, every muscle taut.

“Calm yourself and stop wallowing in self-pity, Potter. I know you didn’t want this,” Snape snapped.

When he met Harry’s baffled stare, his irritation only sharpened.

“I was there.”

All the fury in Harry’s chest disappeared in an instant, replaced by hollow shock. He stared at Snape as though the man had just admitted to playing Chaser on the Quidditch pitch before popping into Hogsmeade for a butterbeer.

“What?” he asked dumbly.

“It doesn’t matter.” Snape’s voice was so cold it might have been chipped into shards and dropped into their whisky.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Harry shook his head, blinking fast. “You said you were there. Where is there?”

He watched Snape’s fingers curl into fists, his jaw clenching, cheek twitching with barely restrained irritation. Then—

The look Snape levelled at him was murderous, as though he were weighing a thousand ways to grind Harry into dust and toss him into a cauldron alongside flobberworms or any other foul ingredient that took his fancy.

“At your damned wedding,” Snape hissed through gritted teeth.

Harry nearly shot out of his chair, eyes round as a post owl’s.

“Wh–what?”

“Are you stuck on repeat, Potter?”

“But—how?” Harry’s voice wavered, caught between astonishment and a faint whimper.

“How did you get into the Congress?”

Harry frowned, scrambling to engage his brain. How had he gotten into the Congress?

Polyjuice, of course.

Which meant—

Snape—

He opened his mouth for another question but shut it again just as fast. Disbelief flashed across his features in rapid succession.

As though he feared Snape might spontaneously combust, Harry shot him a wary, searching look. Then, for no apparent reason, his gaze flicked to the fireplace. Then back to Snape. Then to the empty glass on the table.

Then, again, to Snape.

"No. That’s impossible. I would have noticed."

Snape let out a sharp, incredulous huff, yanking his hands away from the chair and throwing them into the air in pure exasperation.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” he growled, “you were in such a state, you wouldn’t have been able to tell Longbottom from his bloody toad.”

The air thickened with tense silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. Harry couldn’t say how long he sat there—still, soundless. His hand braced his forehead, growing numb under the weight of his head; pins and needles prickled his skin.

One might have thought he’d stopped breathing entirely, his vacant gaze turned inward, fixed on the turmoil in his own wretched soul.

A cigarette—one of his, taken from Snape’s case—floated before him, bobbing lightly as if offering itself.

A faint smile tugged at Harry’s lips. Reaching for his lighter, he took a slow drag, almost closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure that first pull of smoke brought. Then—someone cleared their throat.

Glancing at Snape in question, he caught the slight lift of the man’s dark brows—expectant.

The realisation sent a quiet warmth coursing through Harry’s chest: Snape was waiting. He remained seated, cigarette balanced between his fingers, simply waiting his turn at the Muggle flame.

Harry couldn’t tell if it was the tobacco that steadied him, or if it was something else—this man’s presence in this dimly lit room. But he knew one thing: if Snape had truly wanted him gone, Harry would have been thrown out long ago.

If Harry’s presence had been unwelcome, Snape wouldn’t have listened to him for so long.

He certainly wouldn’t have offered him cigarettes.

Nor shared his scotch.

No.

No.

“You know, Professor Snape,” Harry began softly, watching as Snape took a deep drag, tilting his head back against the chair, “if what you just told me is true, then I understand you even less.”

“What don’t you understand?” That low, velvety voice had lost its earlier edge, drifting into something almost indulgent.

Harry’s gaze met Snape’s. Those black eyes—impossibly dark, like a starless sky—held a weighty, opaque stillness.

“We’ve already established I’m an idiot.”

Snape snorted.

“I am an idiot,” Harry insisted. “I spent ages sorting through my thoughts, trying to make sense of what I saw in the Pensieve”—at this, Snape averted his eyes—“and dreading the final stage of it all, because I’m a coward. But you—”

Harry’s fingers tightened around his cigarette.

“You knew so much already, Professor Snape. Why?”

“Why what?”

Snape knew precisely what Harry was asking.

That certainty sent a reckless surge of boldness through Harry.

So, without even a second’s hesitation, he demanded, “Why did you avoid me for so long?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Snape snapped, his answer so quick it nearly cut Harry off mid-sentence.

Harry narrowed his eyes, and the corners of his mouth curled into a slow, almost lazy smirk.

“Oh, of course. So you just happened to vanish from every place I went. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact you probably knew, well in advance, that I was coming for you.”

“A coincidence. Nothing more.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to raise a brow. Those infuriatingly sarcastic intonations were a perfect match for his own—just like when he’d assured the landlady she was absolutely right. A flawless echo, really.

No.

There was no way in hell that a man who’d spent a lifetime deceiving two “Dark Lords” at once could have lost his knack for convincing lies in just five years.

“Is that so?” Harry murmured, his smirk deepening, eyes gleaming like a predator catching the scent of blood.

He leant forward, sliding to the edge of his seat, elbows braced on his knees. Head tilting slightly, he flicked the ash from his cigarette with maddening nonchalance.

“In that case,” he went on, voice smooth as honey, “those memories—the ones where you clutch the sheets… working yourself into that sweet delirium… practically losing your mind with want… for that lazy, smug, arrogant Harry Potter—”

A flicker of movement. A muscle twitch. Barely perceptible.

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears.

“So those must be a farce as well, hmm? Fallen into my hands by sheer accident? Just a… coincidence? A misunderstanding? Some cruel twist of fate?”

He let the silence stretch—thick, oppressive. Then, as if struck by some sudden revelation, he added, “Ah—wait. Maybe it wasn’t even me at all. Perhaps I got it all wrong.”

Snape exhaled slowly. Controlled.

Too controlled.

His lips—thin, bloodless—pressed into a tight, nearly imperceptible line. Severus Snape, former Potions Master, former spy, a man whose tongue was sharp as a blade and twice as deadly—

Had just swallowed his words whole.

A manic glint sparked in Harry's emerald eyes.

He devoured that face—that beautiful, loathsome face—with a hunger so fierce, so raw, it seemed he might, at any second, lunge across the coffee table and tear Snape apart with his bare hands.

But instead, he rose—slowly, deliberately—barefoot, soundless on the floor. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray, never once breaking that wild, feverish stare.

With each measured step forward, Snape pressed deeper into the chair—rigid, unmoving, silent. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped the armrests.

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?”

Not a question. A warning. A snarl edged with something dangerously thin.

“Go on,” Harry whispered, his lips grazing the shell of Snape’s ear—grinning as the body beneath him flinched. “I told you before, didn’t I?” His tone was almost gentle. “If you want to get rid of me, now’s your chance.”

A tremor ran through the hands gripping the chair. The cigarette slipped from Snape’s fingers, embers snuffing out in the plush carpet.

And Harry—Harry leaned in.

He braced his hands on either side of the chair, arms forming a cage, lowering himself until his breath ghosted over the nape of Snape’s neck.

“You knew I saw your memories.”

He nuzzled against Snape’s throat, inhaling deep—his lashes skimming against damp skin before he exhaled, voice dripping into his ear like molten honey.

“You knew I wanted you.”

His fingers—barely there—glided over Snape’s chest, the heat beneath the cotton scorching his palms.

“And you knew,” he murmured, lips curling into a wicked smile, “how badly I needed to see you.”

His hand slid lower, settling above the frantic, pounding heartbeat caged behind brittle ribs.

“I lost my mind trying to find you. I wrote letters—letters you never read. And you—” Harry gave a quiet, breathless laugh. “You were so terrified of receiving them that you just… left. Vanished. Selfish to the last.”

He couldn’t stand it any longer.

In a sharp move, he swept around the chair, cutting off any chance of escape. His hands slammed onto the armrests, trapping Snape in place.

And Snape—Snape, who should have obliterated him by now— hadn’t moved.

Harry loomed over him like a thundercloud, blotting out the world.

There was nowhere else to look.

No escape.

No distraction.

Only Harry.

“You could have left,” Harry said, voice a velvet blade. “When I stepped into that bar, you could have left. You could have thrown a Cruciatus at me. Hell, you could have Apparated the second you slammed me against that wall for my cheek.”

His gaze seared into Snape’s—demanding, relentless.

“But you didn’t. You stayed.”

And then—quieter, softer, more dangerous than before:

“And now—you’ve let me into your home.”

With every word, Snape’s breath grew heavier, more ragged—louder than Harry’s own.

“So,” Harry murmured, inching closer, forcing Snape to face him—to endure this, with no escape, no reprieve. "What do we have here? Professor Snape, in all his boundless generosity, flinging open his doors to none other than Harry Potter—the boy single-handedly responsible for his chronic migraines."

A wicked gleam flickered in Harry’s eyes as he leaned in, the corner of his mouth quirking in cruel amusement.

“Allowing him to spill his guts like some desperate sinner seeking absolution. Barely even sneering—” Harry tilted his head, feigning disapproval. “That’s not like you at all, Severus.”

The name hung between them, electric.

Harry savoured the taste of it on his tongue.

“But be that as it may, I would never forgive myself if, after all these revelations, I didn’t confess my most grievous, unrepentant sin…”

“Potter.”

The warning came out as a ragged snarl—low, rough, almost feral.

Harry drank in the sight of him—every muscle locked taut, every nerve a live wire, as though Snape were barely restraining himself from either lashing out or giving in.

His nails dug into the arms of the chair, knuckles white—clinging to the last vestiges of his infamous self-control like a drowning man clutching at reeds.

But it was slipping.

Harry could see it.

He could feel it—in the stuttered rise of Snape’s chest, in the wildfire raging behind those black pupils—deep, endless wells of something untamed, something otherworldly.

Something demonic.

Then—Harry moved.

His hands lifted from the chair. His body swayed forward, pressing their foreheads together. Then, his fingers skimmed over sharp, hollowed cheekbones, thumbs tracing the ridges beneath them.

Snape froze.

“Curse me, trample me, maim me, destroy me—if I mean nothing to you!”

His whisper—intimate, furious, slicked with a serpentine hiss—branded pale skin like a poker, glowing red-hot.

“But I can’t—can’t do this anymore.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, staring straight into those wide, burning eyes. Right now, they blazed feral and unbound—stripping reason, scorching restraint.

Lust.

Dark. Ravenous. Burning in those black depths like hellfire.

Harry exhaled, his lips curling into something almost reverent. And then, finally—he broke.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, guttural—wrecked, “so damn badly.”

Chapter Text

"I want you so badly."

And Snape kissed him.

No.

That pathetic excuse of a word doesn’t even begin to describe what Snape actually did.

Sure, you could call it a kiss. But that would be a fucking disgrace.

Would you say he dragged Harry in? Maybe crushed their mouths together? Or better yet, devoured him like a man starved?

Not exactly wrong, but still catastrophically far from the truth.

Fuck it. Let’s try again.

"I want you."

Those words—hurled into the air on a sharp, ragged breath—must have contained some kind of unstable, volatile chemical reagent.

Had it come with a safety warning, it would have been printed in bold, capital letters:

"DANGER! DO NOT EXPOSE TO SEVERUS SNAPE."

Because what followed was a detonation.

A deafening, skull-rattling blast, followed by a shockwave so devastating that, had Snape’s sitting room contained any windows, their glass would have shattered into a million splinters, the rest of the furniture crumbling into dust.

This was an explosion.

A full-scale detonation of control.

And it tore them both apart.

With a guttural, near-animal growl, Snape fisted his hand in Harry’s hair—rough, merciless—yanking him forward so hard their foreheads slammed together.

Something inside Harry shattered.

Maybe it was his eardrums, because suddenly, he heard nothing. No sound, no breath—just the high-pitched ringing that split his skull open. Was it coming from outside? Had the world really blown apart around them? Or was it just his own blood, hammering in his ears?

There was no way to tell.

Not when Snape gave him no time to think.

An arm cinched tight around Harry’s back, crushing him—his spine creaking under the strain. Had it not been for the damn hoodie shielding his skin, those nails would have ripped straight through him.

He must have died.

That was Harry’s last coherent thought before he crashed into Snape’s lap.

Snape was on him—like a starved, rabid beast.

The grip on his hair loosened—only for Snape to strike again.

Fingers—long, iron-strong fingers—clamped around his face, digging into his cheeks, prying his jaw apart, forcing his head back.

And then—another explosion.

A blast, ruthless. Violent. A force that didn’t just consume—it obliterated.

The world lurched. Vision drowned in blood-red haze—but not because his glasses had been knocked askew.

It was Snape’s mouth.

Hot. Insistent. Crushing against his own.

A violent tremor ripped through Harry—his whole body convulsed, shuddering so hard he thought, for one breathless second, that he hadn’t just gone deaf.

He’d gone blind, too.

No one had ever kissed him like this before.

Snape’s lips crushed him, searing-hot, desperate, as if he truly meant to destroy him—to devour him whole, to leave nothing behind. Every time Harry tried to seize control, Snape wrenched his head back by the hair, punishing him with sharp, bruising bites that tore into his already swollen lips. Then, just as fiercely, he soothed them—lapping over the wounds, his breath jagged, almost feral.

There was no choice left to make.

Snape wasn’t giving him one.

Harry could only yield.

Surrender to him utterly—until this ruthless, insatiable hunger was spent.

Or until they both lost consciousness.

He heard nothing—nothing but the moment Snape’s ravenous tongue pushed into his mouth. His whole body shuddered, deep, helpless. The sound vibrating through him didn’t belong to himself.

It was Snape.

And he was unraveling.

His lashes flickered, his breath hitched. Every time their tongues met, Snape’s eyes fluttered back, pupils swallowing the black.

That nose—long, crooked—should have been a nuisance.

It wasn’t.

If anything, it let Snape shift, claim him from every possible angle, exploring him without restraint—everywhere, everywhere, even in places that should have been beyond reach.

He kissed Harry like a dying man taking his last breath.

Yes.

Snape was kissing him as if this was the last time.

The thought sent Harry spiraling.

He was burning.

Not in the firelit room, but inside his own skin, inside the frantic pulse hammering through his veins. He couldn't breathe—only choke on each stolen inhale whenever Snape wrenched away for the span of a heartbeat, only to seize him again.

And the fire—it was unstoppable.

Like gasoline poured into his bloodstream, like pure combustion roaring through his chest.

A fleeting thought surfaced through the thick, scorching haze: if Harry burned alive, unlike a phoenix, he would not rise from the ashes.

And yet—

What did it matter?

He would take that death gladly.

Overcome, undone, Harry surrendered to the one thing his wild, reckless heart had been screaming for.

Mind hazy, Harry’s trembling fingers curled around the nape of Snape’s neck—where before, they had only clung, desperate, white-knuckled, to the chair’s back, clawing at the fabric stretched taut beneath their tangled bodies.

His fingers brushed something—thin, small, barely clinging to the very ends of Snape’s midnight-dark hair.

A band.

It had slipped down long ago.

Harry tore it free.

Ripped it away, because he had to. Because he’d dreamed of this—ached for this—for years.

With a shuddering exhale, he buried himself in that thick, silken hair, fingers threading through the strands, spreading them apart.

And the moment he let himself sink into the sensation—raking through them, gripping, tugging—his throat wrenched out a shattered moan.

Snape went still.

Everything keeping Harry tethered… unraveled.

The hands that had been holding him in place—unyielding, immovable—fell away.

And Harry nearly fell with them.

The severed kiss sent him sliding down the rigid plane of Snape’s thighs. He barely caught himself, fingers grasping blindly at the armrests.

"Ha-ah—"

His breath tore from his lungs, ragged and heaving, the icy air making his head spin.

His glasses—fogged, useless—he yanked them off, tossed them aside with a frustrated huff.

Not that he needed them.

Not when Snape was this close.

Harry forced his vision to clear, forced himself to focus.

Then, he forgot how to breathe.

Not a breath. A gasp—wet, ragged, like a man drowning.

Snape had thrown his head back, a shaking hand covering his eyes.

Merlin.

One look at him—just one—was enough to drive Harry mad.

He stilled, afraid to move.

Never in his life had he seen anything more devastating.

His hair—disheveled.

His lips—were those really his lips?—kiss-swollen, parted, glistening with spit and smeared with fresh blood.

And his body—trembling, wracked with something Harry couldn’t name.

He looked—

Why did he stop?

"S-S—" Harry’s voice broke, hoarse, barely a whisper. "Severus."

He had said that name before. Many times.

But somehow, only now—now, as it slipped, ruined, from his ravaged lips—did it finally sound right.

Low. Thick. Sinful.

Instinctively, his tongue flicked out, as if he could hold the syllables on his tongue, savor them.

Snape flinched.

Turned his face away, recoiling as though the sound itself burned.

A deep crease formed between his brows.

"Severus," Harry tried again, firmer this time, refusing to look away. "What’s wrong?"

It took everything in him to keep his voice steady.

Because now—now that the kiss had been torn from him—he could feel it.

The hard, aching length pressing into the cradle of his parted thighs.

Not just his.

Snape’s.

Fuck—his jeans were too tight. Too constricting.

"I don’t…" Snape rasped, clearing his ruined voice. "This is enough."

"What?" Harry’s brow furrowed.

"Enough, Potter." Low. Hollow. "We have to stop."

Stop?

For almost a full minute, Harry sat motionless, staring, dazed, at Snape in disbelief.

But Snape—Snape didn’t explain. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. He wasn’t even looking at Harry. His hand stayed there, covering his face.

Harry inhaled slowly, forcing himself to think. To analyze. To grasp what the hell had just happened.

Snape had completely lost it.

What they’d done—Merlin. It had felt endless, like it could go on forever, like it should have gone on forever. And Harry—Harry would’ve sworn his life on it—Snape had liked it. Wanted it.

Still wanted it.

So why?

Had he fucked up?

But—he’d barely even touched him—

No.

No fucking way.

Harry lunged, fingers closing around those narrow, bony wrists—wrenching Snape’s hands away from his face. And in that moment, Harry felt his heart fucking stop.

Because there—on that usually bloodless, aristocratic skin—was color.

A flush.

A fucking flush.

Holy shit.

Snape was… flushed? No—worse.

Embarrassed.

"Stop that," Snape growled, low and ragged.

But his hands—whether unwilling or just too weak—stayed trapped in Harry’s grip.

"Then answer me." Harry’s voice sharpened, pressing. "What the hell is wrong? What has got you so flustered?"

At that last word, Snape grimaced—like he’d swallowed something bitter. The mere concept of flustered seemed, if not outright offensive to him, then certainly inapplicable.

And yet—

His cheeks burned.

"What in Merlin’s name gives you the ridiculous notion that I am in any way—flustered—Potter," Snape sneered, each syllable slow, venomous.

Fifteen-year-old Harry would’ve flinched, shoulders tensing, gaze dropping to avoid Snape’s wrath.

But now?

Now, it was nothing.

"Let. Me. Go."

Like hell he would.

Harry wasn’t trying to bruise those sharp, elegant wrists, but fuck, Snape was being impossible. Infuriating.

And after everything—

No.

Harry wasn’t letting him slip into silence.

Not after this.

Not now.

"Look at me."

Snape, of course, did no such thing.

"Fine," Harry said, voice like ice.

And beneath his grip, Snape’s wrists went rigid.

The longer the silence stretched, the clearer it became—

There were no rules to this game.

Harry’s face stilled, smoothing into something unreadable. He wasn’t angry. Wasn’t frustrated. His gaze—calm, steady, unwavering—bore down on the man beneath him.

He waited.

A minute. Maybe more.

Waited for Snape to break.

Waited for something—anything.

Nothing.

Harry snapped.

His brows lifted, lips parting on a breathless inhale—

Then, scandalously slow, he pushed Snape’s arms up, pinning them over his head. At the same time, his hips—just as slow, just as deliberate—rolled down against rigid thighs.

Letting Snape feel him.

Letting Snape know.

A sharp breath tore from Snape’s lips—clipped, involuntary. Harry smirked—soft, satisfied—and did it again.

And again.

And again.

Each movement bolder, filthier. Until he could feel the shudder in Snape’s breath. Until he could feel the telltale twitch beneath him, the pulse, the undeniable response.

"Look at me."

Harry’s voice was low. Dangerous. "Look at me and tell me you don’t want this."

And when those eyes—deep as ebony, burning—finally snapped open—

Harry forgot how to breathe.

In an instant, the interrogation crumbled. The words—the demand—collapsed, swallowed whole by the inferno staring back at him.

Because in those eyes—

There was nothing but fire.

"Tell you I don’t want it?"

The words barely existed. A whisper formed, but never spoken.

And that look—heavy-lidded, dazed, unlike anything Harry had ever seen before—swept over his face with unnerving intensity, like something vast and sacred was being unearthed. Like Snape was peeling him open, searching for the answer beneath his skin.

Harry swallowed hard. The weight of it all pressed against his ribs, thick, crushing.

Snape’s mouth parted.

Then closed.

A brow twitched.

"You, Potter…" Snape finally murmured, voice flat. "Are an insufferable idiot."

And with that, he shut his eyes.

Exhaling slow. Even. Measured.

Harry did not appreciate that verdict.

His cheeks flared hot. Any awareness of his position—his state—vanished as he clicked his tongue in frustration, scowled, and snapped:

"Of course. It’s always the same, isn’t it? Potter’s always the idiot!"

His voice wavered, injustice carving through his ribs. "Well, that certainly explains your behavior. You—" his breath hitched, wounded, "—let me this close. Throw yourself at me like some wild fucking animal. Do things to me—things that could drive a person insane. And, Merlin, I swear—" he gasped, his chest rising, "I swear you want this just as much as I do! And then you just—push me away. Again."

Bitterness clenched around his lungs, his lips trembling with it.

"Look at yourself! What is this performance? What’s the point of playing untouchable? Why the hell are you doing this to m—"

The words cut off.

Because suddenly, his breath was gone.

Because Snape—who, somehow, had found his strength again—wrenched his wrists free with startling ease.

For a fraction of a second, Harry braced himself. For a shove. For the impact of the floor slamming into his back.

But it never came.

Instead—

Something unthinkable happened.

Those hands seized him—hard—dragging him forward, yanking him in.

Snape thrust his hips up, slamming into him in one sharp, devastating motion.

Even through the layers of fabric, there was no missing it.

Then came the sound.

Low. Long. Ruined.

A groan so deep, so wrecked, Harry’s vision blackened for a second. A violent shiver bolted down his spine.

He swallowed hard. His tongue flicked out, wetting lips suddenly too dry.

"Of course I want this, you foolish boy."

Snape spat the words through clenched teeth, head snapping back, black hair spilling over the chair’s backrest in a dark, unruly mess.

"God, you’re beautiful," Harry murmured.

Snape flinched, visibly preparing to argue.

He never got the chance.

Harry rolled his hips—slow, deliberate, pressing closer.

Snape tensed.

Harry crushed against him—lips latching onto the vulnerable expanse of his throat, swallowing the broken sound that ripped free.

Above him, he heard it—

A sharp, ragged inhale.

A breath caught, breaking.

The body beneath him shuddered, tensed, sharp knees pressing into the curve of his lower back.

Fingers clamped tight around his forearms, yanking them back in a punishing grip—so forceful it was impossible to tell—was Snape trying to hurt him? Or just—just press him in, fuse him into himself, unyielding, inescapable.

His neck arched, his chin dropping into the tangle of Harry's hair.

A ragged, desperate moan broke through his gritted teeth, shattering them apart the moment Harry parted his lips—wide, shameless—and dragged his tongue over the skin.

Right there.

Right where it had been hidden.

That hideous, breathtaking scar.

Again. He did it again—more pressure, more insistence.

Pain was nothing. Less than nothing. Meaningless, insignificant, not even real—he could lose his arms, his legs, his goddamn sanity, and he would still never pull away from this.

Salt-tinged skin burned away the last fragments of reason, his eyes rolling back, showing nothing but white—

And the sounds—gods, the sounds—

Wrecked. Obscene.

Every drawn-out moan saturated with unspent desire, molten heat, aching need.

Cold fingers, long and slender, seared his lower back—slipping beneath the fabric, teasing his skin with featherlight touches, nails skimming along his spine, just barely scraping—

Harry—all fraying nerve endings, raw, overstimulated—shook. Almost violently.

"You…"

Snape's voice, low, rasping, poured into his scalp.

Harry barely managed to peel himself away.

He stared, dazed, mesmerized.

The scar—vanished. Nearly. Buried beneath a mess of crimson blotches, deep, shining, the imprint of his teeth still glistening raw.

"Potter… you… are insane."

Harry’s head snapped up.

His pupils—blown wide, devouring what little green remained—fixed onto the man above him like he’d never heard his own surname before.

Like it meant something different now.

Like the last thread tethering him to reality had just snapped.

His lips—kiss-bruised, numb—moved soundlessly.

Words. He knew words.

He just…

Didn’t know how to use them.

Not anymore.

"Severus…"

It was all he could manage.

Then—

He was cupping that monstrously beautiful face. Fingers pressing in, desperate, fevered.

And he whispered, right into that stunned, parted mouth—

"You're breaking me."

Something uncharacteristic flickered in the dark depths of Snape’s gaze.

His lips pressed into a thin line, corners twitching down. He seemed to attempt an arch of his brows—but they only furrowed, knotting together at the bridge. Perhaps he even tried to inhale deeply—but the breath hitched, strangled halfway. A hand shot up to his mouth, stifling the rasp that tore free.

And finally—his eyes slid shut.

As if to conceal whatever unfamiliar expression had surfaced.

It took Harry mere seconds to recognize what lurked beneath those heavy, shuttered lids.

Of course.

It was uncertainty.

Raw, unguarded—like something long-buried was clawing its way to the surface. Something unknown, untamed, something not even Snape himself knew how to control. And no matter how desperately he fought to suppress it—no matter how his lashes fluttered, how the tension eased from his brow, how his breath came in uneven, fractured gasps—

His face screamed defeat.

He had lost.

And he knew it.

And yet—he refused to surrender. Refused to accept the weight of his own powerlessness, still waging that foolish, futile war against his own heart, crashing—over and over—against its manic, erratic rhythm.

This was Severus Snape’s last line of defense.

Harry exhaled, lips parting in slow silence.

"You lost."

His brow quirked—mocking, deliberate—a perfect imitation.

And without hesitation—ignoring the dull prickles of numbness in his legs—he lifted himself from the chair and slid down—onto his knees.

A sound—somewhere above—low, broken, half-formed protest.

Let him protest. Harry thrilled at it as his arms looped around Snape’s waist, forcing him to arch, pulling that weakened body forward in one sure, effortless motion.

He nuzzled his cheek against rough fabric—felt those lean thighs clench, shudder, tense beneath him. His chin rested against a sharp knee, emerald eyes glinting—bright, playful, alight with quiet, lethal mischief.

"Potter," Snape rumbled—a warning.

Harry only grinned.

Dodged the hand that lurched toward him.

Merlin’s fucking beard—

Snape’s entire body jerked, every muscle recoiling, every inch of him shuddering violently as Harry made quick work of the buckle.

Leather slid free—smooth, practiced, as if Harry had done this a hundred times before.

The belt landed somewhere behind them, discarded, unneeded.

Obstructive.

And judging by the tension straining against dark fabric, neither of them had much use for it.

Harry had no intention of stripping Snape fully—God only knew how that proud, implacable dignity of his would survive such an ordeal.

Instead—

With no room left for resistance, no space for denial—he pried apart stubbornly clenched knees and slotted himself between them.

Perfect.

"You little beast…"

For Harry, that deep, guttural growl might as well have been a reward.

His grin curled at the edges, lazy, sinful.

Lips parting, he caught the metal tab of the zipper between his teeth, pulling it down with maddening slowness, his nose grazing over the heat straining beneath.

And just like that—

Something shifted.

He had never felt this wicked.

This debauched.

This shameless.

And fuck, how he loved it.

His tongue flicked out—long, stretched tight until the pull of muscle ached—and he dragged it, slow and deliberate, over the twitching shape beneath thin, sweat-damp cotton.

His hands skimmed up Snape’s thighs, pressing just enough to keep them open.

"Easy," he murmured, barely a whisper, his lips grazing damp fabric in gentle reprimand.

Then he inhaled.

The scent hit him—dense, intoxicating, sending a heady tremor through his spine.

Better than firewhiskey.

Better than anything.

His fingers, shaking with anticipation, traced along the waistband, slipping beneath the elastic, just as—

A hand locked around his wrist. Tight. Firm.

The interruption made Harry groan, low and impatient. He tipped his head back, exhaling sharply.

"Now what?" His voice cracked with exasperation. "Is this enough? Are we stopping ag—"

He didn’t finish.

Because when he looked up—

His breath caught.

Snape was leaning forward, brow furrowed, teeth sinking into his own lip, his hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to shove Harry away or pull him closer.

"No, I…" His voice stumbled, raw and uneven, each word dragging like it physically hurt to say. "I’ve never… before… Merlin."

Harry blinked.

Because surely.

Surely this wasn’t Severus Snape speaking.

Not like this.

Not with that hesitant, uncertain edge.

The absurdity of it jolted something loose in Harry’s mind, bringing him back to something solid, something clear.

"I don’t understand," he said, voice suddenly even. "What are you trying to say, Severus?"

He searched his gaze for sarcasm. For mockery.

For anything.

But there was nothing.

Snape’s brows pulled tighter. His jaw clenched, the muscle jumping in his cheek. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head once before looking away.

His eyes slid shut.

And barely above a whisper, he muttered:

"No-one-has-ever…"

Harry barely had time to process it.

Because in the next breath, his fingers curled into the fabric—yanking Snape’s boxers down in one swift, fluid motion—

And took him into his mouth.

"P-Potter—"

Snape’s breath stuttered into something choked, his fingers clutching at the armrests, knuckles turning white.

His body jerked, spine arching.

"F—fuck," he ground out, teeth clicking together as he swallowed back the sound.

Harry's lips stretched around the aching weight in his mouth, and the heat coiling low in his gut surged—higher, hotter, unbearably tight.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He stilled, breathing through it, acclimating to the impossible fullness—the heavy, pulsing reality of it.

Could this be real?

Had he truly lived to see this moment—Severus, at last, laid bare for him, spread open beneath him?

Had this man—so untouchable, so defiant—finally surrendered to the pull of his kiss-swollen lips, his insatiable tongue?

Had he truly been given this?

A shudder wrecked him.

His vision swam, darkened, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

He let him slip free, nuzzling against the fevered length, drinking in its heat, its weight—before finally, finally allowing himself to look.

Through the rush of blood in his ears, the gasping, shattered breaths above barely registered.

They hardly mattered.

Or maybe they did.

But not now. Not when the only thing that existed was this.

His pupils dilated, wild, crazed, as he burned every detail into memory—every delicate vein, every shift, every helpless twitch.

And when he finally heard that deep, shuddering inhale—raw, desperate—

He moved.

His lips wrapped around the swollen tip, tongue pressing, exploring, learning.

And his mouth—slick, hungry, aching—took him in.

A low, pleased hum rumbled in his throat as salt and heat spread across his tongue.

His jaw strained, stretched wide around thick, rigid weight.

"Oh God—"

Snape’s voice broke—a shattered whisper, tangled between a prayer and a curse.

Harry’s thoughts flickered, fractured—Merlin, God, fuck—you really need to pick one, don’t you?

But he had no air, no space in his head for sarcasm.

Instead, he rolled his head, slow, precise, winding himself down, down—until he took him whole.

His nose brushed against coarse curls.

Perfect.

Then—hands.

Both of them.

Fingers plunged into his already-wrecked hair with a desperation that bordered on ruin.

Snape arched, shuddering, his hips bucking—pushing deeper, demanding more.

His breath splintered—torn between restraint and surrender, between holding back and falling apart.

A sound. Low. Guttural. Unrestrained.

A moan, dragged from the depths of him—feral, uncontrollable—tumbling from his lips like he had been holding it back for years.

The taste—thick, heady, ruinous—rocked through Harry like a shockwave.

His cock ached, throbbed, suffocating inside the brutal constraint of his jeans, every pulse stoking the unbearable, swelling heat.

His vision blurred. His lungs seized.

He forced himself to stay steady, to not—fuck, not—choke, his head bowing, his knees pressing deeper into the floor, forcing himself still, forcing himself to endure.

Finally, he found his place.

His sweat-damp palms slid down Snape’s thighs.

A tap.

A demand.

And that—that was one of the reasons there could never be anyone else.

No one in the world—no one—could ever be more vital, more absolute, more necessary.

Because Snape understood.

Always.

Without words.

And just like that—he snapped.

Snape lunged, control obliterated, driving into the wet heat of Harry’s throat with brutal, fevered force.

It was instantaneous.

One second of stillness—

And then—

Harry was choking on it.

Snape was slamming into him, unrelenting, vicious, like he was fucking meant to be here, buried in the clutching, yielding heat of Harry’s throat.

He had no choice but to take it—jaw tensed so tight he thought it might snap, lips swollen and burning as he held on.

He took every thrust, every snap of Snape’s hips, his body rocking back under the sheer force of it, muffled, strangled whimpers swallowed down with every relentless stroke.

His throat spasmed around the invasion, but Snape’s fingers were already there, clawing into his hair, locking him in place.

As they should.

His own fingers scrabbled for purchase, clenching against fabric, holding onto anything—anything—to ground himself.

"Fuck—so tight—" Snape’s voice broke, rasping, torn apart by the force of his own movements. "So—sweet."

His hips slammed forward, shoving deeper, dragged helplessly by the suffocating vise of Harry’s throat.

"I never—fuck—never imagined…"

His fingers—shaking, desperate—dug into Harry’s hair, yanking, twisting, his control unraveling thread by thread.

A ragged breath—

"Good boy."

The words—low, hoarse, almost tender— collided with the brutal force of his thrusts.

And the contrast—Merlin, the contrast—was devastating.

Harry gasped, choked, tears stinging his lashes, blurring everything.

His throat convulsed, spasmed, everything screaming for relief, for air—

Even if it ruined him. Even if he died like this, stretched wide around Severus fucking Snape—

He would not dare stop.

Salt traced twin paths down his flushed cheeks. He didn’t even know why. Maybe his body was fighting, resisting, struggling against the sheer force of it. Maybe it was something else.

Something darker.

Something desperate.

Because he had dreamed of this.

For so long.

"Look at— me," Snape rasped, his grip tightening—yanking, forcing Harry’s head up.

Harry obeyed.

His gaze lifted—blurred, ruined, swimming in salt and heat—

To meet Snape's.

And—fuck.

Madness.

That was the only way to describe it.

A wrecked, delirious stare, pupils swallowed in black, chest heaving, body coiled tight, trembling, seconds from breaking.

And in that instant—

Everything stopped.

A silence, heavy, deafening. Except—

Except for the wet, obscene drag of Harry’s throat, convulsing, struggling, breaking around him.

Harry pressed down, let his tongue skim over drawn skin—teasing, soothing—

And Snape—

Snape shattered.

His body arched, locked tight, his breath snapping.

A curse—raw, broken, a snarl of pleasure and surrender—tore through clenched teeth.

His fingers seized, white-knuckled in Harry’s hair.

Then, his thighs shuddered, locked—his entire body convulsing—

As he spilled, hard, uncontrollable, shuddering apart into the heat of Harry’s mouth.

And still, his grip held. Unrelenting.

Harry tried to pull back, tried to breathe, but Snape only pressed him closer, his body wracked, twitching through the aftershocks, riding out every last second.

Harry took it, swallowing obediently.

Shaking, ruined, he held on—his throat working, desperate, relentless.

Not a single drop was lost.

Satisfied that he had drained him completely, Harry finally pulled away.

Snape’s cock slipped from his lips with a slick, sinful drag.

But Harry—shattered, breathless—was far beyond caring about obscenities.

Only now, bracing his hands against Snape’s thin, trembling thighs, did he allow himself to truly breathe—

And immediately doubled over, coughing, heaving, his body curling inward until his forehead nearly met the floor.

Above him, Snape sagged into the chair, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady bursts.

The sound—harsh, rattling, barely controlled—helped ground Harry back into himself.

His forehead pressed against a twitching thigh, eyes slipping shut.

His hands—loose, absent, lazy in their exhaustion—glided over fabric-clad shins in slow, soothing strokes. Drifting down, barely ghosting over bare heels—then sliding back up, fingertips skimming over tense kneecaps, lingering, pressing.

And only then did Harry realize he hadn’t come. His own cock—aching, trapped, trembling inside the ruined confines of his jeans—had been entirely forgotten. And, somehow, it didn’t matter.

Not in the slightest.

Because just now—just moments ago—he had undone Severus Snape.

The man who had made his school years hell.

The man with whom they had shared nothing but mutual loathing.

The man for whom, without hesitation, Harry would step into the path of the Killing Curse—

And he wouldn’t regret a fucking thing.

Because now—because for him—Harry would do anything.

At the sound of a zipper sliding shut, he perked up.

His lips stretched into a wide, unguarded grin—genuine, almost foolish in its quiet joy.

He was eager—thrumming with anticipation—to see him like this.

Disheveled. Sated.

Harry wanted to meet his eyes—dark, fathomless, unreadable.

Would that fire still be there, flickering in the depths of those endless black eyes?

Or had it been replaced by something softer—

Something like the impossible, fleeting warmth that had been there when he’d said…

"Potter."

Snape’s voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Straightening in his chair, he brushed a damp strand from his forehead as if dismissing the moment itself.

Harry squinted, his smile unwavering—soft, content.

And why wouldn’t he be?

He had done a damn good job.

It was, perhaps, a childish thought. A ridiculous one. But—

But, somehow, he needed Snape to say something. Anything.

He wasn’t sure what.

Just—something.

Something that would keep this fragile, shimmering warmth from slipping away.

A few seconds of silence stretched between them—awkward, lingering—before he couldn’t hold back any longer.

"You liked it, didn’t you?"

His voice cracked—hoarse, barely more than a rasp.

Fuck, his throat was ruined.

His cheeks flamed, unbidden, as he bit into his swollen lip, waiting.

His hands never stopped moving—tracing slow, absent patterns over Snape’s relaxed body.

And Snape—Snape, of course, wasted no time.

"Potter, please. ‘Liked’ is hardly the right word."

The words were effortless, absent, like he could hardly be bothered to say them.

"Seems that insufferable mouth of yours is good for something, after all."

Harry’s lips parted, heat prickling at his scalp.

"It was… adequate."

A pause.

"Now, you may go."

Like being shoved into a frozen abyss.

The mischief in Harry’s eyes flickered—then vanished, snuffed out in an instant.

The world tilted, blurred, smearing at the edges as heavy, unshed tears gathered at the corners of his vision.

Then—

A dull, graceless thud as his knees gave out, tailbone slamming against the floor.

His hands slipped from Snape’s thighs, hovered—aimless, weightless—before dropping limply to his sides.

He tried to move his lips. They trembled violently. Refused to form words.

Joy. Playfulness. Tenderness. Desire.

Gone. Erased.

As if it had never existed.

As if it had never been real.

All in the space of a single, careless word.

A sharp shiver wracked through him, sinking into his bones, freezing him from the inside out.

Blindly, hands fumbling, he scrambled back. Crawling. The carpet beneath him felt unbearably rough, scraping against his skin as he dragged himself away. His shoulder knocked against the coffee table—his head cracked hard against the wooden edge, and he let out a strangled gasp.

Salt.

Thick. Sharp. Clinging to his tongue.

His tears.

He’d swallowed them down.

In his head, on repeat, the words played.

“…useful for something, after all.”

“…you may go.”

Through the haze blurring his vision, a dark silhouette remained motionless—carved from stone, lifeless, unyielding.

Probably smirking.

Harry swallowed thickly. It only made the lump in his throat grow heavier.

Idiot.

What an idiot.

Snape had used him.

Dragged him here.

Fed him lies.

Lured him in—like the devil himself—letting him believe, just for a moment, that this meant something.

The wedding thing.

A casually discarded copy of The Prophet, strategically placed.

Whiskey, poured so deliberately, so methodically.

Every word. Every touch. Every calculated flicker of tenderness—just enough to make Harry believe.

Just enough to make him stay.

Snape had played him.

Toyed with him.

Like a cat with a foolish, naive little mouse.

And after all of it—

After everything—

He was nothing more than…

"An insufferable mouth" ?

A sharp, searing pain lanced through his chest—vicious, relentless—as if a blade had been driven straight into his heart, twisted, and twisted again, tearing him apart from the inside.

Had he gone deaf?

Because Harry couldn’t hear himself—couldn’t hear the ragged sobs scraping his throat raw, couldn’t hear the choked, desperate coughs rattling his lungs, couldn’t hear himself gasping, gasping for air that refused to come. He was suffocating. The floor dropped from beneath him. The walls—gone. Torn away. His body weightless. His limbs numb.

Falling.

A freefall—headlong, endless, stomach-wrenching—hurtling toward—

The edge.

Jagged. Waiting. Ready to split him in two the moment he hit.

And through it all—through the panic, the vertigo, the nothingness—one single thought carved itself into his skull:

I’m going to die.

"—Potter! Goddamn it, Harry!"

A hand—strong, unrelenting—snatched him back.

An arm locked tight around his back, fingers clamping hard at his nape, wrenching him upright, forcing him back into his body.

A scalding, acrid heat flooded his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping, choking on sobs, spitting it out—but swallowing all the same.

The vile liquid lashed his throat like a whip of fire, scorching—scalding, as if acid had been poured straight down his throat.

Then it burned deeper, burrowing into him, eating through him, hollowing him raw.

It lasted forever.

Each forced swallow sent a fresh, slicing wave of agony lancing through him, ripping him open from the inside.

And in that moment, with every torn, ravaged, bleeding shred of himself—

All he wanted was for it to end. To finally end.

Because only death could wrench him from this.

Only death could rip him free.

In that instant—everything stopped.

Gone. Vanished. Snuffed out in an instant, like a switch had been flipped.

With a sharp, deafening pop, sound crashed back into his ears—so sudden, so jarring, it nearly sent him reeling.

Then—a clatter.

Glass hit the floor. Shattered.

His limbs—his body—were still here. Still intact.

Testing, hesitating, Harry curled his toes. They obeyed.

His hands—trembling, unsteady, but still his—lifted, reaching for his face.

His fingers ghosted over his cheeks—wet. Slick.

Dazed, he swiped the back of his hand across them, breath catching, lungs still heaving.

Instinct had him yanking down his sleeve, desperate to wipe himself clean—

But before he could—before he could erase even a trace of it—

A hand shot out. Seized his wrist. Hard.

Arms. Tight. Unyielding. Hauling him in. Crushing. Holding him there.

"P… Potter… God…" A rasped, shaking whisper, barely holding together against his ear. "Idiot… stupid, pathetic old fool…"

Harry’s eyes snapped open—burning, raw, stung by blinding light.

He could see again.

His head spun, the world tilting. Before he could stop himself, his arms snaked up—clutching, clinging to Snape’s neck.

A reflex. Instinct.

"Such a fool…"

"Severus?" Harry mumbled.

Snape pulled back, just barely, rough palms framing his face.

Warm.

The flickering glow of the fire caught in his eyes—unnatural, too wide, wet.

Horrified.

Snape’s lips—pale, unsteady—tried, and failed, and tried again—to form words.

Dark strands clung to his damp forehead.

"I—"

His voice cracked.

"It was… a joke."

Sharpened, steadier—like he was forcing the blade deeper.

"I was—joking, you see."

And Harry knew.

Not from Snape's voice.

Not from the words themselves.

But from the seething loathing beneath them.

Loathing not for Harry.

But for himself.

Chapter Text

The front door let out a slow, agonizing creak. The guest stepped inside with an unsteady gait, making straight for the landlady.

“Tea,” he tossed out instead of a greeting.

Honey-colored eyes widened.

“What do you mean, tea?”

The woman froze behind the bar, glancing around, a couple of dirty utensils and a rag clutched in her hands. A whole spectrum of emotions flickered across her freckled face, shifting from genuine bewilderment to outright indignation.

“Preferably green, with jasmine…” The guest curled his thin lips. Impenetrably black eyes swept over the dusty shelves lining the walls. “Though I highly doubt you have anything remotely decent. So don’t trouble yourself—just plain green tea.”

Daisy very nearly jumped at the sheer audacity. Tossing the rag into the sink, she pivoted sharply on her heels, the floorboards beneath her ample frame letting out a groaning protest.

"Mind your manners, boy," she muttered darkly, planting a plump hand on the counter and leaning in.

A couple more inches, and the fork wobbling between her fingers might have found its mark in the guest’s eye. Yet he remained utterly unmoved—not a single muscle twitched on his deathly pale face.

“Oh, heavens forbid… Do be so kind as to bring me some green tea.”

That lethally polite purr caught Daisy off guard. A sudden thought flickered through her mind: despite how thoroughly the bastard had managed to irritate her in such a short span of time—a rare occurrence, to be sure—he was, nonetheless, the first and, so far, the only customer of her entire shift. And the shift had started, mind you, five hours ago.

“No green tea,” Daisy admitted begrudgingly.

“Then black.”

“You think this is some bloody tea house? This, in case you hadn’t noticed, is a bar… a DRINK-ing establishment,” she enunciated each syllable as if speaking to a half-wit.

The fork tumbled and clattered against the countertop with a sharp ring, as if punctuating her words.

“No, no—tell me, dearie. Take a good look around, sweetheart. See that sign out front? Any chance it says ‘TEA HOUSE’?"

The guest grimaced.

“I didn’t read your sign,” he gritted through his teeth.

Then, for some unfathomable reason, he slipped a hand into his coat pocket, his lips moving strangely, murmuring something too faint to catch.

Daisy frowned. But the moment that aristocratic hand emerged, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Sitting on the counter was a tea bowl. A proper one.

If anyone had been fool enough to ask Severus Snape why the hell he wandered into a Muggle dive bar, or why, of all things, he had just transfigured a Knut into a tea bowl… well, that would’ve been the last question they ever asked. At least, while still breathing.

“Just hot water. And whatever miserable excuse for Earl Grey you have. Don’t tell me your DRINK-ing establishment lacks even that.”

“Hot water, we have. Earl Grey, we don’t,” Daisy rasped, eyeing the delicate engravings on the fine glass with a hint of unease.

Without thinking, she snatched up the bowl.

The moment she turned it over, feeling every ridge and groove, Snape let out a sharp hiss, as if the mere action inflicted him with physical pain. Daisy froze.

“You goin’ faint, boy?” she asked, a flicker of concern slipping into her voice.

“Forget the tea. Bring me whiskey.”

Now that she could provide without a fuss.

***

Harry couldn’t see the space around him.

Not just because the night was impenetrably dark—though in such complete blackness, seeing anything would have been a miracle. Not because his glasses were… well, Merlin only knew where they’d ended up. No, his world had blurred the moment he was lifted off the ground, unanchored and adrift. He had pressed his tear-streaked, overheated face into the crook of a familiar collar, his arms curling around a neck, fingers weakly clutching at fabric. His eyelids, heavy as lead, sealed shut over the raw sting in his eyes.

He listened to the uneven rhythm of sticky footsteps—each step first clinging to the floor, then peeling away with a reluctant sound, unsteady but determined. And somehow, as they moved through the endless dark corridor, Harry felt as though he was inching toward something like solace.

At last, after no small effort, he managed to breathe him in, despite his hopelessly blocked nose. His next breath came deeper, steadier than the last, and his frantic heartbeat slowed, settling for a few precious moments in quiet gratitude. The aftershocks of panic still ghosted through him, surfacing in erratic tremors, his body flinching now and then when a stray sob escaped unbidden from his throat.

Now and then, Snape paused abruptly, muttering something low and indistinct. And for some reason, Harry knew—knew—it wasn’t exhaustion or the strain of carrying him that made the man freeze like that, rooted to the spot. But before he could form a coherent thought, a hand would tighten over his shoulder, a sharp chin would settle against his head, and the steady movement would resume.

He supposed he ought to say something—insist that he wasn’t a child, that he could walk on his own just fine. Really. But in this imperfect hush, words felt irrelevant. The slow, steady sway of movement lulled him, rendering the thought meaningless. He had no desire to open his eyes. Even less to move. He hovered on the edge of sleep when a strange sound began drumming against his ears—a hollow, rhythmic tapping, like knuckles rapping out a quiet beat from somewhere far away.

Then, with a faint shift of air against his back and the lightest ripple of magic, he understood.

The rain.

His suspicion was confirmed when a gust of cool air swept in. Snape had opened a window, and the rain wasted no time accepting the silent invitation—wet drumming intensified, hammering against the metal ledge, its presence growing fuller, deeper with each passing second. A pleasant shiver ran through Harry’s body. He inhaled, slow and deep, and the barest hint of a smile traced his lips.

He drifted.

Somewhere in the haze of half-sleep, the world dipped and shifted beneath him.

The mattress.

Snape was lowering him onto… his bed?

Harry had the impulse to open his eyes—but the moment he so much as twitched, two hot palms caressed his lids, snuffing it out entirely.

And when those palms were replaced by lips, just as searing, breath no longer came easily.

“…me.”

The whisper barely made it past the rain, dissolving into the downpour. Harry let out a soft, restless breath, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if that would help him hear.

Responding to the silent plea, Snape cupped his face, and after one last brush of lips over trembling lashes, bent to murmur into his ear.

"Forgive an old fool..." He spoke between pauses, each syllable sealed against the lobe of Harry’s ear.

Harry pressed closer instinctively, his flushed cheek grazing smooth skin, his fingertips ghosting over the part in Snape’s hair. The scent of him curled into his lungs, thick and intoxicating. His head swam.

“Merlin, you smell good,” he confessed, the words loose, honey-thick on his tongue. "If I had Amortentia right now… it would smell just like you."

The sharp cheekbone beneath his lips twitched.

"Your voice… drives me mad. I swear, I could—fuck, I’d give anything just to keep hearing it." The words almost dazed, reverent, like a prayer. “And—”

“Potter,” Snape breathed, so quietly it barely reached him.

“And your nose.” Harry gave a drowsy, amused huff, his mouth bumping into the familiar crook entirely by accident. “The most magnificent nose in the world.”

"Are you even listening?"

Snape drew back—not much, just enough to lift Harry’s head, his voice dipping into something closer to a command.

“Look at me.”

It took effort to force his eyes open.

And when he did, he found Snape’s face trapped between light and shadow, bisected by the dim glow of a streetlamp outside. One side lost to darkness. The other lit in stark relief—brows drawn tight in something raw, something heavy, something too much. His eyes, black and bright, glinted sharply beneath the slanted glow.

"Forgive me," Snape said, so quietly it was more felt than heard. "This was reckless. To say the least."

He hesitated for the span of a breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“Perhaps I was—thrown off,” he admitted at last, voice barely more than a murmur. “I wasn’t sure how to act aft—”

“After I made you come?”

Harry’s voice was languid, unhurried, like it was an afterthought. Like it hadn’t just upended the room. He shifted, gaze unwavering, and then—without hesitation—turned his head and kissed the heat of Snape’s palm. Just once. Just enough.

"After I had to hold your legs still when they wouldn’t stop shaking?" His tone didn’t change, but the weight of it pressed down like silk, slow and deliberate. "After I dragged the last of those—" he let the pause hang, excruciating "—sounds from you?"

Snape sucked in a sharp breath. His mouth tensed, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

His hands dropped.

“…Damn it all.”

His voice was low. Rough. Hollow. A confession, not a curse.

Harry eased back onto his elbows, melting into the mattress. His dazed gaze wandered over the rigid figure before him—draped in black, swallowed by the darkness. Snape hadn’t moved an inch. Only lowered his head, letting disheveled strands fall forward, obscuring his face.

He looked more like a shadow than ever, Harry thought. And with that thought came the slow, helpless curl of his lips. He kept staring, aimless, at this living embodiment of darkness—an impossible dream, a mirage, a phantom of fevered imagination. One careless blink, and he’d vanish—like he was never real.

Merlin. He couldn’t stop shivering.

“…Damn it?” His voice was hoarse. “That moment was set in stone the second I looked into the Pensieve, Severus.”

A hollow laugh escaped him—his hands tore through his hair, and he collapsed onto his back. Eyes shut, he turned his face away.

"That fucking joke of yours." His breath caught on a scoff. "Maybe another time, I would’ve laughed. But not then. By then, it was too late. Too damn late, Severus, do you understand?"

A silence. Then, just a whisper—

“I was so scared.”

The words slipped into the stillness—dull, hollow. Not quite a voice. Just something left behind in the dark.

***

"I'm Daisy, by the way."

"Hn."

"What about you…?"

Daisy met his heavy stare without so much as a flinch. Then, catching his meaning, she simply shut her mouth.

Snape knocked back the first glass in a single motion. That marked the beginning of his unchecked drinking—by the fourth, he’d lost count. Apparently, so had Daisy. She was more focused on how he drank—with sharp, greedy swallows, like he was trying to put out a fire in his throat. With thirst like that, she thought, he might as well drink straight from the bottle.

She didn’t say it out loud. That would have been impolite.

Instead, she leaned forward, propped her chin, and sighed—softly, at first.

With every sip, her sighs grew louder.

Eventually, Snape, thoroughly fed up with her insistent huffing, grimaced and shot her a glare from under his brows.

"What, you enjoying the show?" he growled. His voice, low and slightly hoarse, was surprisingly steady. His eyes, too, remained sharp and clear.

“Oh, don’t go flatterin’ yerself.” Daisy snorted, far too pleased, as if she had been waiting for him to finally break the silence. “You just look bloody miserable.”

“I. Look. Miserable.”

"Damn right you do. And ya oughta slow down—this ain’t the kind of thirst you fix with whiskey."

“I’m paying, aren’t I?” Snape snapped, yanking a few crumpled bills from his pocket. Then, with pointed defiance, he tilted his head back and drained the last of his glass.

“Aw, c’mon now, don’t be like that.” Daisy waved off the money without a glance. Her attention never left his face. “Why don’t we just talk instead? Might even do ya some good.”

“And what do you think I’m drinking for?” Snape sneered. “Or does your bloody sign say ‘Alcoholics Anonymous’?”

“Nope,’” Daisy grinned, bright as anything. “Says ‘Lost Paradise.’”

Something flickered across Snape’s face. He blinked, chewing the inside of his lip, his frown deepening in brief contemplation. Then he scoffed quietly, rolling the empty glass.

“Lost,” he muttered, turning the word over like a stone in his mouth.

Then, softer, almost to himself:

“How fitting, Snape.”

“What’s that you’re mumblin’?”

“Your whiskey’s… not bad.”

Snape froze, glass outstretched, waiting.

Daisy merely raised an eyebrow, took the glass from his hand, and, without ceremony, set it aside.

A sharp huff of irritation followed.

“I told you—I’m paying for it,” Snape snapped, baring his teeth.

“And I don’t want your money.” Daisy waved him off, firm. “Talk to me instead. Then maybe—just maybe—I’ll think about pourin’ you another.”

"Oh, you’ll think about it?"

Why was he even tolerating this conversation?

If he truly wanted to drink himself into oblivion, he needn’t lift a finger—he could levitate a bottle, pour another, and Obliviate this odd woman in a blink.

Yet for some reason, he didn’t.

There was something about her.

Perhaps the alcohol had already begun to dull his senses. Or perhaps it was the way that smug, wry smirk curled at her plump lips—something vaguely familiar about it. And her brown eyes…

A flicker of something unmistakable—

Loneliness.

“I don’t much care for… conversation,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how.”

“More like I’m not used to it,” he said, almost absently.

“Well, lucky for you, I can help with that.”

Snape’s face contorted, as if he’d just bitten into a whole lemon. Daisy, unfazed, leaned forward, resting her ample chest atop the counter.

“Alright then. Let’s start with somethin’ simple—lovely weather today, ain’t it?”

“Utterly dreadful.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I can’t stand the sun.”

Daisy let out a dry chuckle.

“And what can you stand, then?”

“Rain. Cool air. Cloud cover,” Snape answered without hesitation, as if under Veritaserum.

“That’s just regular London weather. You know as well as I do—you could count the sunny days on one hand.”

Snape snorted. What absolute drivel. What the hell was he even doing?

“And yet, even that much is enough to be repulsive.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Daisy conceded. She frowned in thought. “So that’d mean almost three hundred days a year are—”

Snape raised a brow.

“What?” For once, there was no irritation in his voice—only genuine curiosity. “Don’t tell me you’re about to say ‘good.’ You think 'good' is all about the weather?”

Her brown eyes gleamed playfully.

“—at the very least, not repulsive,” she concluded, sounding strangely satisfied. “But since we’re on the subject of good things…”

She reached forward—quick, yet deliberate—so fast Snape barely had time to react. With a light touch, she adjusted the collar of his black coat.

“Good things don’t just come down to the weather. More often than not, they’re the little things. The ones you don’t even notice at first.” She hummed. “Like… what’s your favorite color? No, wait—lemme guess…”

Feigning deep thought, she made her guess.

“Hmm… black? “

Snape pulled back, ready to shoot her a withering glare—this was even more ridiculous than their talk of weather—but something stopped him.

Something tugged at the corner of his lips—a twitch.

“Your deduction skills leave much to be desired,” he muttered into his closed fist.

“Oh? Then what is it?”

“Green.”

***

“I told you—I asked for forgiveness.”

Harry ignored him. He ignored every plea before this one, ignored the way his voice wavered, ignored the weight behind it. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow and whispered, barely a breath—

“The funny thing is… I’m still scared, Severus.”

And yet, as always, Snape heard him.

“What are you afraid of now?”

“I’m afraid I’ll blink—and you’ll be gone.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m afraid of waking up,” Harry admitted, voice thin. “Afraid I won’t remember you like this. Won’t remember the way your face softens, the way your body moves, the way your voice sounds when you—” His throat bobbed. “Afraid I won’t remember the taste of you. That you’ll throw me out, slam the door in my face—and then run. Hide somewhere so far that I’ll never find you again.”

A ragged breath tore free, followed by the quiet groan of the mattress.

Harry bit down on his lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

He recognized that sound.

Slowly, deliberately, Snape eased onto the bed beside him.

For a moment, Harry wasn’t entirely sure if he was still clothed—so searing was the heat of him against his back. Snape didn’t press up against him completely. But Harry still felt it—the ghost of his hair, tickling the nape of his neck. He must have been lying on his side, and somehow… he was higher up, propped on his elbow, maybe?

Harry wasn’t sure.

His thoughts unraveled the moment he inhaled that maddening scent again.

And then—

He felt it.

“S-S… Severus—”

Harry jerked, recoiling—only to melt back against him the next instant. It was instinct, reflex—thin lips brushed against his neck, featherlight at first—then insistent, demanding. The touch sent a slow, scorching ache curling through his gut.

“Mmh?”

His cheeks flamed. A moan caught at the back of his throat when a warm, wet tongue flicked out, tracing a path along the dip of his nape. Deliberate. Lingering. Setting off sensations he’d never even imagined.

"Merlin… that feels so good."

Wait—was that a chuckle?

Harry startled, pulling back just enough to twist around, face-to-face with Snape.

It was useless.

Flat on his back, he had no logical thought left. His mind had abandoned him completely, leaving behind only heat, pulse, and the static hum of his own breath.

“Is this… one of your jokes too?”

His knees folded beneath him before he even had the chance to pull back.

Harry—disheveled, his cheeks burning so fiercely that, thankfully, the darkness hid the flush—stared at Snape.

And Snape stared back.

A smirk curled at his lips, but his eyes—black, smoldering, fathomless—held no amusement.

That look shattered whatever fragile grip Harry had on sanity.

“Naturally…” Snape drawled, as if savoring the moment.

Then his fingers closed around Harry’s chin, cutting through the silence—sharp, deliberate, the only thing anchoring Harry back from the edge of panic:

“Naturally not, Potter. Joking with you is dangerous. I’ve learned that lesson well. So from now on, I shall tread most carefully.”

“So this is real?” Harry asked, voice hushed, almost desperate.

“That depends.” Dry amusement flickered in Snape’s voice. “Resisting the urge to mock Mr. Potter? A bold, shameless lie.”

Harry gritted his teeth.

“If you’re worried I’ll vanish like some ghost—do I really need to remind you how ghosts come to be? That sort of trick isn’t in my repertoire.”

“Stop it! You know exactly what I mean. And anyway, you—”

"You should have let me die, you idiot! Die and be rid of this curse! But, as always, you just had to ruin everything!"

Harry bit his lip hard. Not now. Not this time.

“And as for ‘throwing you out’…” Snape let out a slow, pointed sigh. “Really, Potter, your logic has always been questionable, but surely—even you—don’t think I meant to toss you from my own bedroom window?”

That did it.

Harry groaned in frustration, and at last, Snape’s smirk faded. His expression shifted, brows drawing together as he sighed—a slow, resigned breath.

“Nightstand. Second drawer.”

Harry blinked. His brows pulled together, suspicion creeping in.

“…What?”

“Just look, Potter”

Snape’s voice carried the weight of exhaustion. He tipped his head back against the pillow, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Harry exhaled sharply and forced himself upright, the mattress resisting his weight.

“Lumos.”

A soft glow flared to life at his fingertip, sharp enough to make him squint.

The nightstand wasn’t hard to spot—its polished black surface gleamed under the light.

His glasses lay on top. His lip caught between his teeth for a moment. Fingers curled around the handle of the second drawer. Slowly, he pulled it open.

A sharp, breathy laugh slipped past his lips—disbelieving, bitter.

What the fuck…?

The only thing inside was a thick, weighty stack of parchment.

Was this some twisted form of retribution? Some long-overdue reckoning? Had Snape been waiting for this moment just to make a fool of him?

"Severus…" Harry started, voice low, edged with something raw. He turned, angling the glow of Lumos toward the man sprawled against the pillows.

Snape grimaced, raising a hand as if to fend off an unwelcome glare.

"I said look, you insufferable boy," he hissed.

His jaw tightened. He yanked open the drawer, scooped up the entire stack, and dumped it onto his lap.

He shoved his glasses onto his nose and flicked an impatient glance at the first sheet—expecting anything, anything but—

Oh… Merlin.

“…couldn’t find any peace…”

“…forced myself to, just to see you…”

His breath hitched. He trembled, smoothing over the next sheet.

“…if it’s not too late, I’m begging you—just give me a sign. Anything at all…”

“…about you every bloody second… need to see you…”

Snape’s breathing was steady. Deep. Almost imperceptible.

And yet, with every line Harry read, the rain against the window struck harder—spilling over the sill, slithering down the walls, pooling in the dark like ink.

He sat frozen. Still. Staring.

Blinking away the traitorous sting in his eyes. But the harder he fought it, the blurrier everything became.

“…Did I not deserve even a single letter? Was it really so difficult?”

“…Searching… everywhere. Asking around like a madman…”

“…You didn’t give me those memories for nothing, did you? …Why would you have faked them?”

"Not afraid anymore, are you?"

Snape’s voice was low. Measured. Devoid of anything readable.

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His gaze remained locked—trapped—on the precise, calligraphic strokes of his own handwriting.

He had taken such care, tracing every letter with unnatural patience.

Where his hand had trembled, the ink had bled—halting at punctuation, hesitating, second-guessing every word before sealing itself to the page.

“…I dreamed of you today. It felt so real—I could even smell you. You can’t imagine what it was like, waking up and realizing it's all just a fucking dream…”

His breath caught—shallow, uneven.

Every letter. Every page. Every wound laid bare.

Like chapters in some sprawling tragedy, his words—preserved with meticulous precision, stacked in flawless order—exposed him in a way nothing else ever had.

"If only I could run from them."

Soft. Velvet. A voice creeping in from somewhere just beyond reach.

“…I hate Weasley. I hate her so much. And it’s my own damn fault—everything that happened…”

“…Avoiding Ron and Hermione… too much concern… don’t know what to say… exhausted.”

Every word sliced into him, sharp as a blade.

A raw, choked sound clawed its way out—a fractured mix of a groan and a whimper, unbidden.

A voice in the back of his mind urged him to stop, to end this twisted act of self-inflicted suffering. But his body refused to listen.

Like some mindless Muggle machine, programmed to obey a single, cruel command—wipe his tears, swallow the nausea, turn the page, read, read, read—start over.

“You’re an extraordinary man, Potter. Strong. Brave. Not an idiot.”

A pause. A weighted breath.

“…Well. Perhaps just a little.”

Shut up. Just—shut up.

He shook like a blade of grass in the teeth of a storm.

The rain lashed against the windowpanes—relentless, suffocating, drowning the air in damp and cold until he could barely breathe.

“…Sometimes it feels like I’m nothing more than an experiment… again…”

“…Like I can feel you watching me. People notice… say I act strange. I can’t help it. It’s like you’re breathing down my neck. I turn around—but you’re never there.”

“…And yet, Potter—somehow, I envy you.”

A sound—low, rolling. A tremor stirred the air—faint, like a breath held too long.

And deep inside, a slow, aching reverberation—something vast, something breaking apart.

"YOU—!"

Harry’s cry tore through the room. He flung the letters away, ripping them from his hands—scattered pages caught in a storm. Away, away, into nothing.

His hand shot out, grabbing the first thing within reach—a pillow—and he hurled it at Snape.

When that failed to make an impression, he staggered forward, knees buckling beneath him, snatched the pillow off Snape’s chest, and struck him again.

He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked—like a child, all righteous fury and no real weight behind his blows, more defiance than damage.

Because there was no one here to see. No audience. No judgement. What the hell did it matter?

Fucking Snape.

“You absolute bastard!”

His indignant cries landed one after another, right alongside the pillow. And Snape—who, it had to be said, made no effort to dodge—didn’t even blink. The only sign of impact was the way his hair grew increasingly tousled, shifting with each rush of air, and the occasional feather that spiraled lazily onto his black shirt.

“How. Dare. You.”

Harry, breathless, loomed over that maddeningly composed face, clenching the pillow, his throat tightening against something thick, something unbearable.

"Have you settled down?" Snape asked, as if commenting on the weather.

"Oh, have I settled down?"

Harry had just taken a breath when fresh outrage surged through him. His grip on the pillow gnarled—it felt heavier now, bloated with defiance, quivering in silent mockery.

And then, when he raised it once more—ready to bring it down, eyes squeezed shut—

Something happened.

If the pillow had a soul, it surely would have sneered at him.

“Give it back,” Harry ground out.

Snape hadn’t moved, save for one arm—stretched lazily past Harry, fingers hooked around the pillow’s edge, halting its descent with infuriating ease. He held it as if it were nothing, an afterthought.

And his face—oh, his face. That was the real insult.

A picture of pure, unrepentant audacity.

Harry was seconds from bursting.

"Or what?" Snape mused, voice so measured it had to be deliberate, though his lips twitched as if laughter were mere seconds away. "Will you find something with a little more weight?"

Harry didn’t think—he lunged.

Draped over him in an ungainly sprawl—one hand gripping the headboard, the other clawing at Snape’s forearm—grabbing, pinching, scratching—he scowled, muttering something distinctly unrepeatable.

“You… absolute bastard—” he panted, nearly reaching the stretched edge of the pillowcase.

“That’s right,” Snape acknowledged.

“B—bas… tard—”

“Mm.”

He gasped between ragged breaths, fury burning through his lungs.

“Cynical, cruel, soulless—”

“Undeniably.”

He hadn’t even noticed—hadn’t even realized—when he ended up on top of Snape.

Hadn’t realized when his voice gave out entirely.

“Prick.”

A whisper—so quiet it barely stirred the air. And yet, no less alive for it.

Snape—no, Severus—was alive, too. Every inch of him. Eyes gleaming like embers beneath soot, his breath a faint, steady rhythm between them.

“Yes?”

He had said it aloud.

Merlin—when had it gotten so bloody hot?

“—me go?”

Harry’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. He could feel it—how his chest kept pressing against the body beneath him with every rise and fall.

If not for the fabric between them, he would have scraped himself raw against those ribs.

At first, he didn’t even register the question. His vision blurred, showing him nothing but two gleaming pools of black—too deep to read, too unreal to be eyes.

And then a voice pulled him back.

Low. Rich. Warmer than it had any right to be. A warmth so tangible, he could almost touch it—and feel it sear.

“…Perhaps you’d be so kind as to let me go?”

Harry blinked rapidly, gave his head a brief shake—and only then did his own hands swim into focus.

Dazed, he followed them downward, tracing the length of his own forearms—

There.

Snape’s wrists lay pinned against the mattress, stretched out on either side of him. Trapped, locked beneath Harry’s grip—so tight that the skin beneath had blanched to an almost sickly white.

And then, with no small amount of horror, he noticed the pillow—the same one he had chased like a Snitch across a Quidditch field—now lying at perfect ease, wedged between the headboard and the wall. Smug. Triumphant. He could swear it was smirking at him.

Not just some random crease in the fabric—no, a smirk.

"I…" His voice scraped raw against his throat.

His gaze wavered, struggled to lower.

"Sorry, I just—" he managed, breathing hard through his nose, biting at lips inexplicably dry.

His fingers loosened. Slowly, his palms pressed against the mattress.

He needed to move—now.

Merlin, if this unbearable closeness lasted a second longer, he’d—

But the moment he shifted his hips, where he was melting, aching, a hand—ice-cold—found his lower back, pressing against the sliver of bare skin where his hoodie had ridden up.

“What are you—” Harry faltered, his breath hitching.

His blurred vision latched onto a pale face.

"You're shaking," came the whisper—thin lips barely moving.

And then they smiled at him.

Snape.

Snape smiled.

And Harry—

Harry was really shaking. Head to toe.

"How the hell am I supposed—?" His voice cracked, barely holding together.

A rush of heat—liquid, consuming, curling deep.

He collapsed.

His stomach knotted, a white-hot pulse searing through his core. His teeth clicked together. His throat choked out something raw, strangled—an incoherent mess of sound as he buried his face into the nearest point of resistance.

A shoulder. Taut. As rigid as his own body.

How desperately had he wanted this?

How many sleepless nights had he spent pacing, circling that damned living room—away from Weasley, away from everyone? Dreaming of that scent. Imagining that voice, that fire in his gaze, the rhythm—or the absence of it—in his breath.

Sometimes, he let himself go too far. A single reckless step forward—his thoughts spiraling, rising in a frenzy, near-tangible in their madness.

Harry, pupils wide, throat bobbing with a swallowed moan—lost to the friction. Every time he stopped, the images slipped away, leaving him cold and alone.

And now—now there was another hand.

Thinner. More elegant. Fingers long, precise—where his had been frantic.

And Harry lay against it—whining, biting, twisting, his eyes squeezed shut—

Because—fuck. Fuck!

“Good—” The word caught in his throat, lost in the jet-black strands scattered across the pillow. “Oh, fuck—that feels so—”

“Up.” A voice at his ear. Low. Unyielding.

He was so far gone that Snape could have told him to leap out the bloody window, and he would have done it. No Imperius Curse required.

His arms trembled as he barely pushed himself up.

Only to find himself face-to-face with a smirk.

Sinister.

“Feels good, you say,” Snape murmured, tipping his head back. His lashes lowered just so, but his gaze never wavered. A gleam—wicked, razor-sharp.

A sudden crack of thunder split the night, wind howling through the open window.

Harry jolted.

Lightning streaked across the sky. For a single, unnatural second, its white-hot glare stripped every shadow from Snape’s face. And in Harry’s eyes, for that one breathless instant—

Fear.

Flickering.

Twisting.

Then—gone.

Drowned beneath the heat of something far darker.

***

“Why?”

“What?”

“You said your favorite color was green. Why green?”

“Because his eyes…”

Snape didn’t recognize his own voice.

Not until the last word slipped past his lips—too late to take it back.

“Eyes?” Daisy’s voice rang out, sharp enough that Snape reflexively glanced around—then remembered they were alone.

“Forget it. I misspoke.”

“Oh, sure you did.”

That infuriating lilt in her voice was grating on his nerves. Snape exhaled, a hiss between his teeth, already picturing the consequences of a tongue loosened by drink.

“So—green…” Daisy crooned, propping her chin. "And what’s she like, this emerald-eyed beauty of yours?"

Snape flinched. His gut reaction was to snap at her, something cutting, something to put her in her place.

But his mouth—already poised to retort—shut instead.

His face darkened for a split second.

And then, a dry, near-silent laugh escaped him as he turned away.

“I never said it was a woman.”

Daisy sucked in a quick breath, her hands falling to the table with a quiet thud.

Her expression shifted in an instant—somber, almost mournful.

Then, without a word, she reached for the lone bottle, tilting it to gauge what little remained. Apparently satisfied, she emptied the rest into Snape’s abandoned glass and slid it toward him.

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

“Oh? So I’ve earned it, then?” Snape murmured dryly, staring into the glass.

This time, he took only a small sip.

Then lifted his gaze to hers, his face betraying nothing.

His voice came out rough.

“You’re going to say—”

“I ain’t gonna say a damn thing,” Daisy cut in. Her brows knit together, fierce and unwavering. "Unlike some thick-headed pricks in this place, I don’t see a problem with it. And neither should you. It’s the twenty-first bloody century. If anyone’s still got a problem with homosexuality—”

Snape shrank into himself, shoulders taut, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Like he’d been wrung dry, drained to the last drop.

"Oh, spare me. I don’t fancy men."

The words had barely left his mouth before regret struck—fast and brutal.

Brilliant, Snape. Just brilliant. Stumble into some godforsaken pub and spill your guts to a random Muggle. And drunk, no less—because that’ll make this catastrophe easier to justify.

"Ohhh," Daisy drawled, dragging out the syllable, feigning deep thought. Then, all at once, her face went pale. "Wait—if it’s not a woman… and not a man—"

She trailed off, unwilling—or unable—to finish the thought.

Snape shot to his feet, tension snapping through him like a live wire. His teeth ground together so hard it felt like his molars might crack.

Foolish, foolish Muggle.

How dare she—how could she even think—

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

His voice came low and venomous, laced with real, seething threat.

The sheer force of it cut through the air like a blade.

It took every ounce of restraint to unclench the wand.

He exhaled sharply, pressing to his temple, rubbing slow circles over the dull throb in his skull.

Calm the fuck down, you idiot.

Since when are you this easy to provoke?

***

Dazed, half-lost in a fever dream, Harry barely registered the rasp of a zipper being undone.

The moment Snape’s fingers closed around him—tight, unrelenting—a burst of red flared behind his eyes.

Up.

“Oh, God—”

Down.

“Se—”

Up.

“S—Severus—!”

His cheeks burned so fiercely, it bordered on agony. His elbows—where he had collapsed—shook violently, and his lips were cracked and dry from his ragged breaths.

Not even the damned Inquisition could have seared him this raw.

Nerve by nerve, sensation by sensation. And if this was happening at the hands of Severus Snape, then no. He wasn’t the heretic here. The real sinner was right there, smirking, black eyes gleaming.

What else could it be but the inferno?

And sweet fucking Merlin, that voice—

"Look at me, Potter."

But he was looking—where the fuck else was he supposed to look?

That gaze tore him open, dragged him under—swallowed him whole.

It ripped him from this cramped little room until he no longer knew where he was.

Didn’t even hear the harsh crunch of his own letters crumpling beneath his knees.

Didn’t even know his own name.

His skull felt on the verge of splitting. Thoughts—jagged. Torn. Scattered like shredded parchment beneath him.

Pages ripped from context. Flashes of color. Flickering too fast to catch. Like a Muggle film reel, skipping ahead in fevered bursts.

He pressed their foreheads together, hard—as if he could anchor himself in the heat, as if he could let Snape shoulder some of it.

"Please," Harry begged, thighs clenching, fighting the unbearable tension. "I can't—"

"Can’t, huh?" Snape echoed, voice slipping somewhere between amusement and something—shaky. Almost uncertain.

Snape was bluffing. Or trying to.

His voice—meant to be mocking—shook.

Harry let out a strangled moan.

"Not—this—fucking—slow—"

Unbelievable. How the hell—how was it even possible—that Snape, with only one hand, could reduce him to this?

Him. Harry Potter. Not who he used to be. Not anymore.

The same Harry who used to saunter through London crossroads, knocking back another pint in one rough swallow, scanning alleyways for stolen cigarettes.

That Harry had the audacity to believe the world was his for the taking—that recklessness would never catch up to him. That he could chase indulgence to the edge and always, always get away with it.

Especially when his mouth—so bold, so shameless—had once worshipped Snape with unflinching devotion, making Harry feel, for the first time, like he truly was chosen.

And now—now he had walked straight into his own damnation.

Who would’ve thought the price of his arrogance would be this catastrophic?

He gasped—desperate, airless—tilting his head wildly, only to collide with the sharp, unyielding bridge of Snape's nose.

It didn’t help.

There was no air. No relief.

Snape’s hand moved so unbearably slow around him that his legs ached from the tension.

Was this mockery? Humiliation? A lesson in power, in who truly held it? If that was the case—then why this? Why something so exquisitely cruel?

Harry would have let him brand a serpent into his skin, burn it over the faded lightning bolt—

So that the whole world would know whom he belonged to.

Just—faster.

Don’t make me beg.

" Why make yourself suffer, Potter?"

Snape’s voice dripped with cruel amusement—brushed against his parched lips, the heat of it nearly tangible.

"No one ever said you weren’t allowed to take what you wanted."

Another crack of thunder. And suddenly—clarity struck like a curse.

That was it. He’d been waiting—like a trembling idiot—for Snape to act, to claim, to just fucking do something. Anything. And yet—not once had it occurred to him.

No one had forbidden him from moving. Not yet.

Heat. Slickness. His hips bucked into it.

Harry collapsed against Snape’s chest, dragging in his scent—deep, dizzying. Without thinking, he bit down—hard—on the rough buttons beneath the collar, tearing two free with his teeth.

Harry’s lashes flickered shut.

Somewhere beneath the ribs, where his cheek pressed close, a heart pounded—huge, unyielding. His tongue chased blindly after his lips, slicking over salted skin.

He reached the sharp cut of Snape’s collarbone—higher now—where his throat trembled beneath a swallowed breath, where Harry had already left a dark, bruised mark.

And then—his breath hitched. He went still. Tensed. Like a beast before the kill.

Because he remembered.

"Severus."

The ragged rasp against Snape’s throat was so shameless, so raw—it sent a shudder down his own spine.

But Snape—Snape either hadn’t heard him, or had heard him too well.

Because he didn’t answer.

So Harry tried again.

"Severus?"

His whole body jerked when the grip tightened—firm, unyielding.

"What?" Snape’s voice sounded… wrong.

"You said you… 'envied me'… What d-did you mean."

No strength left for proper intonation.

The body beneath him stiffened.

Fingers—long, bony—clawed into his cheek, pulling the skin taut. Unforgiving.

Snape whispered straight into his ear:

"It’s just that you, Potter—"

A low, bitter laugh.

"Unlike me, you’re not a coward."

A bolt of lightning split the night, flashing white-hot—blinding—even behind his closed eyes.

***

Daisy sat across from him, fingers curled around the stem of her glass.
Her gaze drifted with the wine—swirling along the glassy walls, slow and thoughtful.

"So what you’re tellin’ me is—you and this… young bloke, you just can’t be together, huh?"

Her voice could’ve frozen the whole bloody bottle.

Snape stared at the last drops of whiskey drying at the bottom of his glass, as if some forgotten incantation might summon them back into something drinkable.

"Correct. Utterly impossible."

Daisy set her glass aside, arms folding over the table. She let out a slow breath, then lifted her wide brown eyes to meet his.

"Is it impossible," she rasped, voice low, deliberate, "or is that just what you’ve decided?"

"I don’t—"

The words jammed in his throat. He tried to swallow them down, but the lump only grew—sharp-edged, relentless, cutting into him from the inside out.

"And what, exactly, makes you so sure?"

Pull yourself together.

“It’s quite simple,” he murmured, his baritone smooth, clinical.
"For one—by some cruel twist of fate and despite all mathematical improbability, our lives have an infuriating tendency to cross. And yet, at the same time, they have always run parallel. Separate."

He let the words settle for a beat.

"Of course, that might sound absurd if I weren’t currently drowning in your damned whiskey. But right now? It’s nothing short of absolute truth."

His lip curled.

"Me and—" a flicker of distaste crossed his face, "—this young man—we are two distinct, parallel lines. And parallel lines, by their very nature, do not intersect."

A pause. Then, dryly:

"And second—let’s talk about youth, shall we? I am, as you may have noticed, not twenty. That boy has his entire life ahead of him. But I—mine has already been spent."

He absently tapped against the glass.

"Different generations. Different worlds. Different—Merlin, in every conceivable way."

"What’s Merlin?"

"Never mind."

He leaned back, half-mocking, half-resigned.

"And third—if it hadn’t already become glaringly obvious—I am not a pleasant man. Few can tolerate my company. And those who can…"

A slow exhale.

"Well—if I didn’t happen to know them for the past twenty years, I’d say they belonged in a bloody institution."

“You said this person was lookin’ for you.”

“I did.”

"That he hasn’t stopped. That he even writes to you. That, after all this time, he still—"

“Correct.”

"And you don’t think that says something? That maybe—just maybe—he actually wants to see you?"

Snape’s vacant gaze bored into the dark, unflinching eyes across from him. His eyelids burned. Strangely, fiercely.

"A reckless impulse. Nothing more. It will pass."

“Oh, will it?” Daisy shot back. “Four and a half years, and it hasn’t passed—but now, all of a sudden, it’s supposed to?”

Her glare sharpened like the edge of a broken bottle.

"Who’re you tryna fool, eh? Is this some kinda principle to you?"
Daisy’s voice was biting. "Skulkin’ around like a damn ghost, hidin’ from the boy at every turn—but watchin’ him all the same. Lurkin’. Hoverin’. Like some mad scientist over his first and only experiment."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

“What is he to you, a bloody test subject?”

She scoffed. "He’s a fuckin’ person. Flesh, blood, bones, a beatin’ heart. Same as you."

She leaned in, voice lower, pressing.

“And if you feel somethin’ for ‘im—what’s the point of this charade? Why the bloody spectacle? Why make the both of you suffer?”

“I have no choice.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Daisy growled, wagging a finger at him. “There’s always a choice, you hooked-nosed bastard.

You go on about how you’re not twenty, but you’re actin’ like a bloody child.

"He’s tryin’ to get to you, clear as day. And what if he—bloody hell—what if he actually feels the same? Have you even stopped to think about that?"

She sat back, arms crossed, eyes ablaze.

“What are you so afraid of?”

"…Afraid," Snape echoed, almost tasting the word. Foreign. Unfamiliar.

His eyes widened—startled.

For a split second, it wasn’t Daisy he feared.

It was himself. And that terrified him more than anything.

Obliviate?

"I’ve done enough harm," he said, voice unsteady. "I… I’m afraid of making him miserable again. That he’ll regret it—a thousand times over. That it’s better to kill it before it even has the chance to—before it can—"

“Load o’ bollocks, that is.”

Daisy’s voice cut through him like a blade.

"You said, ‘by some cruel twist of fate’—" she mocked, dragging out the words in an exaggerated drawl, like she were taking the piss. "The hell do you even know about fate? To me, you’re just some bloke who’s never had a taste of real life."

She let out a breath, long and slow.

"Y’need to let yourself live.

And fate—well, maybe it’s already got plans for ya. Maybe you’re just stallin’. But mark my words—it’ll catch up with ya, one way or another. The only question is—when it finally does, will it be too bloody late?"

Her voice dipped low.

"Cause if it is, the one who’ll end up regrettin’ it—"

Something flickered in her eyes.

"—is you."

"Let myself live," Snape echoed, distant.

He turned to the window, its surface streaked with murky grime.

Slowly—reluctantly—his fingers unfurled from the wand in his pocket.

He left it there. Untouched.

And then—just as slowly—he returned his empty hand to the table.

"And there’s the rain," he muttered with a ghost of a smile, watching the mist settle on the glass.

***

Harry thrust into the tight, slick clutch around his aching flesh. Sweat beaded at his hairline, heat radiating from his skin. His mouth fell open, raw sounds escaping—relentless, unrestrained. His heart thundered. With every frenzied jolt, it didn’t pump blood—only liquid fire.

So easy. So dangerously easy—to lose himself.  

Harry braced himself on trembling arms, his fists clenched tight, bruised knuckles digging into the mattress.

How long had this been going on?

He wasn’t keeping track of time.

And he had no intention of starting.

How could he think—when he felt every ridge, every curl of those fingers around him?

When they squeezed tighter, dragging up suddenly, breaking the frantic rhythm— stars burst behind his eyes, white-hot, all-consuming. His throat tore open on a shattered moan.

"Potter."

The voice slipped through the pounding in his ears—quiet, yet unmistakable.

Harry froze. Just like that. Since when had he become so fucking obedient?

For long seconds, he just breathed. His tongue swiped over cracked, raw lips—somehow, they hadn’t split. At last, his eyelids fluttered open—heavy, leaden. And when they did, his breath hitched.

The rain had long since faded, leaving behind only a thin mist. The heavy clouds had melted into nothing. Moonlight spilled into the darkened bedroom, twining with the dim glow of a streetlamp. Breathing life into the stillness.

The grip on him loosened, then slipped to his thigh. Only then did he feel it. The violent, unrelenting trembling of the pale palm.

Without thinking, he covered it with his own—like an unspoken apology. For what, he wasn’t sure.

His own body shook just as badly.

"Sorry," Harry rasped, thumb ghosting over the delicate jut of a fragile wrist.

"And what, you foolish boy," Snape exhaled, voice threadbare, "should I be forgiving you for?"

His fevered gaze never left Harry’s face.

What was that?

Why was he looking at him like that?

Disheveled hair, spilling over a pillow—creased, half-slipped from the bed. The slick gleam of tongue between parted lips. A throat, arched—exposed.

Rapture.

Dark, trembling rapture burned in Snape’s eyes.

His hand, still loosely grasped, suddenly shifted—flipping over.

Harry jolted—Snape’s fingers tangled with his own, pulling him down. He didn’t say a word, surrendering to this strange, unfamiliar magic.

Allowed.

He was allowed anything.

It was impossible to tell who moved first. Mouths crashed in a reckless, frenzied dance—one cold, the other burning; one soft, the other relentless—both desperate to consume.

Now, he was truly lying on top of Snape—without a single thought spared for discomfort, for the weight of his own body. Least of all that.

His mouth latched onto a warm, eager tongue, devouring it with shameless hunger.

The rustle of fabric. The snapping of buttons. Gasps swallowed in the folds of an inside-out hoodie.

His hands roamed the pale, scar-laced chest. Here—this one was the deepest. A jagged cross carved into the diaphragm.

Why did he turn away?

What was there to be ashamed of?

"Severus."

Harry bunched the battered shirt in his fists and flung it into the wreckage of torn letters, discarded clothes, and ruined glasses.

God, but how stunning it was—the way Snape's stomach hollowed beneath his ribs, how the muscle tensed when Harry’s teeth grazed a sensitive peak.

He wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had left even an inch of bare skin untouched.

The short, low sounds spilling above his head were the finest reward.

And the further his rough tongue ventured down, the louder they grew. The deeper Snape’s nails bit into his shoulders.

Is this what you call control?

Harry let out a breathless, near-hysterical chuckle. He dragged his nose along the thin trail of black hair, inhaling the scent of skin, muscles shifting beneath.

"No, no… no," Snape murmured like a man fevered, pulling at Harry's hair.

His body arched—exquisitely. Harry seized the opportunity, slipping his hands beneath shoulder blades, pulling, pressing, until heat met heat, until he could feel every trembling inch of him.

Until he was once again at the level of those burning eyes.

"Am I doing something wrong?" Harry rasped, his gaze darting over Snape’s face, framed by damp strands clinging to his skin.

For a fleeting second, a flicker of confusion crossed that face—like Harry had just said something utterly ridiculous.

"It’s… all… right," Snape exhaled, breath ragged. "You ca—"

He broke off. Head thrown back, throat bared, teeth gritted against a shuddering inhale—Harry had moved, just slightly, just enough for his throbbing cock to drag against Snape’s stomach.

"You—You can d—do it—" Snape bit out, his voice all crushed syllables, wrecked beyond repair.

Dark spots swam before Harry's eyes.

"I can do what."

Then—sharp as a curse—

"Potter, were you even listening when I said I wouldn’t repea—"

"I’m not sure I understood you correctly," Harry cut in, staring somewhere past Snape’s throat, past the bruised skin painted by his own lips, his own teeth.

"For fuck’s sake."

Slick fingers seized his chin, jerking him back into focus.

"Wasn’t it you," Snape growled, "who boasted about all the marvels the damned Pensieve had revealed to you?"

That voice. That tone.

Just like the one that had once filled his ears, years ago, during his final Potions exam.

And the worst part?

This time, Harry knew the answer.

"Since you, Potter, remember everything so well…"

Snape’s face twisted with raw, unrestrained lust.

Harry swallowed hard, pulse hammering against his temples, lashes fluttering. He gently traced one last line along the sharp ridge of vertebrae beneath his touch. And then—finally—he smiled.

Just like Snape did.

"I understand, Severus. No need to repeat."

That intoxicating moment—when breath that had barely settled shatters again, spilling into something ragged, erratic, straining on the verge of a moan—

That moment.

The one that sets your heart racing.

The one you can’t manufacture in the filthiest, most depraved of fantasies—

The one you have to hear for yourself.

Merlin bless wandless magic, because if he had to use his hands to pull Snape’s boxers off, he might have collapsed then and there.

His knee slid up, rolling over unsteady thighs, pressing just enough to part them. It didn’t even cross Harry’s mind to shift away. No—this was right. This was perfect.

Face-to-face. Breath against breath. Skin on skin.

For a fleeting second, the thought surfaced—he had never done this before.

Not entirely, at least. He had some experience, sure, but—

One, he had never done it with a man.

And as for two—

He never got the chance to consider it.

Because that was when it hit him.

Snape was in the exact same position.

Harry held his breath—

Watched.

Wide-eyed. Unblinking. Taking in every flicker, every shift in that face—

As his slick finger pushed inside.

Snape held himself well, even as he added another—only breathing faster, louder, tracing absentminded circles across Harry’s back.

That was when Harry leaned in closer, his tongue grazing the helpless curve of an ear.

Nails against his ribs—sharp enough to sting.

A ragged inhale. His fevered face pressed into the tangled black hair.

"I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing," he confessed, every word brushing against a trembling earlobe.

Harry moved painstakingly slow, afraid to pick up the pace, to push too deep—even though, really, what a stupid fear, considering why his fingers were there in the first place.

He was so focused on not hurting Snape that he completely forgot about his own arousal—the way his cock, trapped between their overheated bodies, pulsed with neglected need.

A shiver ripped through him at the cracked whisper that reached his ears:

“It’s… fine. Just d-d—do it, Potter. Now.”

Harry nearly choked on air.

That strange, devastatingly good pressure around his fingers vanished—replaced by a feeling of unbearable, irretrievable loss.

Two trembling hands pushed him back, forcing him up onto his knees.

Stunned, he stared down.

Snape hesitated for just a second—then shifted beneath him, breathless, muscles trembling. His forehead pressed into the pillow, and Harry barely caught the way his back curved, as if bracing for the next moment.

It felt like a dream.

But could he dream of this?

The endless web of thin scars slicing across Snape's skin.

The whisper of a nonverbal spell, his cock suddenly, slickly ready.

The lingering salt on his tongue—the ghost of where his lips had just traced, following the line of a trembling spine?

"I said—hurry."

Somewhere deep in his chest, it roared.

A caged beast, tearing through his ribs, breaking free—

And with one sharp thrust, Harry buried himself in the molten heat of Snape’s body.

He wasn’t dreaming.

“Oh, God—”

A gasp tore from his throat, swallowed almost instantly by the muffled, shuddering groan crushed into the pillow beneath Snape’s face.

The sound of it—dark, raw, wrecked—turned his vision black.

"God—Severus—"

Harry’s breath stuttered, strangled. He collapsed forward, chest molding to sweat-slick skin he had no right to touch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry, I—"

He stilled, palms gliding over tense forearms, lips searching blindly along the nape of Snape’s neck.

Bloody hell—he had hurt him. He must have. And yet—this unbearable surge of pleasure, coiling deep, searing low—

No.

No, he couldn’t believe his own thoughts.

Shame hit like a curse, hard and unrelenting. His vision blurred, thick tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He squeezed them shut, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat.

“Potter”

A whimper tore from Harry’s throat as he shook his head, frantic.

If he did—if he looked—his chest would split open, his heart would tear clean through.

Then, quiet. A breath, a whisper, the softest plea—

“Harry. Please.”

The moment Harry met those piercing eyes, the world fractured at the edges.

Severus traced his damp cheek—caressing him, head tipped back.

“I’m not made of fucking porcelain. I won’t break.”

His voice, raw yet steady, wove around Harry like a spell.

“If I hear another ‘sorry’ out of you—” A sharp inhale. “I’ll cast Incarcerous, and then you, Potter… won’t be in for a pleasant time.”

For the first time, Harry saw it—a smirk, curling those thin lips.

Not bitter. Not cruel.

Snape's nostrils flared—not in anger, but want. And deep within those bottomless, black pools—desire. Heat.

When?

When had this happened?

When had he gotten so utterly, hopelessly lost in them?

“And now…”

Severus’ breath ghosted over his lips, barely a whisper.

“For fuck’s sake, do something.”

He stretched forward—closer, closer still—why had he ever turned away?

Their lips met again, swallowing the trembling breath between them, and at that very moment, he felt it—the slow, inexorable stretch of tight muscle yielding around him.

The kiss tore apart in an instant.

A muffled groan.

Severus’ hands clenched around the headboard, grasping for anything solid as Harry was left alone with the crushing weight of pleasure.

For long, endless minutes, he waged war with himself—forcing the wild, clawing need back into its cage.

Slow. Steady.

Time. He needed time.

Forehead pressed against the sharp jut of Severus’ shoulder blades, he squinted into the blurred chaos unfolding before him.

His swollen length, glistening, sliding out—slick with heat, framed by the tremor of Severus’ thighs—

And then, just as slowly, vanishing from sight again, drawn deep into impossible warmth.

Where were all the fucking gods when needed most?

Harry sent a silent plea to whoever was listening, tightened his fists, and—carefully, painstakingly—straightened his back, easing himself upright.

It was easier to breathe like this.

He moved again, just slightly—angled differently this time—and Severus jolted, shuddering from head to toe. His hands slipped lower, dragging down the carved wood of the headboard.

Harry’s heart seized.

He froze.

"Did I—does it hurt?"

"N-n—"

"Severus." His voice wavered. "Are you in pain?"

"N-no…" A breathless rasp. "Again. Do that—again."

Heat surged through him, searing, unbearable.

How could he deny him?

He hadn’t even noticed how easily this body had begun to take him in—

Severus’ hips snapped upward, taking him to the hilt.

“Faster, for fuck’s—”

That was it.

No inner beast.

Only him—

A beast unto himself.

Fingers clawed at the rumpled sheets, grasping for something—anything—as pleasure crashed over Harry in waves, relentless and consuming. His eyes rolled back, vision blurred, body trembling on the edge of oblivion. With sheer force of will, he dragged himself back—only to surrender again. Wild, unchained, he surged forward, slamming into the frail frame beneath him, feeling it twist, arch—demanding more.

Sweat ran in thin rivulets down his temples.

Every ragged breath, every savage growl—sent sparks bursting behind his eyes.

He was going to pass out.

Panic spiked through him, and he wrenched free—just for a moment, just long enough to hook his arms beneath Severus’ ribs. With barely any effort, he flipped him onto his back, caught the heat of his cock in his palm, and rasped—

“I want to see you.”

The black eyes staring up at him held no trace of reason.

Harry bent forward, body drawn to the outstretched hands. And Severus—Severus seized him by the hair, yanking his head down with a jerking motion.

“Don’t. Stop.” He growled it against the fever-flushed skin of Harry’s face.

Two ruined voices, torn apart, melted into a single, desperate moan—an echo to the rhythm of their bodies colliding, again and again and again.

Severus was shaking beneath him, breath breaking apart into ragged, wrecked gasps, nails scraping deep across Harry’s back. His hands slid up, clawing for purchase, grasping for something solid—but there was nothing. Nothing except Harry.

Harry, who felt it before he saw it.

The way Severus’ body tensed all at once—the way his breath hitched, sharp and sudden—the way his fingers convulsed against him.

A long, choked, broken cry.

Low and guttural, strangled between gritted teeth. It scraped up from somewhere deep, from somewhere Harry had never heard before, and it made him shudder, tighten his grip, his own breath stutter—because fuck, that sound—

Severus arched against him, jerking up, and Harry barely had time to catch the first hot spill of it—thick, slick, spreading over his fist.

It ruined him.

It unmade him.

He snapped forward, unrelenting, still driving into the heat of him, into the raw, oversensitive wreck of Snape's body. He was breaking apart at the seams—but it wasn’t enough.

His forehead dropped to Severus’ shoulder, his hands clutched at him like a drowning man, biting deep into the flesh of his hips, into the jut of his ribs, pulling him closer—crushing them together, as if they could somehow become one.

“Severus—fuck—I'm so—” he wheezed against flushed skin, pressing open-mouthed, desperate kisses along the curve of his throat. “Severus—I can’t—”

His hips bucked, faster, harder. The last vestiges of control beyond saving.

“Sorry—I—” His voice cracked, desperate. “I can’t stop—”

A sharp pull.

Fingers tangled in his hair.

His head wrenched back.

Snape’s breath, hot against his lips—

“Then don’t,” he growled—dark, wild, unrestrained—daring him.

Harry—undone, utterly lost—obeyed.

He chocked on a gasp, the fever in his blood unbearable. Every nerve screamed, every muscle pulled tight, strung to its breaking point.

Harry was unraveling—grinding into the unbearable heat, losing all control, all thought, all sense of where he ended and Severus began.

Severus was coming apart beneath him.

His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bared, lips trembling around something raw, desperate. He was still shaking, still so achingly open—letting Harry take everything, give everything.

And then—

A ragged, broken cry.

“Hh—ah—rhh—y—!” Severus choked out, nails digging into the wrist clenched around his throat.

That was it.

That was fucking it.

Harry shattered.

His body jerked, breath catching—pleasure obliterated him, violent, near-painful. He froze, his mouth falling open in a strangled, gasping moan.

It was too much.

His body spasmed with every pulse, every wave, pouring into Severus—his mind blank, floating, gone.

He panted against Severus’ throat, his voice a fevered whisper, over and over—

“Severus—fuck—I'm so sorry—I couldn’t—”

His limbs trembled, his body refusing to move, to let go.

And beneath him—

Severus laughed. A rough, breathless laugh, half-mad, completely spent. And fuck, it made Harry’s stomach coil all over again.

Outside, beyond the open window, as dawn broke—the birds sang.

Unconcerned.

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.