The rain gently hit the windows, a soft rhythmic noise that melded with the soft murmurs of the great hall. It grounded Harry, the constant noise. It reminded him that there were people around him, that everyone was okay, that it was over. The soft candle lights gave the hall a warm glow, easy on the eyes. It kept phantom headaches at bay and made everyone look so much younger, so much less jaded.
It was an easy routine to settle in, being a professor at Hogwarts. Harry did have a soft spot for adventuring and mysteries, but the constant hits of adrenaline in his veins took a toll on him. Falling back into the familiar halls and classrooms was a comfort to him. It was also nice to see familiar faces, to know that they were safe, that he could keep an eye on them.
Hermione would scold him for his continuous paranoia, he knew she and Ron worried. Harry would see Hermione casting him gentle looks during their prep periods, knew that Ron would always come during his lunch breaks through the floo in his office, just to check on him.
It’s still a bit odd to Harry, even after all these years, to know that there were people on his side, that cared for him. Even time couldn’t wash away those small doubts reminiscent of a child’s woes, begging to be believed, begging to be cared for. Perhaps some wounds ran deeper than anyone ever thought.
Just thinking about it brough up age old anger, a jaded old crass anger. One that just made him feel tired. No one could have known, Harry knew, what the Dursley’s would have done to him, what dangers would have been brought to him at such a young age. Always the martyr, always Thesus, cast from his people, the hero, destined to die. He never asked for it, he blamed himself, he blamed his parents, he blamed Dumbledore, and then he felt hollow and guilty for casting his blame onto the people he loved and pushed it down, somewhere far away, that always came back in the form of a generational sort of anger, so old and resentful. He was so tired of being angry.
Hermione gently elbowed him, her lips pursed, and nose scrunched.
“Harry, have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” Harry shifted guiltily.
“Sorry ‘Mione, just distracted. What were you saying?” He asked, quickly blinking, and refocusing his attention on the girl sitting next to him.
“I said that it’s your turn to help harvest potion supplies this week.” Hermione reiterated, stabbing her chicken, and giving it a thoughtful chew.
“If you want I can always cover for you-“ She began to offer. Harry quickly shook his head.
“No, no it’s okay Hermione, it’s my turn and I don’t want you missing out on your date with Ron.” Harry smirked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Hermione’s face turned red, and she glared at him.
“Harry!” She hit his shoulder and he laughed, raising his arm to protect his neck when she came in for the second blow. “What?” his voice pitched up, playing the victim.
“You know what.” She huffed at him before continuing. “You don’t like Professor Snape-“
“He’s not Professor Snape to you now Hermione, just call him by his name, even just Snape!” Harry said exasperated. Hermione only scowled at him.
“He was still our Professor Harry, I can’t just call him Snape, Merlin forbid I call him Severus, I just can’t do it!” She stressed at him. It was funny, he thought, seeing her call all their old teacher’s ‘Professor’, and getting corrected, ‘Just call me Pomona dear’ and she’d turn beat red, stammering.
“And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing Harry. I know you don’t like Professor Snape, it’s really no big deal.” Her tone softens, eyes relaxing.
“I know Hermione, but really, I’m okay.” He smiled. Hermione gave him a grin.
“Good, now eat your potatoes.”
Harry didn’t know how to feel about Snape sometimes. He treated him and his friends awfully over the years, with cold glares and harsh mocking words. He judged him on the sins of his father, giving no regard to him as his own individual person.
Snape loved his mother, grieved her. He was smart, Harry could give him that, and was damn good at potions. He protected him and his friends over the years, never once taking credit or holding it over his head (mostly because he did it for his mother, but whatever). He remembered his dark eyes glazed over, a rough rumbling rattle in his slow breathing chest, tears in his eyes and blood on his throat.
Harry sighed and leaned against Hagrid’s hut, waiting for Snape to arrive so they could restock the potions cabinet. Shipments were taking longer to arrive, still feeling the aftershocks of the war, people and business still steadying themselves and finding their routine again. But the dark forest seemed to have an overabundance of herbs, small animals and other goodies lurking in its earthy crevices, so it would have to do.
Harry could hear the soft footfalls, even, long, and calculated. Snap was always quiet, always cool and collected, a silent whisper in the halls. But when times got rough, becoming hyperaware of his surroundings was a must. He opened his eyes and pushed himself off the wall, staring at Snape.
He was always a difficult man to read. Always so very in control of his emotions, the bastard. Maybe it would have done him some good to try and learn occluding when he had the chance.
“Potter, it seems that you’ve decided to show up.” Snape said, chin raised, and arms crossed, his stony eyes staring through him.
“’Course, it’s my turn, isn’t it?” Harry said, feeling the hairs on his neck raising, trying to ignore the jab.
“Thought you would let Granger do it for you.” He said, like a statement, a known fact. Harry ground his teeth, jaw clenching. Hermione would have scolded him for it: “Harry, you’ll only make the grooves in your teeth worse!” And Ron would have elbowed him, brows scrunching and eyes tight: “You okay mate? Maybe you should do something, I don’t know, maybe quidditch? Let out a little steam, y’know?”
Snape jerked his head to the side, motioning Harry to follow. Harry silently sighed and followed the man. He didn’t talk to him, which wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was how… peaceful the tread was. The silence between them wasn’t thick and poisonous, or rigid and tense. The clouds were a dark dusty gray, covering the sky. The world around them was cast in a cool hue, the air dewy and the soft sounds of birds calling filled the air.
Surprisingly, the walk with Snape was actually quite nice. The silence was a bit more comfortable between them, in a way it hasn’t really ever been. Harry thinks that they’ve come to a sort of understanding. One whose origins were covered in hushed words and bloodied hands, and sometimes they had spats, sometimes it was just like it had been before. No one ever said it would be easy to get over almost a decade of hurt and anger, but it was a slow coming process.
Their soft footfalls made the damp forest floor meld to the shape of their shoes, making small noises as they made their way further into the thicket of the trees, weaving around the tall masses of trees probably older than Harry.
Snape stops abruptly, and swiftly kneeled down by tree with a small hollow opening, angling his head and squinting his eyes, trying to get a peek inside. With a small wave of his wand, he holds it to the opening, still squinting.
“Potter.” Snape finally spoke, eyes still trained on the hollow opening of where the tree and ground met.
“Uh, yeah?”
“How far can you reach?” Harry squinted at him and looked at the hole. No way, hell no. Harry did not want to lose a finger to a territorial animal, minding its business when they could go harvest somewhere else.
“No.” Snape whipped his head to glare at him, it could have pissed Harry off if not for the fact that his hair flung wildly at the fast jerky movement and landing in his eyes. Harry bit his lip, trying not to snicker as Snape violently wiped it out of his eyes and scowled at him more.
Harry rolled his eyes, but he did promise Hermione he would behave today, and not get into trouble, even is he was childishly crossing his fingers, knowing that there was always something lurking about, just waiting to bring even more trouble into his life.
“Ugh, why can’t you do it? You’re already down there.”
“If you would use your eyes Potter, then would see that I cannot fit my arm in there, but yours would you imbecile.” Snape jeered, standing up and dusting his off his knees. It was a bit odd, Harry thought, that his words weren’t filled with malice, that their poking and prodding at one another was more reminiscent of old married couples bickering and quipping at one another.
Harry grumbled and groaned, getting on his knees, one hand balancing himself on the soft ground, the other shoved into the small hole, grunting as he pushed more until it got to his shoulder. His fingers felt around, caressing the dirt, and inching forward, feeling out for the small bunch of roots he caught a glimpse of. Harry’s face scraped uncomfortably against the bark, but his fingers finally grasped the small bunch of roots and he grinned. He started to awkwardly shuffle backwards when he felt a sharp stinging pain in his hand.
“Fuck!” Harry hissed, yanking the rest of his arm from the hollow, roots clutched tightly in his hand before dropping them by his side to inspect his hand. He let out a small hissing breath, clutching his injured hand. The bite wasn’t large so much as it was deep and ragged. Between his thumb and pointer finger, where the crux of his hand had the most ample flesh, had a deep devoting bite, sluggishly oozing out dark sticky blood. Harry instinctively shoved his hand into his mouth, trying to stop the bleeding.
“Give me your hand Potter!” Snape demanded, his cloak billowing dramatically as he quickly knelt down beside him, yanking his wrist away from his mouth and pulling it towards him.
“Hey!” Harry protested, trying to pull his hand back. But Snape’s grip was unrelenting and firm, though not harsh and bruising as it encased his wrist. His fingers pried his hand open, sending a shivering jolt of pain up his arm and down his spine.
Snape was eerily quiet as he inspected his hand, calculating eyes roamed over at the now bloody fountain that was his hand. Great, just his luck. Ron would have a field day with resetting the prideful 13 back to zero on the ‘days without an incident’ board.
“Get up now Potter, with your luck you were probably bit by something venomous and I’m not in the mood to be haggled by Minerva for your mistakes.” He ground out, pulling Harry up to his feet before striding away back towards the castle.
“But-“ Harry’s protests fell upon deaf ears as Snape practically dragged him on his feet, ignoring him even though he could walk perfectly fine, thank you. He didn’t stop, even when they broached the castle grounds, still steering him to his office and pushing him down on a quaint couch. His skilled hands rummages in cabinets and drawers, pulling this and that out, muttering to himself.
Harry cradles his hand, which was still bleeding, halfheartedly glaring at the potion’s professor, who was still ignoring him. Snape gathered all of the supplies and sat next to him once again taking his hand, albeit a bit more gently this time and began to mess around with a small bottle.
“This will hurt.” Was quickly muttered before it was pouring onto the gaping wound, giving a foul hiss. Harry felt the hairs on his arm stand and a white-hot pain leap up his arm and tingling in his fingertips.
“That was your warning?” Harry glared, trying to ignore the heavy throbbing in his hand.
“Get over yourself.” Snape murmured before covering two fingers with a tick jelly and oh so gently began to rub it over the bite, softly massaging the salve on the wound. The soft movements contradicted his more harsh words, even if they already lacked their usual ire.
Embarrassingly, mortifyingly, Harry felt his eyes begin to water. Harry only ever let himself be touched by his friends, more so only like this with Ron and Hermione. But this was somehow different. Harry could never afford nice warm touches, not as a child, not as a student, not as the boy who lived. It was never a luxury meant for him, and he had come to terms with the years ago.
Harry remembered the feather light touch of rapidly cooling hands caressing him, the soft hushed whisper of an apology, warm, thick, sticky blood covered his hands, the horrific rattling sound that persisted with every bated and slowed breath he took, the tell tale knocking of Death at your door.
Harry hadn’t even realized his hand was already wrapped, a warm thumb grazing over the snug bandage, fingers rubbing his wrist. Harry looked up with blurring and burning eyes, trying to rapidly blink without letting the fat tears drop. But that stupid look on his face. The crows feet at the edges of his eyes softened, Severus’s over arm moving from his lap and his leg shifted, eyes still infuriatingly strong and gave Harry no clear read on him.
An invitation.
Do not cry do not cry do not cry do not cry do not cry do not cry do not cry—
A soft sob ruptured in Harry’s throat, and shit that hurt, before he was guided to a check, cloaked arms hovering over his shoulders. Harry felt the first tear drop and he was gone, violently clutching the older man like his life depended on it. Maybe it did. A large hand carded through his hair, a chin resting atop his head and his vision was shrouded in darkness. But the steady clear breathing of Severus’s chest was there, alive alive alive.
“I can’t lose you too.” Harry keened, glasses askew and chest heaving rapidly and unevenly, letting out large gasps of air before locking up again. “Please.” Harry didn’t even know what he was begging for, what he was asking for. He was hushed, Severus’s nose brushed against his forehead, his breath soft and even and alive.
“I know.” It was such a simple statement. Two words that left him speechless. Harry was so sick and tired of people saying sorry and pitying him. ‘I know’, just two words, but they were filled with such a simple meaning, ‘I understand, I know, it’s okay, I’m here’.
There was a soft peck against his forehead, lips trailed down his face, gently kissing the scrap from the rough bark of the tree. Harry started into his eyes, free of the glaze, free of aching and blood. Harry leaned up, gently pecking the edge of his lips, staying there for a minute, before slumping in the juncture of Severus’s neck, body deflating, a few wayward hiccups erupting from his chest.
Undeterred, Severus continued the scrape his fingers against Harry scalp, and he knew that it would be okay.