Six months before Severus's mental deadline, he walks into his chambers to the latest reminder of Potter's mulish stubbornness. It's February the fourteenth, and right there, on his personal desk, sits this year's lovely bouquet of pink camellias. Severus stills in the doorway, thrown, as usual, by the acute sense of disbelief he still feels every time that bloody Gryffindor uses a particular date to remind him of the misguided, youthful, vow Potter made almost six years ago.
'I love you. And I will wait all my life for you if I have to, Severus Snape.'
Severus sighs and closes the door. He leans against the fire-warmed wood and allows his head to thunk rhythmically against it, half in guilt-induced self-punishment, half in disparaging acceptance of a truth he's not certain he's ready yet to acknowledge. Potter meant it. All those years ago. And he still means it today.
That relentless brat has dared to send him pink camellias again, on bloody Valentine's day of all days. These blooms are a message of longing. A reminder of Potter's open admiration, of a faithfulness the Gryffindor has decided to grant him even though Severus himself never asked him for it.
Does Severus deserve Potter's constancy? He doesn't think so, but is starting to desire it regardless with a desperation that makes him feel like a monster. If Potter stays, if his affections remain steady until the very day Severus has decided will be the last time he doubts him, then Harry Potter has always been in love with him, and Severus put him through the equivalent of an emotional grinder instead of cherishing him like a saner wizard would have done.
Will he be proud of his actions six months from now? Severus doubts it. He isn't proud of his actions even now. But he's a scared, bitter arsehole who can't give his heart away on faith alone. Therefore Potter has to prove himself on Severus's exacting terms, and, so far, despite Severus's expectations to the contrary, Potter has managed to do so with flying colors.
Potter grows bolder every year. Older too. The savior has become more assertive and independent since he left school. They don't see each other very often, but it's hard to avoid full knowledge of what goes on in the Gryffindor's life when the man is still the favorite topic of conversation in every newspaper, magazine, and gossiping matron in wizarding Britain.
In a move that had shocked the entirety of the wizarding world, Voldemort's bane decided not to join the Aurors after finishing Eighth Year. He'd traveled to France instead and spent three years there, learning the craft he's now widely respected for in the relative anonymity of the continent before returning to England with as little fanfare as possible and purchasing the little shop he runs in Godric's Hollow.
Harry Potter has become a wand maker. One of the best if the hype is to be believed. Severus has seen some of his work, carried by the youngest of Hogwart's students, but he himself doesn't have need for his services and doesn't particularly wish to ever do so. Severus is highly attached to his trusty old wand and, unlike some of his colleagues who claim their prewar sticks no longer suit their needs, has no plans to replace it, thank you very much.
Still, certain social events can't be avoided, and Potter attends every one of them religiously. Severus's crippling self-consciousness makes him reluctant to assume the brat does so to catch a glimpse of him, but since Potter does very little socializing at these soirees; contenting himself with exchanging stilted pleasantries with Severus for as long as humanly possible and staring longingly at him from the other side of the room the rest of the time, it's becoming increasingly hard to deny the obvious.
Potter's self-confessed postwar crush on him wasn't the misguided form of hero-worship Severus had assumed. And now, almost six years on, it's still alive and all the more tempting because the affection comes not from a boy, heartbroken and war-weary, but from a confident young man who seems to have taken the advice Severus gave him when he'd rejected his advances to heart. Harry Potter has allowed himself the time to grow up. He gifted himself enough time to heal and see the world. Enough time to learn exactly who he is, who he wants to be, and what, precisely, he needs to do to find that oft-elusive treasure: happiness.
Severus himself hasn't found happiness yet. He's convinced he doesn't deserve it and has no clue what steps will help him find it. Still, every so often, usually whenever Potter strikes again, Severus catches a glimpse of something other than the same old routine of brewing, teaching, and dutifully representing Hogwarts whenever he's called to do so. With every passing year, the titillating hints of a nebulous future where he'd be showered with pink camellias every Valentine's day by a thoroughly besotted Harry Potter sound more and more appealing.
Severus has now lived a third of his life in loveless neglect. If there is something he craves, it's devotion. And he still has it. At least for today. Will he still have it tomorrow? Severus doesn't know, and his gut sinks to the soles of his feet with the sudden realization that he's risking Potter's love on a foolish, self-sabotaging gamble.
Severus has wanted nothing more than to grab onto Potter for about a year now. Severus wants him. Here, in person. Close enough to touch if he feels so inclined. But Severus can't reach out for him yet. Not yet. He will not risk his heart on a short-lived affair. If Potter deserts him now, he will never be the partner Severus needs, and that's alright with him too. Severus would rather be alone than second-guess the sincerity of the man he's starting to love with enough fierceness to frighten him.
The flowers come with no card. Potter has never bothered to sign his romantic offerings, yet Severus doesn't doubt they came from him. They're such an in-your-face declaration, a simple yet bold reminder of a promise Potter seems to have made in good faith: 'I will wait all my life for you.'
Severus hadn't trusted the words back then. His willingness to do so had come later. Potter's stubborn constancy has slowly but certainly crushed Severus's initial conviction that the Gryffindor had mistaken a passing fancy for love. Severus had rejected him mercilessly at the time, hoping the hurt would launch the newly minted Savior Of The Wizarding World straight into the arms of a more appropriate, more deserving, romantic interest. Severus has failed abysmally at pushing Potter away. He should have remembered the one thing he finds most vexing about Harry Bloody Potter: the dammed git doesn't know how to quit.
Severus shakes his head, attempting to dispel his maudlin thoughts. He allows himself one more sigh, a slight sound that's equal parts exhausted exasperation and ever-growing relief, before he approaches his desk. Severus brushes the tip of a delicate pink petal with reverent, potion-tainted fingertips and wonders, not for the first time this year, if he's strong enough to take this. To enjoy it without the crippling guilt of knowing himself to be caging a beautiful man half his age.
Will Severus bloom in the warmth of Potter's unbridled affection or wilt under it? Unable to fully accept what he knows himself to be thoroughly unworthy of. Severus doesn't know the answer to that question; doesn't particularly care for the suspicion that he won't know it for sure until the day he takes action, one way or the other.
Severus doesn't want to ruin Potter's life any further. Still, he'd made himself a promise all those years ago, too. And he has every intention of finding enough courage to honor it. If Potter meant his love confession, if the brat is still sniffing around him by the time he turns twenty-five, Severus has promised himself to trust Potter's affection to be genuine. Potter has made it this far, but he's got six more months to go. Severus can't honestly decide if he'd rather have Potter pass his self-protective test or not. The idea of accepting Potter's love at face value, of trying his best to return it, scares the hell out of him.
May the second dawns unseasonably warm. To Severus's utter disgust, the day is determined to display an indecorous amount of sunny skies. Yes, the side of the light won the war, and therefore sunshine fits the bill of a properly triumphant victory celebration. Still, they lost so many lives during the final battle. So much youthful innocence and magical promise was tainted forever on this very lawn, that Severus finds the cheerful brightness in poor taste. Mourning is a somber affair and should be conducted in appropriate gloominess. Where is a good British spring rain when one needs it? Nowhere in sight. That's where.
"Typical!" Severus grumbles under his breath as he stomps across the lawn, grimly aware of Minerva's warning glare. He's already received the usual lecture about reining his sharp tongue until the guests depart. His position as Hogwarts' deputy headmaster means everything he says in such an exalted company may affect the funding for the next school year. Severus often wonders why Minerva bothered to offer him the position if she has so little faith in his ability to rub shoulders with the politically minded without causing offense. Severus is Slytherin, for Merlin's sake. He's perfectly capable of charming influential people whenever the mood strikes him. That's how he remained a spy for twenty bloody years. He's even got the Order Of Merlin, First Class, to prove it.
Severus listens with only half an ear to Kingsley's dull speech about the power of hope and the ministry's efforts to reconcile the younger, more open-minded, and inclusive generation of wizards with the more traditional part of the population. Under Minerva's gimlet stare, Severus applauds with false enthusiasm. He knows, just like Shaklebolt himself must know, that the ministry is tooting the wrong horn despite their flowery language. Today, Wizarding tradition isn't ready to embrace half-blood culture any more than it was back in the seventies. Expecting it to open its arms to the younger generation's increasingly trending desire to dress, speak, and even party like a muggle is akin to expecting an old, cantankerous crow to swim upriver.
"Long time no see, deputy headmaster," Potter's greeting is a soft-voiced caress that saves Severus from the dullest conversation he's endured in the entire morning. The couple he's been so dutifully entertaining brightens considerably in the savior's presence. Unfortunately, they're out of luck, for Severus can tell by the greedy look in his eye that Potter has no intention whatsoever of wasting his breath on them.
Severus's companions try their best to welcome Potter into their minuscule group of three. Potter could very well play the gracious savior for five minutes and indulge their hero-worship, but he clearly doesn't want to. He flashes them the same charmingly apologetic smile that graces the front page of The Prophet so often these days and proceeds to dash their hopes for further interaction with a firmness he wouldn't have been capable of before he left for France. Severus is secretly impressed. And tickled pink to boot. His company is seldom chosen above that of far more influential people. He's a mere potions professor, after all. And these two sit in the Wizengamot.
"May I borrow the deputy headmaster for a few minutes? I'm in desperate need of his counsel," Potter explains to the poor sods, leaving them no other option but to bend over backward just to accommodate him.
Almost instantly, Severus finds himself alone with The Boy Who Lived And Lived for the very first time this year. It's strange. How Potter has managed to make Severus feel they're getting increasingly closer when they haven’t seen one another in months. Severus grows flustered under Potter's unapologetic look of adoration and doesn't much care for his own awkwardness. He rarely finds himself tongue-tied and isn't particularly happy with the idea that the mere presence of an idiot who is twenty years his junior might be enough to affect him so profoundly.
"You look good," Potter says quietly, gaze so earnest it's impossible to doubt he means every word.
"I look like absolute shit, Potter. I was up till midnight correcting frustratingly ill-constructed essays and had to rise at the crack of dawn to help set up this ridiculous soiree. Now I'm cranky with lack of sleep, and starving to boot, so don't you dare give me any of your usual nonsense."
Potter has the gall to smile at him. A sunny little smirk that reaches all the way into his eyes, making them dance with delight, "My bad. Let me rephrase then: You look remarkably good for a cranky, starving member of the Hogwart's staff."
Severus can't help but huff. His gut twists under the weight of the same unbearably heavy warmth that's become more common in his recent encounters with Potter. The feeling is so suspiciously close to fondness that it takes everything inside him to keep Severus from running away, screaming. He's not afraid of Potter. He's really not. Yet the idea of succumbing to the earnest charm the man bestows upon him so readily terrifies him.
"That's not as funny as you think," Severus replies and then stares helplessly at the Gryffindor, already out of things to say. Severus is too afraid of encouraging the idiot to feel safe asking after his health or the state of his business, but he's also thoroughly unwilling to push him further away. It's a mess. This love business. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is proving much harder than Severus had expected.
"It wasn't jesting, Snape," Potter says softly, "Any day I see you in person is a good day. Even cranky and starving, you're a sight for sore eyes."
Severus swallows uncomfortably, "Don't do that here, Potter."
Potter laughs, and almost six years worth of hurt taint what should have been a happy, bell-like sound, "If not here, then where? I hardly ever get to see you."
Severus stiffens on the receiving end of Potter's unusually bitter tone, "You're the one who vowed to wait, all his bloody life if needs be. You know I'd never hold you to that promise should you wish to move on, Potter," Severus growls more harshly than he intends. He's thoroughly terrified by the unpleasant suspicion that he's waited too long and is about to lose the man after all.
Potter flinches. Shoulders tense and face as white as a freshly laundered Hogwart's sheet, "I will not move on. Not ever. When are you going to accept the truth of it? You've tried everything already and must know by now that there's nothing you can do to push me away," Potter growls right back, "I've only got one heart to give, Snape."
"That's precisely why you should place it in the hands of someone worthy," Severus hisses and isn't at all prepared for the delicate brush of Potter's fingertips against the white knuckles of his closed fists as the Gryffindor leans so impossibly close that their lips would brush against each other's should Potter decide to rise on his tiptoes.
"That's what I did, my love. It's time you stop fighting me on that point. We'll be much happier when you finally do."
"I'm twenty years your senior."
Potter laughs and steps away, looking at him with amusement through his distractingly long eyelashes. "You think I've forgotten our age difference? How could I? You keep throwing it in my face whenever we meet."
"I was your teacher once."
Potter shrugs that away, too, "So? You've been a teacher for ages. Your pool of prospective romantic partners will be non-existent if you refuse to date your ex-students."
"I'm not looking for romance."
Potter's easy-going manner shifts abruptly into a more serious demeanor, "That, I don't believe. Everybody is looking for someone. Settling for loneliness is hard for people like us, Snape. We're capable of loving so fiercely it hurts. It's against our very nature to settle for emotional vacuum."
"Love didn't work for me, though. Loneliness is far easier."
"Is it, really?" Potter asks skeptically, and just that easily Severus's anger sparks.
"Just because you've decided to reach out for the impossible doesn't mean I must share your foolish ambition."
The muscle on the side of Potter's jaw twitches in reaction to Severus's harshness. The savior's shoulders straighten, and his distinctive green gaze turns as hard as flint. Potter's defiance becomes a perfect match for Severus's growing ire, "Why the fuck is it impossible, Snape? The only thing standing in our way is you. You need to get it into your thick skull that there's nothing to fear. I. Am. Here! And I'm not going anywhere. You're unattached, and so am I. I'm gay, and you're bisexual. There's no reason whatsoever to justify your conviction that a relationship between us is doomed to fail."
"Are you out of your mind? I hate your fucking father, Potter. I hate your fame. I hate your inability to understand Potions. Your passion for flying. Your Hogwarts house. I hate everyone and everything that makes your life so idyllically happy. Why would you sacrifice any of those things for me?"
Potter smiles at him sheepishly, and Severus feels like screaming, "You'll never ask me to give any of that up. You can’t, because you don't hate me. And you're a fair, honorable man. The bravest one I've ever met. When will you deign to use that immense courage of yours to meet me halfway, Snape? I can tell you're interested."
"Am I? Maybe you're only seeing what you want to see. That's not healthy, Potter. You can't make anyone love you out of stubbornness. Or clinginess. Believe me. I tried."
Potter's gaze softens with compassion, "But you can love anyone you want from afar with everything that you are. No one knows that better than you, Snape, because you tried that too."
Severus's throat dries with pure panic. He's not strong enough to resist Potter's devotion. He realizes that now. If Potter's love is real enough to have withstood almost six years of studious neglect, he's not going to fail Severus's test. Sheer relief surges through Severus's scrawny chest, right alongside the most crippling sense of inadequacy he's experienced in the last two decades. Severus has spent far too long in self-protective emotional isolation. He's forgotten how to soften his jagged edges. How to give himself away. Does he even have the necessary courage to follow through with his plan? Will he dare to throw caution to the wind and risk his trampled heart on another, far bolder Gryffindor when the time finally comes? What the hell is he going to do when Potter turns twenty-five? That's less than three months away. He's running out of time to push this idiot to safety.
"That's no way to live your life, brat. Haven't you wasted enough of it on me already? Surely there's someone out there who-
"No," Potter cuts him off with a challenging glare, "You may be free to decide not to trust me with your heart, but you don't get to pick on whose hands I place mine. That's not your decision to make."
"Don't play the stubborn fool," Severus growls, "It's unbecoming."
Potter has the gall to laugh at him, "I'll never stop playing the fool for you, Severus Snape. You know I mean it, don't you? I'll wait for you. Always."
It's mid-May when Severus receives his life's second most important letter. The first one had confirmed his mother's reassurances that, despite his despicable father's muggle origins, Severus had been born a wizard and, as such, would be bound for Hogwarts as soon as he turned eleven. This one is equally significant and has the same potential to change his life for the better.
The letter arrives with the regular post on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday, and, as soon as Severus reads the first paragraph, he freezes to the spot, subject to the type of elated disbelief that washes over us whenever we achieve one of our long-term goals. The missive informs Severus in very official terms that he, Severus Snape, has managed to achieve his every professional dream despite the limited time he dedicates to his craft.
Severus's position at Hogwarts fills his time with the minutia of teaching. It's an exacting, often thankless task he continues to perform not because he loves it but because he knows nothing else by now.
Routine. Direction. Absolution. Companionship. Once upon a time, Severus had needed all that, and Albus had convinced him he'd find it more readily at Hogwarts. And he'd had. The old man hadn't misled Severus on that point. But Albus had failed to warn him that he'd lose the confidence to search for those things elsewhere.
Severus had joined the Hogwart's staff too young. His father's emotional neglect, coupled with the marauders' relentless bullying and the half-blood status that had ensured Severus was never genuinely welcomed by his Slytherin peers, had stunted the development of Severus's self-confidence to the point that he has little to no trust in his social skills outside the area of temporary manipulation. Severus's position at Hogwarts allows him to co-exist with others and earn their respect despite his failures in this area. Thus Severus's dependency on the school keeps him tethered to a job he's grossly overqualified for. A job that doesn't appeal to his academic mind in the slightest. A job he profoundly resents.
Today's letter has the power of shrinking Severus's chronic dissatisfaction with his professional life, swatting it aside like an insignificant, if persistent, fly. Unbeknown to him, St. Mungo's nominated Severus's most recent patent, a nerve-relaxant he'd developed in the hopes of curving the side effects he still suffers from, due to his long-term exposure to the Cruciatus curse, for academic review. The most esteemed members of the evaluating panel at The Royal College Of Potioneers Of Great Britain have now performed said review and published an in-house report that will be shared with the regular college members in the editorial article of the upcoming issue of Potions Quarterly.
It is with great pleasure that the governing council of the Royal College Of Potioneers of Great Britain grants Professor Severus T. Snape, Master of Potions, lifetime membership into the Most Extraordinary Society Of Potioneers. Furthermore, in recognition of his remarkable achievements in the area of Potion Research, Severus will be inducted into the Royal College's wall of fame on September the sixteenth in a public ceremony expected to be hosted by minister Shaklebolt himself.
Severus is speechless. He's frozen to the spot. Mind awhirl with joy and the somewhat disturbing sense that he's not precisely connected to reality. Luck like this has never fallen on his lap before, even though Severus is Slytherin enough to have always coveted it.
Minerva notices Severus's shock and leans sideways in her chair, asking him what's wrong in hushed tones. Severus passes her the letter and stares at her dazedly, waiting for the second she realizes she's in the presence of the most accomplished potioneer of his generation. The headmistress's gaze widens, and she smiles. Not with pride, exactly, no. But with immense satisfaction.
"These are wonderful news, Severus," She gushes, and the small kernel of warmth that's starting to unfurl in Severus' gut freezes, stillborn, when she continues, "We can use it to demand better funding for the potions curriculum next year. You might even get that ventilation system upgrade you've been requesting for ages. Surely the board of governors won't be so willing to dismiss the concerns of a teacher who comes armed with such exalted titles."
Severus feels himself deflate. There's no one here willing to see him not as an asset to Hogwarts but as a man of flesh and blood. An accomplished man at that, one whose triumphs are worth celebrating not for what they bring to the school but for what they mean to him: the culmination of a job well done. The recognition of his ability to ask questions many have failed to ask before him, and find appropriate answers. Severus mumbles some platitude or other and leaves the breakfast table shortly after. All day long, he feels both restless and disappointed. His willingness to settle for the skin-deep contentment that his safe existence brings him shrinks with every breath he takes.
That evening finds Severus sitting in splendid solitude in the privacy of his chambers, rereading his letter again. Severus feels more lonely than ever before. He feels overlooked. Invisible. And slowly comes to accept the disheartening conclusion that he'll never amount to anything should he resign himself to remaining a teacher.
Severus ends up contacting Draco, and his wounded pride finds solace in the genuine delight with which his godson reacts to his good news. Draco steps into Severus's chambers via the Floo, prohibitively expensive bottle of Elvin wine in tow, and they proceed to celebrate Severus's incredible achievement into the wee hours of the morning.
It's only as Severus lays on his bed, waiting drunkenly for sleep to finally claim him, that he wonders what this day would have felt like if he'd shared it with Potter. Potter loves him more ferociously than Draco ever could. He'd have made such a great fuss of him today. Severus would have felt profoundly embarrassed, but not-so-secretly pleased. He'd have felt thoroughly cherished, that's for sure.
Severus can't help but wonder what that would feel like. Cherished. He likes the sound of that. Severus falls asleep, still attempting to imagine the feeling, and dreams of proud green eyes and loving grins. Of things he's never felt before but has always longed for. Things that are now so painfully within reach that he'd be a fool not to grab them. A cowardly fool at that. Despite his Slytherin affiliation, Severus Snape has never been a coward. But he is a fool indeed. And he's not entirely confident he's got the gumption to stop playing that role even if he wants to.
The Potion Quarterly issue containing the academic review of Severus's nerve relaxant comes out on June the first, and Potter reaches out to him so fast that it becomes patently clear Potter must have wrangled a subscription at some point from some poor, hero-worshiping soul.
Severus receives the magazine with his regular post but cannot read it with any degree of concentration before his classes start. Hence, he reluctantly sets it aside, promising himself to examine it in detail after dinner.
The day remains thoroughly unremarkable otherwise. It's so excruciatingly similar to the previous one, and probably to the one that will follow, that Severus feels exhausted just thinking about the infinite blandness that awaits him. Nobody looks at him differently. No one offers him more than a fleeting nod of acknowledgment or stilted congratulations when he shows up for lunch.
When his classes finally end, Severus feels far too restless to remain in his office, as is his custom. He packs up his grading and retreats to the privacy of his chambers. Potter's latest token of affection sits, once again, on his personal desk. It's one of those ostentatious plaques that people like Lucius so often display on their opulent offices. Potter's token is heavy. An exquisitely cut circle of crystal that rests atop an elegant mahogany base. Severus's full name and professional new titles have been painstakingly engraved in delicate cursive right in the middle of the glass. Severus can tell the plaque has been charmed to withstand every kind of damage known to man. Short of Armageddon itself, nothing could destroy this grand proclamation of Severus's academic achievements.
Severus holds the plaque aloft for a very long time and allows himself to bask in the feeling of warmth settling oh-so-firmly in the pit of his stomach. This feels like pride. It's nice. Severus likes the idea that Potter feels proud of him, that the Gryffindor sees Severus's success as part and parcel of Severus himself. Not something to be used for the benefit of the school, but something praiseworthy for its own sake.
'I see you.' That is what this beautiful plaque really says. 'I see you, and I'm proud of you, and I want every single person who sits on the other side of your desk from this day forth to see you the way I do.' Severus can't help the pleased smile that curves his lips upwards as he sets the plaque back down. For the first time since Potter started bribing the castle house elves to deliver random gifts inside his chambers, he's tempted to write the man a formal thank you note.
That's the type of acknowledgment Severus has scrupulously denied Potter throughout the last six years in the honest conviction that it'd do nothing but delay the brat's eventual recovery from the infernal crush that plagues him. Today, though, a mere two months away from Potter's twenty-fifth birthday, Severus decides to yield just a little and hint at an acceptance that's edging ever closer to becoming their new reality. They're so close now. So terrifyingly close. Severus picks up his best quill and pens the first personal note he's ever written to Potter.
The note itself takes mere seconds to compose, but the concession it carries has been years in the making. Severus doesn't know if Potter will be able to understand its subtle meaning, but he sincerely hopes Potter manages it. Severus can't think of any other way to deliver the same message:
'I see you too, Harry Potter. And, by now, I can't 'unsee' you.'
Draco's birthday falls on a Sunday, and he demands Severus indulges his desire for apple-caramel pancakes, so Severus treats him to brunch at the ridiculously overpriced tea-house he loves so much. There will be a lavish party at the mansion later tonight, and Severus will attend that elaborate soiree too, but this outing is for them and them alone. A private moment to strengthen the ties that bind them as surely as they've done since the moment Draco took his very first breath. Severus is listening indulgently to his godson's latest rant regarding the intrusive takeover of his wedding preparations by Astoria’s mother, when Potter suddenly Apparates on the other side of the street and proceeds to frantically scan the crowds.
"And there he is. Harry Potter in the flesh, come to crash my peaceful birthday brunch, as usual," Draco drawls with unmistakable amusement, "Why don't you put the poor sod out of his misery and kiss him stupid already, godfather? The man is clearly smitten with you, and you aren't getting any younger. You won't do better than him, either, so what's the bloody hold-up? I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out he’ll be my godfather by proxy for the rest of his life."
Severus stiffens uncomfortably. He's never discussed this thing that's slowly brewing between himself and Potter with his inner circle. That would have been the type of acknowledgment Severus was unwilling to grant Potter until recently.
"Don't you think he's too young for me?" Severus asks curiously, only for Draco to laugh at him so heartily that Potter's attention finally zeroes on their table.
The smile that lights up the savior's face when his gaze lands upon Severus makes the potioneer blush bashfully. Draco takes one look at his unusual reaction and promptly rises to his feet, "I'm going to the loo, godfather. Feel free to send your Patronus after me as soon as you explain that ridiculous thought process to loverboy. Here is my word of advice, for what is worth: Potter might be young in years, but he's lived the kind of life that ages the soul. He's the right fit for you, Severus. Of that, I have no doubt. Even better, I don't think he'll ever hurt you. I'll stand by your side if you ever decide to take what he so readily offers."
Draco crosses Potter's path on his way to the lav. They exchange a surprisingly friendly couple of sentences that Severus is too far away to hear, and by the time Potter reaches his table, Severus feels thoroughly off kilter. He's never been this nervous in Potter's presence before. His crumbling walls no longer offer him the emotional distance Severus used to enjoy, and he's not sure he likes the unexpected change. Opening up to the possibility of Potter has him sweating up a storm.
"Morning, Snape," Potter says softly, drinking him in with the greedy gaze of a man who hasn't seen a glass of water in half a year.
"Good morning, Potter," Severus greets him casually. Tone pitch perfect to display nothing beyond polite civility. Severus has always been a good actor under pressure.
"You should try the lavender and earl gray scones. They've just hired this fancy baker who added them to the menu a couple of months ago. I've got a feeling you'll adore them," Potter babbles, studying the leftover crusts of Severus's simple order of toast as if it holds the answer to the mysteries of the universe.
"How did you know I was here, Potter? How do you always know where I am?"
Potter has the grace to look at him guiltily. He grabs the backrest of Draco's recently vacated chair and motions at it, asking for permission to sit. Severus sighs, nodding his assent with visible ambivalence, and Potter wastes no time lowering himself into the seat.
"I'm sort of stalking you. With a map I made. I got the idea from something my father and his friends crafted ages ago. It's a bit like one of those family clocks; you know the ones. It can't show what you're doing or anything like that, but it tells me where you are at any given moment, which is usually hiding at Hogwarts."
"That's— rather intrusive."
"I know. And I'd be sorry if you weren't such a frustratingly retiring bastard. I never got to see you before I made the stupid thing. Now at least I chat you up for a couple of minutes whenever it pings to say you're outside the school grounds. You don't even go away on vacation, Snape. Do you realize that? How the hell am I supposed to woo you when you live like a freaking hermit?"
"You were never supposed to woo me, you idiot. You were meant to get over your silly crush and live happily ever after."
Potter smiles at him fondly, "I'm afraid that's not possible. All my happily ever afters feature you."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Severus huffs, relieved and aggrieved in equal parts, "What have I ever done to deserve such loyalty? I treated you abysmally while you were at Hogwarts and haven't done much better since you left."
"You've been trying to protect me. It's what you do, isn't it? You're convinced you're not good enough for me, so you keep pushing me away."
"I'm not good enough for you, you fool. I'm not good enough for anyone."
"That's not for you to decide. Is it, Snape?" Potter replies calmly.
"Of course it is," Severus splutters, feeling flustered and wrong-footed.
"No, it isn't. I keep telling you this, but you're too stubborn to listen: You don't get to choose whether you're worthy of my heart or not. That's my call to make."
"What happens if I take you up on your offer and you suddenly discover that the reality of me doesn't fit whatever besotted fantasy you've concocted in your head?"
"I don't know the answer to that question."
"Don't you?"
"Why should I? I'm no seer. I can tell you that I love you. And that I understand why you're afraid. I can also acknowledge that I've never had the honor of meeting the man I adore properly, but I've glimpsed enough of him to be confident that, even if it's true that I've built him up in my head and the reality of him turns out to be a tad more tarnished than I'm expecting, none of that would be enough to turn me away."
Severus mulls over that answer while Potter fiddles nervously with his napkin, "I'm not very good at— anything romantic, really," He says finally, "You'd be thoroughly disappointed within the week."
Potter's fingertips freeze on the napkin. His green gaze brightens with hope, and his entire body lurches ever so slightly toward Severus's.
"Is that a yes, Snape? Would you finally deign to go out with me?"
Severus barely manages to swallow the lump threatening to choke him. His heart is about to beat right out of his ribcage, and his breathing has turned ever so slightly panicked. He's a mere breath away from chucking his perfectly safe future out the window, and he's not even sure it'd be worth it. Love is such a fucking mess. And Severus doesn't like messes. Does that make him a cautious soul or a fucking coward? He wishes to Merlin he knew the answer to that question.
"It's not a yes. Not yet. But it's not a no, either. That's the best I can do for you today, Potter," Severus replies stiffly. Potter's bright smile dims visibly, and he sags against the backrest of his chair with evident disappointment, but he still fails to curse Severus into next Sunday.
"That's still a better answer than the last one you gave me. If this momentum keeps up, you might throw yourself at me the next time you see me."
That cheeky quip startles a laugh out of Severus, "Then you should run away while you still can, you, fool."
"Not for all the gold in China, deputy headmaster. I'll stick to my guns until you catch up to me. We'll run away together or not at all, Severus Snape."
June the thirtieth finds Severus hovering like a lost soul by Albus's grave. He feels furious at the sense of guilt he can not shake. He's aware he shouldn't be here, yet he's never, so far, managed to stay away on the anniversary of his old mentor's death. Severus places his simple offering, a bunch of wild forget-me-nots he'd gathered on his way over, upon the blindingly white grave and feels like the lowest of the low for daring to tarnish the man's final resting place with his pitiful gift. He's got no right to grieve Albus, and yet, as far as Severus can tell, nobody else has bothered to come.
Is it even murder if your victim all but begged you to kill him? Severus is positively exhausted from trying to figure out that question.
"I guessed I'd find you here," Potter intrudes on his grief, just as Severus's unbearable sense of guilt tips into self-hatred.
"I wouldn't risk present company if I were you, Potter," Severus warns him, yet the brat doesn't heed the words and comes closer instead of Apparating away.
"Then I'd say it's a good thing I'm not you, Snape. I come here every year to watch over you while you beat yourself up over granting the old coot his final wish. I'm sick and tired of hiding behind the bushes despairing the fact that I can't seem to find the nerve to walk over here and hug the living lights out of you. So I'm here to try that now. If you'll let me."
"I killed him. You know that, Potter. You were there, for Merlin's sake," Severus growls, "I lost the right to ask for comfort when I cast the spell that ended him."
"Did you?"
"Of course I did!"
"Hmm. You brought him flowers," Potter points out apropos of nothing, "You do that every year too."
Severus frowns, "What does that have to do with anything?"
Potter looks at him thoughtfully, "You wouldn't bring him flowers if you hadn't forgiven him. Godric knows I'm so fucking mad at him on your behalf that I can't even bring myself to say a prayer for the well-being of his manipulative soul."
Severus stares at the Gryffindor in bewilderment, "What's there for me to forgive Albus for? I'm the one who murdered him, you, idiot."
"He shouldn't have asked that of you. It literally broke your heart, Snape. It's still breaking it if you haven't yet realized you did him a favor. He must have forgiven you for killing him as soon as you agreed to do it."
"You can't possibly know that."
"Neither can you. But he's the only one among us who got exactly what he wanted. Didn't he?"
Severus's gaze sets heavily on the elegant white grave. The pitiful bunch of flowers he's just put there doesn't do their setting justice, yet no other bloom decorates the delicately carved surface, "His brother hasn’t come. I've never seen Aberforth pay his respects. Not even on the anniversary of the headmaster's death. Why doesn't he ever come, Potter?"
Potter steps close enough to take hold of Severus's slightly trembling hand and cradles it against his chest ever so gently. Severus looks at his hand thus cocooned and wonders if it's getting the hug Potter claims to have come here to bestow. A hug the Gryffindor hasn't yet found the courage to gift him directly.
"Dumbledore betrayed everyone he ever knew. It's entirely possible he loved every one of us in his own way, but he never put us first. You're the best one among us. Aren't you, Snape? You're the only one who forgave him. And he doesn't deserve it, but that's not for me to judge."
Severus can't tell where on Earth he finds the energy to swallow the huge lump that settles, like a suffocating pebble, right in the middle of his throat during Potter's little speech. He feels better, though. Less guilty about being here, about wanting to hang onto the memory of this man who once meant so much to him.
"I think I'll take that bloody hug now, Potter," he dares to whisper, and Potter drops the hand he's still cradling against his chest so fast that Severus can't help but laugh. Severus hasn't laughed on June the thirtieth since 1997. As Potter gathers him carefully and presses Severus’s narrow chest against his broad one, Severus allows himself to be grateful for his presence. Potter makes his life more bearable. He's managed to be there during Severus's greatest triumph and darkest hour and somehow got him through both. That is the truth of it, isn’t it? And it's undeniable.
July is hot and humid and, at least, for Severus Snape, plagued with a disorienting sense of upcoming upheaval. His life is about to change. He can feel it in his bones. Yet he's unwilling to cut Potter's waiting sentence short. Severus is nothing if not stubborn. He might have fallen for Harry Potter's understanding smiles and temptingly protective arms, but he's not going to him until he's satisfied himself the Gryffindor has had every available chance of running for the hills and failed to take any of them.
Severus is afraid. So terrified indeed of risking his fragile heart on the misguided whims of an impulsive Gryffindor that he's making himself sick with the panic of trying to second-guess himself. Potter has waited for him. He's waited for six long years without having a single clue that Severus had decided to make his sentence finite.
Potter never even knew that Severus's mental deadline existed. Severus can, in theory, ignore the significance of the savior's upcoming birthday and keep their interactions as they are. Does he honestly believe that Potter would tire of him and go in search of greener pastures? Severus had wanted nothing more for years, yet Potter kept resisting his every effort to turn him away. No. Severus no longer doubts that Potter will indeed wait for him all his life, should Severus's courage falter at the last second.
Severus is positively sick of shortchanging himself, though. Potter wants him something fierce; that much is glaringly obvious. The savior's feelings go so far beyond infatuation that Severus can't help but feel humbled by their depths. What man doesn't wish to be worshiped by the attractive, overprotective young hero who's waited for him over half a decade? Severus has never before been loved so ferociously. Or so selflessly. He feels like a fairy-tale princess for the first time in his life: worthy. Beautiful. And oh-so-precious. It's a heady feeling indeed. Does he deserve Potter's love? He's still pretty convinced he doesn't, but since Potter keeps telling him that is not his call to make, Severus will take him at his word and put the responsibility of thinking about all that at the Gryffindor's feet.
In the end, the usual invitation to Potter's birthday party arrives promptly a week before the grand event. Potter invites him every year, and Severus invariably fails to attend the famously private affair. When he finally receives it, Severus sits by the lake for a very long time, elegant invitation dangling from his potion-tainted fingertips. This was the final test in Potter's arduous journey into Severus's good graces, wasn't it? And here it is. The most coveted invitation of the month, his for Severus to waste like he always does, at least that’s what he assumes Potter is thinking. Potter sent it regardless, though. This is proof that Potter is still Severus's to take. He's not walked away yet. Will probably never do so, just as he claims. Severus has grown to want him just as fiercely as Potter desires him. Will that intensity frighten the savior away? Severus doesn't think so. In any case, he can't keep finding things to worry about before making the decision to put his heart where it belongs: safe and sound in Harry Potter's hands.
Four days before Potter's birthday, Severus brews the facial cleanser and clarifying shampoo he hasn't used in years. He digs the fitted dress robes he only wears to international potion conferences out of his wardrobe and sets them out to air. Then spends the next few days crafting his resignation letter and practicing in the mirror the exact words he will use to let Minerva down and free himself from Hogwarts. Severus is no longer willing to settle for contentment. Just like loneliness no longer suits him, the life of a professor fits him ill. Severus is a researcher at heart. It's time he dares to let himself become who he is meant to be.
On July the thirty-first, Severus wakes with a rare smile on his lips. Today feels like the very first day of the rest of his life, and he's, for once, not entirely terrified by that knowledge. He spends the morning applying his facial cleanser and washing his hair with the kind of care he hasn't shown it in years. He also applies the patented cream he'd developed ages ago to eliminate the stains on his fingertips and shaves his face the muggle way; magical charms are never quite as effective.
After lunch, Severus sits quietly in his chambers and stares at the plaque Potter sent him for veritable ages. It's a beautiful thing. To have another human being willing to feel so very proud of you. Severus craves that type of emotional safety and is ready to do everything he can to ensure he gets to keep it. He wants to try his hand at giving back a similar treasure in return. Potter doesn't know it yet, but his life is about to change too.
At half past seven in the evening, Severus decides he's waited long enough. He dresses himself with the utmost care and studies his reflection in the mirror to ensure he starts his terrifying new adventure with Potter precisely as he intends to continue it, with his best foot forward. Severus's reflection shows an awkward man indeed. He's already blushing up a storm, but at least his skin is a flawless porcelain white underneath the tomato-red splotches, and his beautiful dark hair is tidily plaited away from his features.
With a final inhalation, Severus nods at his reflection and heads out of the dungeons, precious invitation tightly clutched in his visibly shaking hand. He's going to be late. He's planned it that way. Still, he's got no intention of showing up late enough that Potter has had enough time to dull his wits with alcohol. Severus's lack of timeliness revolves around his need to ensure that whoever feels compelled to congratulate Potter on this special day has had enough time to do so before his arrival. He knows Potter well enough to predict the man's reluctance to part from Severus's side when he finally sees him.
Severus reaches the Apparation spot just outside the doors of Hogwarts and looks briefly up at the skies. This is it. His last moment of loneliness. He closes his eyes on that hopeful thought and Apparates himself away. Shaking away his natural misgivings when they try to get their nasty little claws into his wildly pounding heart, Severus walks resolutely forward. He's earned his bloody elusive happy ending after being so fucking honorable indeed with the world's precious hero. Potter has waited for him all these years, that's true, but Severus has waited endlessly for him in return.
Severus doesn't even need to knock on the door to Potter's cottage. It opens invitingly for him as soon as he sets foot on the front stoop. He must be keyed into the wards, then. A short corridor opens before him as he hovers uncertainly in the doorway. He can hear laughter coming from the room just down the aisle, but his rigidly set manners prevent him from setting foot inside another man's refuge without so much as a by your leave. Severus is about to knock on the open door, hoping to draw some attention, when a loud chime to his right startles him into pulling out his wand and pointing it warily in that general direction. Someone rushes out into the corridor and runs towards the doorway before Severus has enough time to lower his wand. When he finally does so, Severus finds himself staring directly into the wide-eyed gaze of a thoroughly giddy Harry Potter.
"Snape— Y-you- You are here."
"What on earth was that infernal chime?" Severus demands, thoroughly flustered, "It almost gave me a heart attack, Potter!"
Potter blushes sheepishly and points vaguely to the strange painting that hangs opposite the door, "It's your map. I mean, my map. The one that lets me know when you leave Hogwarts. It chimed, just now. B-because you're here."
"I see," Severus says, staring at the thing with avid curiosity, "It's positively hideous, Potter."
Potter laughs and shuffles closer, still staring at him with wide-eyed wonder, "I didn't think you'd come. I hoped for it, of course. But I hope for it every year, and it never makes a difference. Never mind that now, though. You look wonderful, Snape."
"Thank you," Severus says primly, his usual self-consciousness raring its ugly head to make him feel tongue-tied and out of his depth. He blinks desperately at Potter. Severus doesn't do well when he's so cripplingly nervous. Potter needs to step onto the breach, or they'll remain standing here like bloody idiots, staring at each other across the cottage's threshold until the end of time.
"Do you plan to stand there like a git, or will you come inside so I can bolt the bloody door behind you and make sure you never leave?" Potter asks cheekily, and Severus feels himself relaxing into exasperated amusement.
"You couldn't hold me here against my will, you idiot. I know hexes within hexes. I'm a Dark Arts connoisseur."
"And I'm a most charming hero," Potter retorts instantly, "Rumor has it I'm so lovely there’s no Dark Arts connoisseur who can resist me."
Severus snorts, "Careful there, Potter. You might live to regret trying to charm the likes of me."
Potter's face lights up with hope, "Is that the yes you owe me, Snape? Have you finally come back to your senses?"
"Have I? It's entirely possible I've just lost them altogether."
"Not if you're here to tell me you're going to let me woo the socks out of you."
Severus's left eyebrow twitches upward playfully. The most pleasantly lighthearted feeling settles like a soft caress in the pit of his stomach when he responds, "I'm fairly attached to my socks. They're argyle wool, you know?"
Potter comes closer still and places a slightly trembling hand on Severus's robe-clad arm, "Is that a challenge, I hear?" He questions ever so softly, and Severus's knees turn to jelly when it dawns on him that Potter is trying his hardest not to spook him away.
"It is," Severus confirms with uncharacteristic boldness, and Potter laughs with delight, exuberant in his triumph.
"I'm going to woo the hell out of you now," Potter vows before throwing himself into Severus's arms without the slightest hesitation. Severus catches the ridiculous idiot and cradles him protectively against his pounding chest.
He should probably tell Potter not to bother with the wooing. He's head over heels already. There's virtually not a thing on Earth that could drive him away at this point. On the other hand—
Severus has never been wooed before. Not in person, at least. And not in the way he suspects Potter intends to pamper him this time around. There's no need for the man to send pink camellias to his office once a year when Severus is willing to come far closer than ever before. Severus smiles. He can't wait to see what an unrestrained wooing by Harry Potter looks like.
"Do your worst, brat," He invites softly, only for Potter to look him square in the eye and shake his head from left to right.
“I’m afraid that’s not happening, gorgeous. You’ve gotten nothing but shitty deals all your life. That streak of bad luck ends today. You’ll get only the very best from this day forward.”
“The very best, hmm?” Severus can’t help but tease him, “And I thought you were humble, Potter.”
The End.