3 Days in September
There are exactly five odd aspects of Severus’ life, with the only common attribute being the time they took place.
And of course, Harry Potter
The world is leaked of colour, and the birds dared not sing the morning of his arrival to the cottage so, so far away. Blissfully ignorant, away from the world.
Harry Potter deprives him from the mercy of sleep with powerful wails. Hammering noises, all in his skull. Pulling him to the couch he’d improvised into a crib, his surroundings a swirl of muddy colour.
Harry Potter doesn’t smile as Severus hovers over him, black-clad and a deathly sight. Harry Potter doesn’t smile as the man, so clearly dead with measly strings holding him up lifts the child, patting his back. Nervous. Afraid, almost dead.
Harry Potter smiles.
And Severus Snape is somewhat alive.
3.
A year later, the world catches up with him with a knock on his door and a box of chocolates at hand.
Albus Dumbledore’s eyes have not lost their twinkle, and they shine like stars lost in the black, dark ocean tides.
The door is caught with a maroon boot wedged between the frame, and Dumbledore utters no sound as Severus’ works to keep it close.
“You’ve been missed, my boy.”
“I’m far too old to believe such lies,” Severus says through his hand, a bundle of life asleep in his arms, away from the world. Away from those eyes, “Leave, Headmaster. I fear my life will be much to exhausting, with you as a friend.”
“However, you’d rather have me as an enemy?” Dumbledore asks, the door wedged open, the wand pointed at his face dismissed with a humourous lift of brows, “I have cleared your name, much long ago.”
“Autumn has come again, once too soon,” Severus replies, long fingers ushering the boy down, “The leaves are scarlet once more. I haven’t missed a thing.”
“Won’t you, when the time comes for the child to leave?”
He doesn’t admit it. He won’t think it. The world spins once more, faster. Far more cruel. A wind picks up his hair, smelling of damp soil, and Snape coaxes the boy to ease.
“It’s not time.”
“One day, it will.”
“Bridges, Headmaster. I’d rather cross them when they river comes to pass.”
“The river is not yours to control, Severus. Heed me, and the boy will be safe. And-” he smiles at the boy, so very warm, so very Severus’, “With you.”
The world spins again, faster. Cruel. Severus lowers his wand, the lights from the setting sun dim from the clouds so very his mood, “Have I your oath?”
Dumbledore’s eyes lift to the sky, eyes brimmed with light, hidden like the sun behind a veil of a smile, “You have my honour.”
2.
There are no nightmares here. No screams, no shouts. No life other than the ones that truly matter. A boy grows, loved. A boy grows, kind. A boy grows, strong. And so does a father.
The leaves are orange, and the day after his son’s birthday, Severus balances the memories among his words, a terrible scrawl that jars the pages. Black, illegible. A complete history, prepared for the archives.
“Are you coming, dad?” the boy asks, eyes kind. Eyes green. The notebook in Severus’ hands close, a gentle thud in the brewing storm patterning against the glass. Like the rain, falls Severus’ frown, robes billowing like restless mist.
“I’m coming, son.”
The history, the memories all slip past. No ashes bring them back this time.
Severus smiles, truly smiles, thin fingers tufting black hair out of kind eyes.
“I’m coming, Harry.”
1.
“What if I’m in Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw. Or Hufflepuff!”
“A significant addition, I don’t doubt, to each house.”
“I want to be in Slytherin.”
“And I-” Severus places a hand on his son’s shoulder, a gentle squeeze within his grasp, “-Want the best for you. As all fathers should.”
“You’re not my father, dad,” Harry says, a smile tugging on his lips, hands on his father’s hands as to ease him from the painful crease on his lips, “Not just my father. You’re my everything. I want to make you proud.”
Severus smiles, truly smiles, heart at ease, no strings to pull it away, “You already have.”
“Promise me you’ll be there, though. Not that I’m scared… just so you can see,” on emphasis, a small, tiny finger lifts from his robe sleeves, held up between father and son, “Promise me, that you’ll be there, dad.”
Severus’ finger coils around his son’s, smile not faltering.
“Always.”
0.
A boy grows, kind, strong, loved. A father grows with him, like leaves in September, thrice and many more. Only and always together.