Work Text:
SAUDADE
The smoke escaped his lungs and nostrils as Harry stared down at the partially preoccupied street below, watching black umbrellas weaving along the pavement under the drizzling rain, the few drops that splattered against his glasses made everything blurry and almost surreal.
A cold breeze swept over him, but he didn’t shiver in its harshness, green eyes tracking the way how those red sparks torn from his burning cigarette minutely turned to grey ash as they were briskly blown away.
Yes, he was smoking. He started not too long ago, if only to just take the edge off.
No one knew he was smoking though, he limited it down to only two per day. It wasn’t healthy, this vice, he knew. That, and perhaps he wouldn’t appreciate the foul smell and poison that Harry was willingly ministering into his body either.
The window to his left remained tightly closed that night as well, exactly like any other night really, and sometimes Harry wondered what it would it take for the stubborn man inside that flat to just stand up and open it.
Pinching the bridge of his nose and screwing his eyes shut, he put out his cigarette and popped back inside. It was nine in the evening, and he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light.
Under the glow from the street below, the black ashtray he bought glinted around its smooth edges. For a long moment, he did nothing but stand there and fix a steady stare at it in the stillness of the room before turning on his heels.
Sometimes, Harry thought he would start hurling something at the wall if he didn’t smoke to numb his mind and stop his fingers from twitching. Twitching and grasping for thin air in desperate need to fill up the missing warmth of those long fingers and bony knuckles, calloused yet so soft and gentle at the same time that his heart ached.
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“Potter…”
“Don’t,” he choked. “Don’t say it. I’m not leaving you.” His chest was caving, he could tell. “I’m not. Never.”
“Fool.”
They both were.
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The flat breathed silence and loneliness, and Harry could taste it in every particle that he inhaled.
Morning came almost unexpectedly because it felt as though he hadn’t slept a wink since the second his head made contact with the pillow. It was similar to the effects of Dreamless Sleep, as in the fact that it provided users with the shut eye part, but not the actual resting.
Getting up, the rustling of his crisp blanket and bed sheets sounded ridiculously loud in his ears, and the part of the mattress merely inches away from where his body had just occupied was sickeningly cold.
Coffee was still coffee, but it tasted more bitter than it should. Maybe the cigarettes were destroying his taste buds after all.
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“Does it hurt? Dying?”
“Quicker than falling asleep.”
He knew that this was, in fact, true. Tantalizingly, so.
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There were days that he could not stand it. He could not stand it, and Harry spotted the man among the people in the supermarket, standing there and looking so out of place amidst this modern setting, yet made no move to approach him. His feet remained rooted to the floor, hands shoved deep inside his pants pockets, eyes never leaving that lean, familiar body… and he could hardly budge.
It wasn’t until the man had paid at the cashier, fumbling slightly with the Muggle currency that Harry doubted he would ever grow used to, and exited the place did the trance finally end.
At the end of the day, as Harry sat there in the corner of his flat staring blankly at the light filtering through the window of the living room, recalling the lost look in those dark eyes of that lone figure, a part of him wanted to kick himself, and another part just wanted nothing more than to scream and pull his hair out.
He could not stand it, he could not breathe.
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“And you are?”
It’s me, Severus. Me.
Harry, Harry Potter.
The lazy, arrogant brat. Your lazy, arrogant brat.
It’s me.
Please, Severus.
Please…
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“You’re smoking, Harry Potter.”
There was a firm set in Hermione’s jaw as she stood there, arms folded in front of her chest, at the door to his flat.
“W-what?” he stuttered. It was only seven something in the morning, he was still in his pyjamas and hadn’t even had his first cup of wake-up coffee yet for Merlin’s sake.
“Don’t deny it.” Her voice was sharp with an undercurrent hint of accusation, one eyebrow arched up stubbornly and challengingly as if daring him to utter anything otherwise. Something which he wasn’t planning on doing actually. “I can smell it on your hair.”
A brief moment of silence, then he quietly stepped aside. “Come in.” She didn’t need to be told twice and was already marching inside with the purposeful stride of someone who had a very clear idea of what her aim was. Sometimes, Harry would watch and feel oddly envious of her and Ron, and everybody else for that matter, for it. For that bloody aim.
“Tea?” he asked, shuffling in behind her to his small kitchen.
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Her eyes remained keenly still on his person, observing his every move like a hawk of sort. “You told me you would stop taking black.”
“Still trying, ‘Mione.” The lie rolled down his tongue without missing a beat. Had she not been there, Harry would have grimaced in disgust at himself. Lying was a necessity nowadays, but that was neither the sufficient reason nor the best source of comfort for him to have become so smooth at it. However, as with the smoke still lingered in the strands of his messy mop of hair, somehow he had a hunch that perhaps Hermione had already smelt this out for the lie that it was as well. She had always had this uncanny ability to be mostly right ever since they had been at the tender age of eleven, and probably prior to that point, too.
Then again, maybe this was exactly what he needed to hear right that moment, since, as it was, sometimes he even caught him lying to himself. Which, by accounts, wasn’t a good sign. Like how he told himself he was only going to smoke two cigarettes each day. Had he kept that promise, maybe Hermione wouldn’t have found out about the habit, either.
A few minutes later, they both were nursing their own hot drinks in hands, the cups steaming in the cool brisk air. “You know smoking isn’t good, Harry," she started out surprisingly soft.
“I know.” He nodded absentmindedly. “And I know you know why I do it.”
It took her a moment to consider the reply, rolling it around in her mind he bet, before saying, “That is still no reason for you to be destroying yourself like this.”
“I am not destroying myself,” he protested neutrally. “Besides, I just need to keep my fingers busy.” And his hands flexed in demonstration.
A sharp intake of breath told him his best friend was about to retort something back at him when he realized that no word came at all. Harry didn’t know whether or not he should feel glad or disconcerted that she couldn’t – didn’t – make a remark on that.
Silence shrouded upon them like a thick, heavy blanket. Who was it trying to suffocate? He wondered idly. Seconds, minutes ticked by, and Harry allowed his thoughts to run away from him.
“How does it feel, Hermione?” His hoarse question broke through the sticky, condensed air like an ice pick piercing through a block of solidly frozen water. Years ago, she had asked him the same question… when Lavender Brown had still been alive, and the girl had just kissed Ron publicly after a victorious Quidditch match.
Ah… Quidditch, he thought wistfully. It had been a long time since he had last had a game. He missed the nose dive… but something told Harry he should do well to stay away from it for now. There might be a chance that he wouldn’t pull his broom up at the proper time, if at all, like he should if he were to try the move out once more.
She looked at him, a jumbled ball of emotion bouncing behind her liquid eyes, and he continued, “That time when I told you I’d go to the Forbidden Forest alone.”
Her lips thinned, he could see her throat work as she swallowed, fierce concentration to gauge his rereactions finally wavering. “It…” she stumbled, eyelashes fluttering. “It feels like this, Harry.”
He smiled grimly for a bit when she found his hand across the table and squeezed it, lending him some of her warmth.
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“I’ll go with you.”
Severus shook his head, raven hair flying in the blasting winds of this desolated landscape.
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There was no book on the coffee table the next time Harry managed to squeeze his way into Severus’ flat across from his own.
No book. No sheet of paper. No nothing.
He did not offer tea nor any drinks for that matter, and he certainly didn’t speak for more than seven incomplete sentences.
And Harry was worried, he was worried that something might have gone wrong somewhere. However, after a few questions and a quick overall check-up, nothing really looked out of place. The plumbing system with its special charm still worked, so did the room’s self-adjustable temperature… Even the sound filter (a more clever variation of a silencing charm) was relatively intact and wouldn’t need upgrading for a while more. Nothing seemed wrong, yet Severus’ mood remained rather edgy and dour…
It made him remember the first time he had heard the man laugh, and the sound rang in his pulsing ears.
That once proud man had been reduced to an aimless and disoriented shell.
Much like the state Harry himself was in.
Perhaps this was one of Severus’ more irritable days where he wanted to do nothing and make no contact with another human being.
There was a flaw in that theory, though. Should that have been the case, the door would have slammed into Harry’s face before he could even set half a foot beyond the threshold.
Nightmares, perhaps? Lord knew how many of those haunted that brilliant mind… But… what could he do? What could he possibly do with the position he was in?
Nothing.
Abso-bloody-lutely nothing.
Taking four small steps from that door to go back over to his own (his own freaking) flat and activating the wards, Harry started smashing.
He smashed and smashed everything and anything he within reach; his cries were swallowed up by the black, bottomless abyss.
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Even with homemade golden syrup and whipped cream, that bite of treacle tart tasted strangely salty in his mouth.
“Severus,” he whispered.
“Shut up and eat, Potter. Talking through a mouthful is rude.”
A wet laugh bubbled up his throat and burst. Maybe the tears rolling down his face had something to do with that odd taste.
With a sigh, Harry leaned into that feather light touch when it moved to brush the streaks away from his cheeks.
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“You’re spying on me,” he drawled, white smoke escaping his lips and nostrils. Hermione made no comment, just scowled and continued dabbing healing salve onto his raw knuckles. Protesting against her effort would have the same result as her persuading him to give up black coffee and smoking. Vain. “That’s personal invasion.” And yes, he was then openly dragging a breath from his cigarette in front of his friends. No use in hiding it when one had already found out anyway.
“That’s a load of crap, Harry,” Ron growled, standing in the wreck Harry had made of his flat like the center piece, face flushing almost the same shade of red as his ginger hair.
“Ron…” Came Hermione’s half-hearted attempt at trying to appease her husband. Or was that only disapproval against his choice of language? Either way, Harry knew from that flash in her eyes that she wanted them to have this talk, too.
“Can’t you see it?” his best friend ground out through gritted teeth. “You literally destroyed this place, and you still can’t see it?!”
Something on Harry’s face shifted and hardened, with a wave of his hand, everything broken in the room returned to their original state in their rightful place. A trick he learnt from the late Albus Dumbledore. He liked it a lot to be honest.
“You were saying?” The hint of iciness in his voice wasn’t lost on anyone in the room. All of them knew where this conversation was heading; it was obviously building up to this at any rate, and Harry wasn’t surprised. None of them was, by the looks of it.
“If you think for one second that flashing your magic around is going to distract me from this conversation, you’re sorely mistaken, mate,” the red-head sneered.
“Believe me, I don’t, Ron. I never think so, at all.” His expression sobered up as Harry plucked his bandaged hand from Hermione’s careful hold. “Thanks, ‘Mione.” With that the burning cigarette between his fingers disappeared into thin air, and he murmured a charm to cleanse the air of its ghostly smoke before sighing and standing up, squaring his shoulders for the conversation to come.
It didn’t take long for Hermione to be back to Ron’s side. However, even with their united strength, he would not succumb. Any other time but this.
“It’s not good for you, Harry,” she repeated her statement from not too long ago with a completely different meaning altogether. There was no need to explain what ‘it’ referred to; this was beyond the trivial vices.
“I know,” he began softly, firmly. “But it is my choice of poison, and no one, not even you two, can have a say in it.”
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“What are you doing?” He had asked one night upon waking up to Severus hurriedly scribbling something away, that poor ballpoint pen so out of place in his grip.
“Marking the calendar,” was the grunted reply. Slowly, his movement ceased though, and Severus turned to peer at Harry, a fathomless look glinting in his eyes. “Before I forget… again.”
Harry’s hand clenched around the bed sheet, feeling as though there was no end to this fall.
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His eyes snapped open, and Harry bolted upright.
Something was wrong.
Something was pulling at his core, pulsing like the beating of his rapidly racing heart.
Severus…
And he was already out of bed.
“Severus!” His fist collided with that stubborn, hateful, closed door. “Severus!”
There was no answer.
“SEVERUS!”
There was still no answer.
Shaking, even facing with death he had never trembled this much, Harry made for his wand and had the blasted thing out of its lock with an overly forceful Alohomora.
Books littered on the floor that second he was inside, and Severus’ stunned, wide eyes were staring at him, wild and bewildered like a feral, wounded animal.
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly, lungs burning painfully in his ribcage, head spinning slightly. Severus Snape would never treat his books like this. Never. “What’s wrong, Severus?” Oh, but everything was wrong. So wrong.
Those thin lips quivered, his throat clenched at the sight, and, for an instant there, a spark of fear invaded him. Harry was afraid the man would enquire after his identity… again.
“H-Harry…” The strangled sound pierced his mind much like a hot rod, both reinforcing and tipping his balance at the same time.
A hand rose up, reaching - calling - for him, and his body responded immediately, crossing the short distance separating them and finally gathering the man into his arms, physically whole one more time.
And those arms scrambled to cling to him as if holding onto the last life line, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. “Harry…”
“Shh…” he hushed, trying so soothe the shivering that resonated from deep within their bodies and stroking his hand up and down his beloved’s back. The man sounded so shaken and scared it made Harry’s stomach churn. “It’s all right, Severus… I-It’s all right.” The lie tasted like ash on his tongue, toes curling as the cold crept to his bare feet, slowly but surely. Inevitably.
“Harry…”
His reply came out much longer than he had expected it to as he swallowed down the solid lump in his throat. “Yes?”
They were both terrified, he could tell.
“I… I can’t read anymore."
There was a stopping point to this limbo state, then.
They had found that out and shattered in rhe process.
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End~