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Severus left the warmth of his bed, restlessness carrying him across the dark room and down the narrow stairs on feet long used to making silent progress, a habit so deeply ingrained that he could no easier shed it than he could re-sculpt the sour expression on his own face.
He lingered on the threshold of the tiny sitting room, door half way to open, his fingers still gripping the worn wood of the handle. The curtains had not quite closed completely, leaving a sliver between them, just enough room for a startlingly bright beam of moonlight to bisect the room, silver and sparkling against the gloom. For a moment the sight lifted the mean little room into something kinder, something closer to a place others might want to inhabit.
He shut the curtains with a curt flick of his hand.
Another wave rekindled the fire under the old kettle, the warmth from the little pile of coals reaching out to bathe his shins as he seated himself on the worn cushions of the loveseat. A tea service of cheap mismatched crockery floated in from the kitchen, a willow pattern cup on a saucer of pink roses that looked more like cabbages. The rims covered in tiny chips and smudged printing, a legacy of Tobas Snape’s anger issues and Severus’s own imprecise ability at magical repairs, his mother’s wand too big in his small hands.
He'd not bothered to replace them when they became legally his, they were sufficient for his own needs in the tiny window of time he spent away from Hogwarts each year, especially with no visitors calling to impress. It felt wasteful, disloyal somehow to the scrimping and saving his mother had endured, to splurge on something so trivial, so decorative.
Then later, the pressure of living under the constant fear that every day would be his last, that he’d be unmasked, revealed to be the traitor in a nest of snakes, had effectively robbed him of any capacity to care for such pleasantries. He rubbed idly at the scars on his neck, the callous on his thumb scraping over the raised welts. He turned his eyes to the ceiling and mused that now, maybe, it was time to rethink his life, his priorities.
A small sigh escaped him.
Reaching out blindly towards the nearest bookshelf, his fingers brushed not the leather spines of his potion books but the cold surface of printed paper, crinkling slightly at his touch.
The paper is a deep blue, showy silver stars dotted across its surface fade in and out as they glimmer, the whole thing topped by an extravagant bow in lacey silver ribbon. The weight of it is deceptively light as he turns it slowly in his hands, but it feels more solid than it looks. No murderous charms rise to bite his fingers so he turns the gaudy, glittery silver tag over with the tips of his fingernails, tutting when the glitter falls off to scatter across the surrounding area. It bears only his name, Severus, written carefully in painstaking cursive. His lips twitch, just slightly at one corner, gone again just as quickly.
With a glance at the clock, he brings the package to his knee, settling it on his threadbare gown. An easy pull on one of the extraneous ribbons unwraps the whole thing, the bow giving up its shape like a wilting rose, the layers drooping and laying themselves down neatly. The paper stars glow once, tiny supernovas flaring into life with silver sparks that burn out as the paper unfolds and lays down over the ribbon remains, exposing in its heart a roll of dark green leather fastened shut with a neat brass buckle.
The leather warms to his touch, soft and buttery it must be of exceptional quality and he cannot resist stroking the surface, his fingers tracing the scale pattern over its exterior. The buckle unfastens easily, the full roll expanding in his hands to display its glinting secrets. It is a superb potions collection kit, everything he could possibly want to gather the most mundane or most rarefied of ingredients. Blades of silver, glass, gold and shell sit in bindings spelled to keep them sharp, tiny glass vials are snug in pouches embroidered with their alchemical and arithmancy symbols.
He pulls free a tube and stopper made from solid garnet, marvelling as it expands to usable size and reduces again once placed back at the top of the pouch, he considered how easily it would carry several days’ worth of collections at once, reducing the time needed for returning to his lab to store unwieldly herbs and elements before being able to venture out again. With this in his possession he could restore his lost collections and stockrooms within a month, two at the most, if he took the time to gather only the most select items, oh how his creations would shine, the quality he could now command combined with his mastery would surely gain him acclaim at last. He almost salivates at the thought, mind leaping ahead, busy with plans of what and where, of how quickly they could leave to begin, his hands spread covetously over the rich and beautiful items.
But as reality pops the bubble of his day dreams, he pulls his hands back as if burnt. To accept such a gift would come with strings, strings from the giver that he was in no position to repay or be ready to accept, no matter how flattering and tempting they were. He had nothing he could offer in return, he had nothing to repay what had already been given and the taste of that was already too bitter to stand.
The door behind him closes softly.
“You aren’t supposed to open that until tomorrow.” There isn’t any accusation in the sleepy voice at his ear, only a slight downturn, as if its owner regrets missing the big reveal.
“I believe the clock as already struck midnight, so I am yet another year older.” He doesn’t turn around, only addresses the fire as a pair of hands slide down his chest possessively, catching him in an embrace from behind.
“Do you like it then?” Harry’s glasses push up against his cheek as he nuzzles closer, widening the opening of his dressing gown to leave a kiss in the crux of Severus neck and shoulder.
“It is too much.” Severus rolls it up quickly, turning his face away from Harry as he places the wrappings and gift to one side. “You should not spend your galleons on me.”
“Who else would I spend them on?” it is said softly, wounded and tired of an argument that sees them going around and around over the same old ground. He releases Severus and stands suddenly, taking with him his warmth, the soft scent of his skin. Severus mourns the loss and curses his foolish heart for crying so.
“I’ll go.” The smallness of his voice cuts a line down Severus’s chest and before he can stop himself, he reaches out to catch Harry’s wrist, holding him still and stiff, halfway between the loveseat and the door. He speaks to his back.
“Don’t.”
Harry doesn’t turn, doesn’t pull away, just stands completely still. “You don’t want me to stay.”
“I-”
The broken off word hangs between them, its jagged edges rebounding in the small space. Severus tries again, “I want you.. to be happy.”
Harry snorts and goes to pull away. Severus renews his grip, hanging over the back of the loveseat now, stomach clenching against the moment of truth. He hates to show his soft underbelly to any who could rip it open with a word, but hates the vision of a cold bed even more. A taste of honey is truly worse than no taste at all.
“Alright! I want you,” he snaps out, “I want you for myself, I don’t want to let you go, you wretched child.”
Harry snorts again, “I am no longer a child Severus, I’m a renowned professor at Hogwarts, a war hero, just like you are.” He turns then, pulling his wrist free and crossing his arms, a pinched unhappy look on his face, “I’m 23, Severus, I have capacity, I made my choice and I want to be with you. But I won’t stay if all you want is sex, I can get that anywhere.”
The truth burns in Severus's gut like acid, he could get it anywhere, with the young and beautiful, with the worthy. “I don’t understand why you want me,” he spits out, “why you are pursuing this so hard. In the end you will get bored and leave, after all, you could be with anyone- ”.
“I don’t want them.” Harry sighs, his face crumbling, eyes downturned with misery, “You and me, it’s what I want Severus, that’s all I want.” A tear trembles on his eyelashes and his arms drop their defensive pose, creeping round to hug himself tightly. He looks so defeated, so young and so heartbroken that Severus’s heart twists in agony.
He’s at Harry’s side before he can give his feet the instruction to move, pulling him in close.
“I’m sorry.” He breathes into sweet smelling curls, uses a thumb to stroke the tears away, “I am a foolish old man,” Harry tries to protest but Severus shushes him, “I am, Harry. Old and so very foolish. I don’t want you to waste your youth on me, not when you could be out there, being celebrated by the world, loved and adored by better men than I, those who could give you the world.”
“I’ve already had that, and ended up back at Hogwarts to escape it and if you’d forgotten, we are wizards,” Harry tries to joke but his throat is thick with unshed tears, “we could have another eighty or ninety years together. Isn't that worth the risk of trying.”
Severus shakes his head slightly, his own frown melting into something softer, more open, “You foolish boy.” he whispers, pressing his lips to Harry’s, “I will hold you to that, Mr Potter.”