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Chapter Text

Month 5 (Mid-September 1998)

The first thing Severus Snape felt when he returned to consciousness was pain.

It was not the searing agony of Nagini’s fangs nor the suffocating pull of death in the Shrieking Shack. That should have been the end. But this pain was different—dull, persistent, lingering.

His fingers twitched. Or—he tried to make them. The response was sluggish, unnatural, as though his body no longer obeyed him. He flexed his hands again, slower this time—his grip weak, muscle memory forgotten.

Something was wrong.

His breathing was slow, deliberate, as he fought past the heaviness pressing him down. His eyes fluttered open, met with the dim glow of candlelight. Shadows flickered across stone walls, their dance eerily familiar, yet alien all the same.

Then—a flicker of motion.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was calm, professional, and devoid of unnecessary sentiment. Madam Pomfrey.

She stepped into view, her expression a practiced mask of neutrality, though her eyes held something heavier, something carefully restrained. Her wand moved in efficient, precise motions, diagnostic spells flickering pale blue over his form.

Severus tried to push himself upright.

The moment he shifted, pain tore through him—deep, twisting, a reminder of injuries barely healed. His breath caught, and before he could protest, Pomfrey pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, forcing him back against the pillows.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said briskly, tone clipped, matter-of-fact.

Severus clenched his jaw, swallowing back the retort that threatened to rise. It was not worth the effort.

And yet—the humiliation of it burned.

He let his body sink into the mattress, his mind reeling as he tried to piece together the impossible.

He had been dying.

He had felt the poison in his veins, the life bleeding from him with every ragged breath. He had made peace with it—welcomed it, even.

And yet, he lived.

The thought unsettled him more than the pain itself.

This should not be possible. No magic was strong enough to bring him back from the brink. He had felt the finality of it, the absolute certainty of death settling over him like a shadow.

His throat felt raw when he finally spoke.

“How long?”

Pomfrey hesitated.

Then, she exhaled, her expression softening—if only slightly. “Four months.”

His breath hitched.

Four months.

Four months in this bed. Four months since the war had ended.

Four months since Potter had stood before him—pleading, desperate, filled with the foolish hope that had defined him from the start.

Four months since Voldemort had fallen. God, he hoped so.

The weight of it all pressed against him like a vice.

He had done what was necessary. He had played his part, made his final sacrifice, and ensured that the war ended as it must. He had prepared himself for death and had accepted it as the only conclusion he could ever hope for.

And yet, the world had denied him even that.

His voice, when he spoke again, was hoarse. "Why?"

Pomfrey pursed her lips. He recognized the hesitation. She was deciding how much to tell him, how much he could bear to hear.

"Potter," she said at last. "He brought you here."

Severus went rigid.

Of course, he had.

That insufferable, reckless boy had never known when to leave well enough alone. But that also meant victory. Hopefully. He couldn't bear to ask.

“You were dying,” Pomfrey continued, watching him carefully. “And I… did what I could. It was a near thing.”

A near thing.

He should have thanked her. He knew that.

But the words felt foreign, unworthy of his tongue.

Instead, he glanced down at his arms, noticing for the first time the way his sleeves had been rolled up. His skin, pale and lined with scars, bore a mark that had once been his burden to carry.

The Dark Mark.

But it was different now.

No longer the stark, unwavering black that had bound him to a lifetime of servitude.

Now, it was faded, lifeless, nothing more than a ghost of its former self.

Voldemort was dead.

The war was over.

And yet, a sickening weight curled in his stomach.

He flexed his fingers again, slower this time. They were still clumsy, sluggish. His body felt like it belonged to someone else.

Then, instinctively, he reached for his magic.

He did not think.

His mind expected it—the flicker of power beneath his skin, the automatic response, the way his magic should answer before his thoughts even fully formed.

But there was nothing.

His breath caught.

He reached again, pulling, commanding, searching for even the faintest flicker of power.

Nothing answered.

His fingers curled into fists.

“Where is it?”

The question tore from him, sharp, demanding. “Where is my magic?”

Pomfrey hesitated.

That hesitation alone was answer enough.

A cold dread coiled around his ribs, squeezing the air from his lungs.

“Tell me.”

The Healer sighed, rubbing her temple. “Severus—”

“Tell me.”

Her lips pressed together before she spoke, her voice softer now.

“It’s gone.”

His stomach dropped.

“Your core has fractured.”

The words struck like a physical blow.

Fractured. Not drained. Not weakened. Just—fractured.

Severus stared at her, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

Impossible.

A wizard’s core was his essence, his lifeblood. It could be drained, suppressed, but it could not be fractured.

Surely not.

His voice was barely a whisper. “You’re mistaken.”

Pomfrey’s expression tightened. “I wish I were.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

A memory struck, sudden and sharp—green light, stone walls crumbling, Longbottom standing defiant. Blood slicked the ground. His wand trembled in his grip.

A strangled breath caught in his throat. For an instant, he tasted ash, the reek of smoke from burning tapestries.

“Professor.”

Pomfrey’s voice was sharper now, concerned.

Severus’s eyes snapped open, and the memory vanished, leaving his body trembling with sudden cold.

Pomfrey hesitated. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Severus bit out.

A lie.

His hands still shook, half-curled in the blankets. Slowly, forcibly, he forced them still.

“You said four months,” he whispered, eyes hard on Pomfrey. “Four months of war’s aftermath… and somehow, I’m still here.”

Pomfrey did not speak. She merely nodded, eyes reflecting something close to pity.

Severus closed his own, swallowing back the nausea that came with the echo of crumbling walls, of Lily’s name.

If his core was truly gone—if he was half a wizard—

He would not live like this.

Chapter Text

Month 5 (Mid-September 1998)

The world was moving.

Not the jarring shift of Apparition, but something slower. Steady. Solid.

Severus felt it beneath him—the weight, the warmth, the motion. His eyelids were too heavy, his body a dull, distant ache, but his mind remained clear enough to recognize what had happened.

He had been moved.

A slow, muted breath escaped him.

His fingers twitched, brushing against worn wool—not his own.

His stomach twisted.

Another breath.

A shift of weight.

Then a voice, quiet, low, near his ear.

"You’re awake."

Severus’s eyelids cracked open, and the first thing he saw was Potter’s jaw.

His head was tilted forward, resting near the crook of Potter’s shoulder.

Potter was carrying him.

Humiliation gripped his chest. His limbs were useless, his weight fully supported.

He was not walking.

He was being held.

Severus inhaled slowly, teeth pressing together as his mind caught up with his body’s betrayal. He tried to pull away, but his muscles refused him.

Potter adjusted his grip, holding him closer.

Severus barely swallowed the growl that rose in his throat.

The air had changed—colder now, lined with dust and the restless weight of old magic.

Grimmauld Place.

He exhaled sharply, controlling the faint tremor in his breath.

"Put me down."

"Almost there," Potter said evenly.

Severus hated the quiet certainty in his voice. He wanted to argue, to sneer, to wrench himself free.

But he was so tired.

His body sagged against the support, the exhaustion bone-deep. If Potter set him down now, he would collapse.

So he didn’t protest.

Not yet.

The moment Potter lowered him into the chair, Severus clenched the armrests, fighting to remain upright.

For a horrifying second, his balance failed. His body betrayed him again.

His grip tightened.

The room was familiar—dark wood paneling, dust-coated bookshelves, a hearth burning steady flames. The house had been cleansed, but its history clung to the air.

Then—a scent.

Ash. Burnt parchment.

Faint, but there.

His breath faltered.

A battlefield.

Burning walls. Screams in the distance. The acrid stench of fire, too close—

No.

His fingers dug into the armrests. The flicker of memory vanished before it could take hold.

Severus turned his head, jaw tight.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision.

A red ranunculus.

Fresh. Deliberate.

Not the first.

His fingers twitched, but he did not reach for it.

"Drink this."

A glass was placed into his hand.

Potter had moved silently—practiced, methodical.

Severus steadied his grip, forcing the glass to his lips. It was humiliating how much effort it took.

When he finished, Potter took the empty glass without a word.

"You moved me," Severus said finally, voice still rough from disuse.

Potter met his gaze evenly. "You weren’t safe at Hogwarts."

Severus’s fingers curled against the armrests.

Potter had taken him.

Without permission.

Without waiting.

He felt a slow, simmering unease.

Not anger.

Not yet.

Just a deep, curling awareness that something larger was unfolding, something that had been decided for him while he had been too weak to argue.

"And what," he said quietly, "makes you think I am safe here?"

A slow inhale from Potter.

"You are."

Severus’s lips curled. "And I suppose I am to simply take your word for it?"

A pause.

Then—

"Yes."

The air between them had shifted.

Potter had moved him.

Potter had decided.

And now, Potter was waiting for Severus to accept it.

Severus closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him again, deeper this time.

He wanted to ask.

Why?

Why had Potter taken responsibility for him?

Why place him here, of all places?

Why was the boy who had spent years despising him now watching over him with a quiet, unwavering focus?

But he did not ask.

The silence settled.

Potter did not fill it.

Eventually, when the flames in the hearth burned lower, Severus felt his body give in.

He drifted.

And just before sleep took him, he heard the quiet scrape of a chair being drawn closer.

Not leaving.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

📍 Month 5 (Mid-September 1998)

Severus Snape’s second morning in Grimmauld Place was marked by silence.

Not the charged silence of a battlefield. Not the tense quiet before a duel.

A silence without expectation.

A silence he did not trust.

He had woken before dawn. He always did. Years of war had conditioned him too well. Even now, weakness dragged at his bones, but his instincts stirred before the house did.

He did not move immediately.

The air was cool, thick with parchment, aged wood, and something sharp, herbal. Not Hogwarts. Not the Infirmary.

Grimmauld Place.

The realization settled, cold and immovable.

The chair beside the hearth was empty.

Potter had not left it last night—not until exhaustion dragged Severus beyond reach, leaving him unable to force him away.

Now, it seemed, he had gone.

Severus exhaled slowly, listening.

The house was never silent. The walls still whispered their memories, old spells woven into the structure. But there were no footsteps beyond his door.

It was early.

And he was alone.

Severus pressed a palm to the armrest, testing.

His limbs remained sluggish, his strength not yet returned, but the ache had dulled from unbearable to merely wretched.

Better.

Not good. But better.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself upright.

A mistake.

Pain lanced through his lower back, a sharp pull twisting up his ribs. His knees trembled. The room swayed.

The air thinned.

A sharp, gut-clenching dizziness struck, dragging his stomach into freefall. His own weight bore down, too heavy, too unsteady.

Foolish.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the armrests. His body shook under the simple act of sitting upright. Weak. Ruined.

Four months.

Four months without movement. Without control. Without his magic.

His clothes hung too loosely, the fabric folding unnaturally over his frame.

This was not mere weakness.

This was ruin.

His stomach turned.

One step at a time.

Severus braced his hands against the arms of the chair and tried to stand.

Nothing.

His arms shook violently, his muscles refusing him. Cold nausea surged up his throat.

Again.

Teeth clenched, he tried again. Shoulders burned. Elbows trembled. His lower back screamed in protest.

His legs did not even try.

His breath came too fast.

Move.

He commanded his body. He had survived worse. He had endured worse.

His spine twisted under its own weight. The world tilted.

The ground rushed toward him—

Then—

A hand.

A strong, steady grip closed around his upper arm, catching him.

His breath hitched.

Potter.

Standing before him, unreadable. Steady. Holding him upright.

Severus’s fingers curled involuntarily against Potter’s sleeve, his own body refusing to obey, refusing to be anything but a disgrace.

Infuriating.

"You’re not ready."

Potter’s voice was calm. Not soft.

Not pitying.

Just certain.

Severus forced his breathing steady, his pulse roaring in his ears.

He hated that certainty.

"I can stand," he said, low, seething.

A pause.

Then—Potter’s grip tightened.

"No, you can’t."

Severus snapped his head toward him, fury burning behind his eyes.

"You’re too weak."

No hesitation. No mockery. Just fact.

Severus shook beneath his grip, every nerve in his body screaming at him to deny it.

"Let go of me."

"You’ll fall."

"I said—"

His arms buckled.

His breath caught. His knees failed. His spine collapsed.

And Potter caught him.

Again.

Like some miserable, infuriating habit.

Severus gritted his teeth. Humiliation burned.

His body was dead weight. Limbs useless.

Merlin, I cannot even stand.

A deep, quiet horror crept into his ribs.

"You need time," Potter said simply.

Severus wanted to curse him. To snarl, to push him away, to demand he stop speaking like that—

As if Severus was something fragile.

But he couldn’t.

Because Potter was right.

Because this—this was not just weakness.

It was incapacity.

Too much lost.

Too much muscle.

Too much of himself.

"I will not be carried."

His voice was harsh, rasping. Barely controlled.

Potter didn’t react.

"Then stop trying to stand like an idiot."

Severus flinched.

He looked up, expecting derision.

There was none.

No mockery. No gloating.

Just stubborn, infuriating certainty.

"You need to rebuild first."

A pause.

"That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?"

Severus hated that he couldn’t argue.

Hated that his breath still shook in his chest.

Hated the way Potter held him steady.

I should not be here.

The thought slid through him like ice.

I should not have survived.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Swallowed the bile.

And after a long, heavy moment—he spoke.

"What do I do?"

Potter exhaled sharply.

Then, slowly, he eased Severus back into the chair, careful now.

Severus hated that he needed the help.

But he let him.

Because Potter was right.

And that was the worst part of all.

Chapter Text

📍 Month 5 (One week after waking up)

Severus Snape had never cared for waiting.

Waiting meant uncertainty.

Waiting meant power in the hands of others.

Waiting meant time stretching, decisions being made without his input—his fate slipping beyond his control.

He had waited before battles.
Before the Dark Lord’s summons.
Before the headmaster’s orders.
Before death in the Shrieking Shack.

But this—this—was a different kind of waiting.

This was inactivity.

A forced, suffocating stillness, coiling around him like iron chains, reminding him with every passing hour that he was powerless.

And Potter’s silence was making it worse.

It had been three days since Severus had tried—and failed—to stand.
Three days since Potter had stopped him, voice even, unyielding, saying, You’re not ready.

Three days since Severus had been too weak to argue.
Too furious to accept it.

And Potter, damn him, had simply watched.

Offering nothing but presence—a silent foundation rather than a crutch.

So Severus had turned his attention elsewhere.

Potter never left the room.

Every morning, before dawn, Severus would wake to the rustle of parchment, the scrape of a chair, the faint hum of Potter’s magic shifting over books and scrolls.

A pattern.

The first morning, he ignored it.
The second, he listened.
The third, he seethed.

By the fourth morning, he’d had enough.

"Potter."

The single word cut through the dimly lit room like a knife.

Potter, seated near the window, did not look up immediately. He finished writing—calm, measured—before setting his quill down.

Then, finally, he met Severus’s gaze.

"You are planning something."

It was not a question.

Potter exhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the parchment.

"I am."

Severus’s grip tightened against the chair. The flicker of something sharp and cutting pressed against his ribs.

"And you have yet to inform me."

A page turned. The crisp sound filled the silence.

"I wasn’t sure if you were ready to hear it."

Severus’s hands clenched into fists. Rage burned hot in his throat.

"I am not a child, Potter." His voice was cold steel. "You do not decide what I am ready for."

Potter finally looked up.

His eyes were calm—that same infuriating steadiness.

"No," he said simply. "But you’ve been barely strong enough to walk. I didn’t think you’d want to waste energy arguing about what comes next."

Severus’s jaw locked.

He did not respond immediately.

Potter held his gaze a moment longer, then set the book down.

And finally, he spoke the words that had hovered in the air for days.

"I know how to get your magic back."

Severus stilled.

The words should have landed like hope.

Instead, they struck like insult.

His pulse slowed, breath pulling deep through his chest, a deliberate, tempered restraint.

He had not expected this.

Not something so absurd.

His fingers curled against the blanket draped over his lap, pressing hard enough that his knuckles ached.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. Dangerous.

"And why, exactly, would you assume I wouldn’t want to hear this?"

Potter did not waver.

He exhaled, pressing his thumb against the frayed corner of the parchment.

"You haven’t asked."

Severus’s eyes narrowed.

"And that," he said, voice lethal, "led you to believe I would rather remain ignorant of my own damnation?"

Potter didn’t react to the venom in his words.

"No," he said. "But it made me wonder if you could handle hearing it."

Silence.

The kind that did not fill a room, but hollowed it out.

Severus had spent years ensuring that his presence commanded silence. That he was feared. Respected.

But Potter—Potter had always been an exception to the rule.

And hearing that tone—calm, firm, steady—made something tighten behind his ribs.

Severus let the quiet smother his anger before speaking.

"Explain."

Potter’s gaze was assessing. Calculating.

"I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear that your condition wasn’t an accident," he said. "Or that it wasn’t just the war that did this to you."

Severus’s breath went cold.

Potter continued, unshaken.

"You lost your magic because it was taken from you, Professor."

A page turned. Runes, dark and twisting, pulsed against the parchment.

"This—" Potter gestured to the diagrams— "isn’t a theory. It’s the truth."

"Explain Yourself."

And Potter did.

"Voldemort didn’t just use the Mark to summon," Potter said, voice steady. "It was a siphon."

Severus stilled.

"That is not possible."

His voice was pure calculation. Because it wasn’t possible.

The Dark Mark had been a tool of control, a brand that burned, that summoned—

But never had he suspected something more.

"He wanted insurance," Potter continued. "A source of power he could take from when he needed it most."

Severus said nothing.

Because that—that—was different.

"Most of his followers weren’t worth the effort," Potter went on. "But the powerful ones—those with talent—he turned them into something else."

Potter’s gaze didn’t waver.

"A well."

Severus’s breath turned to iron in his lungs.

"And you," Potter said, voice quiet, final, "were one of them."

A well.

Not a slow siphon.

Not a gradual drain.

But a reserve. A controlled source of power, taken in one final, devastating moment.

Severus’s fingers curled into the table.

"You’re certain."

"Yes."

A long pause.

"When?"

Potter’s gaze flickered.

"Tomorrow night."

Severus closed his eyes. Briefly.

Then—

He nodded.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 5 (Late September/Early October 1998)

The air was thick with old magic.

Severus could feel it—pressing against his skin, winding through the walls of Grimmauld Place, coiling through the ancient runes carved into the stone floor.

A part of him wanted to question. To analyze, to demand the precise mechanics of what Potter had planned.

But he didn’t.

Because tonight, it did not matter how the ritual worked.

Only that it did.

Severus sat in the chair nearest the runes, his breathing slow, deliberate. His body was still weak, still unfamiliar—but something coiled in his chest that had not been there for weeks.

Anticipation.

Across the room, Lucius Malfoy knelt.

Wrists bound, golden restraints pulsing with slow, rhythmic magic, casting his face in an unnatural glow. His once-pristine robes—once the height of aristocratic arrogance—now bore the creases of confinement, the dull wear of captivity.

His hair, though still pale, had lost its luster. Strands hung in unkempt disorder—an offense Lucius Malfoy of old would never have tolerated.

His hands trembled. Just barely.

Severus watched him without speaking.

Because this was not the Lucius Malfoy who had once strode through Hogwarts—a vision of noble poise, whispering honeyed promises of power to a bitter, ambitious, desperate boy.

This was not the man who had guided him, coaxed him, lured him into the Dark Lord’s fold—soft-spoken assurances dressed in fine silks and quiet, knowing smiles.

This was not the Lucius Malfoy who had stood beside the Dark Lord in his prime—assured, untouchable, a man who believed his place in history was secured.

No.

This was the other Lucius Malfoy.

The one who had cowered on the marble floors of Malfoy Manor, trembling under Voldemort’s withering gaze.

The one stripped of dignity, stripped of favor, stripped of everything but the desperate need to survive.

Severus remembered.

He remembered.

The way Lucius had looked just before Azkaban—wide-eyed, hollow, a man who had lost the script of his own life and did not know how to play the part anymore.

And now, here he was.

Bound.
Helpless.
Reduced.

There was a dreadful, poetic symmetry in it.

The man who had once set him on the path to his own destruction…

Would now be the first step toward his rebirth.

Severus’s lips curled.

There was no humor in it.

"Poetic," he thought idly.

"A man who once dictated fates, reduced to ink in another’s quill. The architect of my ruin… now the foundation of my salvation."

Lucius must have felt his gaze, because his eyes lifted—meeting Severus’s own.

And for the first time, in all their years, Severus saw something genuine in Lucius Malfoy’s expression.

Not arrogance.
Not pride.
Not even fury.

Just fear.

And Severus did not look away.

Lucius jerked against his restraints.

The golden bindings flared in response, pulsing with each strained movement. But they did not yield.

His breath came sharper now, quicker—composure cracking.

"Severus," he tried again, voice softer now, coaxing. "You must realize what this is. What he’s doing."

Severus did not respond.

Lucius swallowed.

"This isn’t a cure. It’s theft. You know that better than anyone."

The words landed heavy.

Lucius knew what he was doing.

Knew that Severus had spent a lifetime under the weight of another’s will.

And yet, he remained silent.

Lucius’s fingers curled against the floor, uselessly grasping at nothing.

"Severus," his voice turned sharp, urgent. "This magic—it’s volatile. It was never meant to be reversed. What do you think will happen to you? You think he’s saving you? If this goes wrong, you could—"

Severus tilted his head, regarding him in the dim, flickering light.

"And yet," he murmured, "I am still willing."

Lucius’s throat bobbed.

"You’re making a mistake," he pressed, voice dropping lower, pleading. "There are other ways—"

"There are not."

Flat. Resolute.

Lucius flinched.

His eyes darted toward Potter—desperate for an opening, for escape.

"He’s reckless, Severus," he hissed. "You’ve seen it. You know it. And now he thinks he can control this? That he can rip magic apart and put it back together?"

Lucius seized the moment.

"You don’t even believe him, do you?" His breath shuddered. "You’re hoping—but you don’t know."

Severus inhaled sharply.

Because Lucius was right.

He did not know.

He did not know if this would work.

He did not know if it would kill him.

And for one flickering moment—he doubted.

Lucius’s voice shifted—low, coaxing, reasonable.

"You could live as you are now."

Severus’s breath slowed.

"Not all wizards need magic," Lucius pressed. "You can live without it."

A flicker of something sharp and searing surged from the runes.

Potter.

Severus could feel his magic coiled and brimming beneath his skin, though the younger man did not move.

Lucius swallowed.

And then—softly.

"Please, Severus."

The words landed differently.

Not as defiance.

Not as manipulation.

As something else.

Something Severus had heard before.

"Please," Charity Burbage’s voice, soft, desperate. "We were colleagues—please—"

Her eyes wide. Terrified. Pleading.

And Severus, watching.

Watching.

Just as he was watching now.

Lucius’s breath hitched.

He saw it.

Saw that he had almost won.

Saw the doubt in Severus, buried beneath the years of war, of sacrifice, of choices that had never been his to make.

"You know how this feels," he whispered. "You have stood where I kneel."

Severus’s fingers tightened.

Lucius pressed further.

"This will kill me, Severus."

Severus’s pulse roared in his ears.

The past was too close.
Too loud.

But something shifted.

Something settled.

Lucius had led him to ruin once.

It was only fitting that he now led him to rebirth.

Severus’s grip unclenched.

His breath evened.

And when he finally looked at Lucius—

His voice was quiet. Absolute.

"Then die."

The air shifted at his words—a pulse of unseen force pressing outward from the runes, curling along the stone floor in slow, deliberate waves.

Potter began the incantation.

Ancient words filled the room, low and resonant. Magic stirred.

The symbols on the stone began to glow—first in soft amber light, then gold, then something deeper. Something old.

Severus’s breath came sharp.

His body tensed as the magic built, rising in a way he had not felt in weeks.

The bindings around Lucius tightened, glowing brighter.

The siphoning had begun.

Lucius shuddered.

Golden light coiled from his chest, twisting through the air in languid, unrelenting tendrils.

Severus watched.

The first thread of magic peeled away, stretching outward like liquid fire, curving toward the runes—toward him.

His breath caught.

The moment it touched him, his body reacted violently.

A sharp pulse tore through his ribs—his fingers jerked against the arms of the chair, his vision tilted for half a second.

It was too much.

Too sudden.

The first feeling of raw power since his core had been shattered.

The magic was not his own—

But it was filling the gaps, threading into the fractures, knitting itself into place with an unbearable heat.

Severus clenched his jaw.

He would not falter.

Across from him, Lucius was shaking.

His breathing turned shallow. His pupils blown wide.

He fought the bindings, his body pulling against them, but—

It did not matter.

The siphoning did not stop.

Severus let out a slow, shaking breath.

He could feel it now.

Not just magic entering him—

His core reacting to it.

He had spent weeks empty. The stillness inside him had been unbearable, a silence where something vital should have been.

And now—now—

Something stirred.

His core had not been destroyed.

It had been fractured.

And now, piece by piece, it was mending.

Potter’s chanting slowed.

His wand lowered slightly, fingers curving around the handle.

The glow in the runes was steady now, shifting between gold and something deeper, something ancient.

Severus felt his limbs hum with power.

It was weak still—like a long-neglected flame struggling for air—but it was there.

For the first time since the war, he felt whole.

Severus inhaled. Slow. Measured. Deep.

And the magic answered.

The warmth coiled into him, settling, finding the fractures, reinforcing the edges of something that had nearly broken beyond repair.

He let out a low breath, eyes closing.

His body had not felt like this in weeks.

Lucius made a choked sound.

Severus barely registered it.

Because for the first time in four months—

He felt like himself again.

Then—

It happened without warning.

The glow in the runes flickered.

Severus felt a sharp twist in his ribs—

His magic surged too fast, too hard.

His limbs lost strength.

His chest tightened.

His breath turned shallow—

A surge of heat—

Then cold—

Then—

Nothing.

The last thing he felt was Potter moving toward him,

Arms catching him before he hit the stone floor.

A voice.

Low. Steady. Close.

"I've got you."

And then—

Darkness.

Chapter Text

Month: 6 (October 1998, immediately after the Lucius ritual)

The fever came for him like a predator.

It coiled around his ribs, wrapped its claws around his lungs, sank its teeth into his bones. A relentless, merciless thing, dragging him under with no room for resistance.

His body was not his own.

Heat pulsed through his veins, liquid fire searing his flesh from the inside out. He burned, his skin too tight, too raw, too wrong —only for the fever to turn on him without warning, sinking him into a bone-deep cold so violent his body convulsed.

He was shaking. Uncontrollably. His limbs twisted, muscles locking into unbearable cramps, seized so tight he thought they might snap. His breath came in stuttering gasps, labored and ragged, each inhale too shallow, each exhale failing to push the suffocating pressure from his chest.

His lungs would not expand fully.

He was drowning.

"Drink."

Something pressed against his lips.

A cup. Potion. Cold liquid against burning flesh. The acrid bitterness slashed through the fever’s haze, jarring him back—too much, too fast.

No—

He turned away on instinct, his body jerking violently as nausea rose, his stomach twisting inside out . The world spun—no, collapsed —and the sharp motion sent him plummeting back into the void.

The nightmares took him .

They were not dreams. They were living things, sinking claws into his mind, pulling him deeper, deeper, until the fever ceased to exist, and there was only pain.

Pain so real, so absolute, he could no longer tell if it was memory or something new.

The howl of the wind.

Severus’s body was no longer writhing on the floor but standing—frozen, breathless—on the Astronomy Tower.

Dumbledore stood before him, his blue eyes dimmed, fading, something too heavy settling in their depths.

"Severus."

His wand felt foreign in his grip, the weight of it too much.

Dumbledore’s robes billowed in the wind, the edges of his figure blurring, as if he were already disappearing.

"It was always going to be you, Severus."

No.

No, no, no—

His body refused to obey.

His breath came too fast, the world too still, too silent, waiting—always waiting for him to act, to end it, to play his part.

The green light erupted from his wand.

Dumbledore fell.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Severus could not move, could not breathe, could not change it.

He reached forward—too late, always too late—

The body never hit the ground.

Just kept falling.

Into nothing.

The tower vanished.

And when Severus blinked—

He was standing in the ruins of Godric’s Hollow.

Lily stood in front of him.

Alive.

Her green eyes burned, sharp as shattered glass.

"You disgust me."

The words cut through him, razor-sharp, leaving him flayed open, raw.

No.

Not again.

He tried to speak, to explain, to beg—but his throat would not work.

"You chose this, Severus."

She was backing away.

No—no, wait—

His feet would not move.

His hands reached out, useless, desperate, but Lily was already gone, stepping into the shadows—

No—

Severus gasped, his chest burning, the distance between them stretching impossibly far—

And then—

The shadows twisted.

Lily did not disappear into them.

She collapsed.

Blood pooled around her like spilled ink.

A figure stepped forward.

Voldemort.

He lowered his wand.

He turned his head, red eyes locking onto Severus, mocking, amused.

"You chose this, too."

The green light of the curse still lingered in the air.

Severus screamed.

"Severus… please."

The voice was hoarse.

Thick with something Severus did not want to name.

The world tilted again, shifting, warping—

He was not in Godric’s Hollow anymore.

He was back on the Astronomy Tower, but Dumbledore was not there.

There was only Severus.

Alone.

His wand was still raised.

His fingers trembled.

"It must be you."

Severus looked down.

And the body on the ground was not Dumbledore’s.

Blood pooled beneath a throat ripped open by fangs, soaking black robes.

Empty, dark eyes stared back at him.

His own.

Severus staggered backward, his breath vanishing from his lungs, the wind howling, screaming through the darkness—

The body twitched.

Then—it reached for him.

Severus choked—no, no, no—

Cold, dead fingers locked around his ankle.

And pulled.

Pulled him down—

Pulled him into the abyss—

Pulled him into nothingness.

Severus fell.

Endlessly.

"Crucio."

Severus screamed.

His body arched violently, every nerve burning, fire crawling through his veins, twisting, ripping him apart from the inside out. His breath shattered, his vision blurred with white-hot pain, his muscles tearing beneath his skin—his nerves did not remember the agony.

They were still feeling it.

"Please—"

He did not know if he spoke the word aloud.

It did not matter.

Amycus’s voice slithered through the dark, low, cruel, delighted.

"Not so brave now, are you?"

Severus knew this nightmare. He had lived it before. But this time—this time it would not end.

The pain would not release him.

His limbs jerked involuntarily, convulsing against the floor, the smell of damp stone filling his lungs, the laughter echoing too close, too real—

The curse stopped.

A single heartbeat of silence.

Then—

"Again."

The pain blistered through him, his bones breaking, breaking, breaking—

The Fever Was Not Done With Him.

The next time it dragged him under, it was worse.

Not pain.

Loss.

His magic—his core—was being ripped from him, an unseen force tearing it away, pulling it from his chest in long, silken threads of power. He could see it, could feel it slipping through his fingers, golden, glowing, vanishing into the abyss—

"No—"

He reached out, clawing at it, desperate, grasping, his hands closing around nothing—

"No, no, no—"

His breath shattered, his chest constricting, tightening too much, the panic seeping into his bones. He was bleeding magic, bleeding out, and it would not stop—

It should have been inside him. It belonged to him.

But it was leaving.

Being taken.

The void it left behind was wrong, yawning, devouring him from the inside out—

He was being hollowed out, carved away until nothing remained.

Not a wizard.

Not a man.

Nothing.

"NO—!"

He woke gasping—sobbing.

Air. Too much, too fast, too sharp.

It set off a violent tremor in his limbs, his chest heaving—no, collapsing, his lungs too tight, his body refusing to breathe properly.

He barely noticed the tears at first.

His body shook uncontrollably, his breaths coming in stuttering, wracked sobs, his ribs heaving too hard, too fast. His hands jerked against the sheets, gripping, clutching, trying to find something to hold onto, anything, anything—

"No, no—no, no, no—"

His throat closed.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

The panic took him whole, swallowing him, every nerve in his body screaming with the memory of being emptied, being hollowed out, being turned into nothing—

"Severus."

A voice.

Close. Steady.

A hand on his shoulder, firm but not restraining.

"You’re awake."

No. No, he wasn’t.

The magic was still gone.

His lungs would not expand.

The world was tilting, everything spinning, his fingers twitching, grasping at nothing—

"Severus, look at me."

The voice cut through the air sharply, not leaving room for refusal.

Too fast, too much, too real—

A hand found his own, his fingers locking around fabric, something solid, something real—

"Breathe."

Severus sobbed again, but it was wrong, too shallow, too ragged.

"You're safe. You're here. Just breathe."

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stop shaking, crying, his hands still clawing at his own chest, trying to find something that wasn’t there anymore—

"You're not there anymore."

His ribs ached, his lungs still refusing to obey—

The hand on his wrist squeezed, once.

"In—" Potter inhaled, slow, deliberate.

Severus tried, but it hitched, his throat closing up, his pulse pounding in his ears, deafening—

"Again. With me."

Severus’s grip tightened, his body still trembling, but Potter’s voice was unshaken.

"In—" Another slow inhale, guiding. Waiting.

Severus tried.

The breath broke apart in the middle, hiccuped, strangled, but he tried.

"Out."

He exhaled, too short, too sharp, but real.

His body shuddered, raw, but Potter did not let go.

Again.

And again.

The dizziness remained, the terror still lingering, but the suffocating weight in his chest lessened, just enough.

His body was still shaking. His hands were still curled too tight.

But he was breathing.

Severus pressed his face against his hand, his breath still coming too fast, too weak—

But the tears would not stop.

And Potter did not let go.

He did not offer meaningless words.

Did not tell him to stop crying.

Did not say it was alright, because it wasn’t.

He just stayed.

Still, steady, waiting.

Not demanding.

Not forcing.

Just existing—something solid in the aftermath of the nightmare.

Severus did not thank him.

But his grip did not release.

And Potter did not let go..

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 6-7-8 (October– December 1998)

Severus had lived through pain before.

The Cruciatus. Nagini’s bite. The Dark Lord’s rage.

But this was different.

This was not a sharp, consuming agony—it was slow, endless, dragging him down, down, down, locking him inside his own failing body.

Time blurred.

The fever settled into his bones, a relentless thing, refusing to release him. Some nights, he burned—his skin too hot, his mind floating away on the heat of it, his thoughts fractured and loose. Other nights, the cold overtook him, leaving him shaking, trembling, locked in an agony of ice.

And always, Potter remained.

At first, Severus barely noticed.

The shift of a damp cloth against his forehead.
The cool drag of fingers checking his pulse.
The occasional rustle of fabric as blankets were pulled away, then returned.

He was dimly aware of the hands that moved him, adjusting his limbs when he curled too tightly, pressing a potion to his lips when his body refused to drink on its own.

He resented it.
He relied on it.

He did not have the strength to fight it.

One night, he became aware of the touch against his hands.

Massaging.

Pressing into the tight, locked muscles, kneading out the weeks of unconscious tension. His fingers had curled inward from fever, from weakness, from inactivity.

And now, Potter was working them loose.

Severus flinched at first—an instinctive, startled response. The pressure stilled, but only for a moment.

"Your circulation is poor," Potter’s voice came, low, matter-of-fact. No pity. No condescension. Just practicality.

Severus hated it.
He hated how his breath shuddered, how his fingers relaxed under Potter’s careful touch.

He hated that the ache eased.

A moment stretched—too long, too close—before Potter withdrew his hands.

Severus exhaled, slow, uneven.

He did not ask him to stop.

Time lost all meaning.

Sometimes, the fire burned low, warm embers painting the walls in muted orange.

Then—a blink—

And the candle was fresh again, flickering in the darkness.

The room shifted between night and day, between Potter sitting in that damnable chair and standing over him, between warmth and cold, but one thing never changed.

Potter was always there.

Severus stopped waiting for him to leave.

Stopped wondering if he would.

Stopped expecting it.

He barely knew when the realization settled in his mind, but it coiled there nonetheless—buried beneath exhaustion, beneath fever.

The moment it became fact was the moment he stopped noticing the chair’s creak as Potter shifted his weight.

Time lost all meaning.

Sometimes, the fire burned low, warm embers painting the walls in muted orange.

Then—a blink—

And the candle was fresh again, flickering in the darkness.

The room shifted between night and day, between Potter sitting in that damnable chair and standing over him, between warmth and cold, but one thing never changed.

Potter was always there.

Severus stopped waiting for him to leave.

Stopped wondering if he would.

Stopped expecting it.

He barely knew when the realization settled in his mind, but it coiled there nonetheless—buried beneath exhaustion, beneath fever.

The moment it became fact was the moment he stopped noticing the chair’s creak as Potter shifted his weight.

The fever controlled him.

One moment, he burned.

Potter pulled the sheets away, pressing cool rags to his forehead, against his throat, to the pulse point in his wrist.

The next, he shook.

The tremors ran through him, violent, unrelenting, locking his muscles into sharp spasms.

The weight of blankets returned instantly.

Severus hated how quickly Potter adjusted, how he always seemed to know what his body would demand before even he did.

He hated it.
And he needed it.

Potions.

He was given them every few hours.

Even in half-consciousness, Severus recognized the bitter bite of fever reducers, muscle relaxants, nutrient drafts.

He had brewed these potions before.

He had pressed them into the hands of the injured, the weak, the dying.

And now, they were being pressed against his own lips.

"Drink."

A vial tilted carefully.

His throat burned.

The cool edge of glass pressed against his mouth.

"Just a sip."

Severus’s breath came shallow.

A hand lingered at the back of his neck, steadying him just enough before lowering him back to the pillows.

He did not have the energy to refuse.

And even if he had—
Potter would not have let him.

He spoke too much.

The fever dragged words from him, left them spilling, unraveling, unguarded.

He barely registered what he said.

But he knew Potter heard.

Because whenever Severus muttered things, half-formed, half-raw—

Potter’s grip on him tightened.

"I failed them—I failed them—"

"You didn’t fail."

"I should have done more, I should have—"

"You did what you could."

"Dumbledore—"

"Wasn’t your fault."

"Lily—" His voice broke, cracking under the weight of things left unsaid.
"Lily—"

"Sleep," Potter said, firm, steady, unyielding. "Don’t think. You owe nothing to no one anymore."

Severus shook his head—
No, no, he owed everything—

"You’re alright."

Potter’s voice cut through, grounding, unshakable, even as Severus’s breath came faster, more ragged.

"It’s over."

Severus gasped, something choked and sharp, but Potter didn’t let go.

"It’s over."

The words came again, again, each repetition softer, but no less certain.

And Severus—
For once, for just a moment—
Let it be.

But his body was failing.

Days blurred into weeks, and still—he could not move.

He tried.
Of course, he tried.

The moment he was aware enough, he had forced his body to respond.

A twitch.
A shift.
A simple, small movement.

And yet—his own limbs betrayed him.

Hands trembling too much to hold a vial.
Lips too dry to speak properly.
Head lolling sideways, unable to lift it.

Humiliating.

Helpless.

And Potter was still there to witness all of it.

Severus resented him.
He relied on him.
And—
He could not be alone.

Not now.

Not yet.

The thought crept up on him like a sickness, and the first time it took hold—he panicked.

He had woken in silence.

Not Potter’s voice.
Not the rustle of fabric.
Not the quiet scrape of a chair moving.

Just—silence.

The air felt wrong, too empty.

His breath quickened before he could stop it, a cold shudder creeping down his spine.

Where was—?

Before the thought could fully form, a door creaked open.

Footsteps.

A presence—returning.

The panic faded.

He was not alone.

His pulse slowed.

He did not acknowledge it.
Did not react.

But he knew.

He had been waiting.

And then—

His body finally gave up.

There was no nightmare.
No fear.
No resistance.

One moment, Severus was conscious, awake just enough to register Potter at his side, pressing a vial to his lips.

The next—

Nothing.

The world slipped away.

No breath.
No thought.
No awareness.

Only the weight of exhaustion, too deep, too consuming, pulling him under—

And this time—
He did not fight it.

Chapter Text

📍 Month:  9 (  Mid-January 1999)

Severus woke to the sensation of absence.

Not silence.

Absence.

It was not the suffocating stillness of the infirmary, nor the void of unconsciousness. This was something else. A quiet space where something had been—and was now gone.

The room was dim, candlelight flickering weakly against the cold stone walls. The air was thick, damp with the scent of too many potions, the acrid bite of fever reducers, the lingering traces of healing salves.

Severus inhaled, breath rattling in his chest. Everything ached. Not the blinding pain of injury, but the dull, consuming exhaustion of a body barely clinging to itself. His limbs were stiff, muscles thin, humiliatingly weak.

But there was no venom.

He could feel it.

The magic that had been so unstable, so volatile—reacting violently to the lingering traces of Nagini’s poison—was no longer fighting against him. His core felt… fragile, perhaps, but whole. No longer something foreign clawing at his insides.

He had stabilized.

And yet.

His fingers twitched against the blanket. How?

A shift. A breath.

Severus turned his head.

And Potter was there.

Slumped in the chair beside the bed, posture wrecked by exhaustion. His skin pale, dark bruises etched beneath his eyes, his face hollowed from weeks without proper rest. His hair, normally a disaster, had reached a new level of disarray—as though he had run his hands through it too many times in frustration. His robes, stained and wrinkled,looked as if they'd been worn for days.

This was not the Boy Who Lived.

This was a man who had burned himself to the ground and kept going.

Severus’s stomach twisted.

He had seen this before.

On his own face.

Potter blinked, slow and sluggish. His reaction was delayed, his focus off, as though his mind had to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.

Then—his shoulders dropped.

Not relief.

Not entirely.

More like—the unspooling of tension wound too tightly for too long.

"You're awake."

His voice was hoarse, rough—like he hadn’t used it properly in days.

Severus swallowed, his own throat aching with disuse.

"So it would seem."

He exhaled, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. His body ached—not sharply, not in the way he had once been accustomed to after battle, but in the deep, unfamiliar ache of a body forced into stillness for too long.

The scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air. Tinctures. Restoratives. He knew the smell of prolonged care.

His voice was rough when he spoke.

"How long this time?"

Potter exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as if trying to scrub exhaustion from himself.

"Three months," he said finally. His voice was steady, but something beneath it was not.

"Two months delirious… one month unconscious."

Severus stilled.

Three months.

He had lost three months again.

His jaw clenched. The sheer helplessness of it, the thought of wasting so much time in an unconscious haze, of being nothing more than a body waiting to be cared for—

He swallowed back the surge of humiliation.

"You were unstable for most of it," Potter continued, his voice lower now, controlled, but too weary to carry its usual sharpness.

"Your magic was fighting itself. It—"

A hesitation.

His eyes flickered toward Severus’s hand, as though debating whether to explain further.

"But it's not anymore. The venom... it’s stopped reacting. Your core is stable now."

Severus’s fingers curled into the sheets.

Stable.

He should have felt relieved.

Instead, he felt exposed.

Potter had seen him like this.

Had stayed.

Had worked himself into a wretched state over him.

Severus could feel the weight of it pressing into his ribs.

"And I assume," he said slowly, voice rasping with something too close to resentment,

"that I have you to thank for that?"

Potter did not react immediately.

His gaze flickered—something unreadable passing over his face.

Then, a shrug.

"I did what needed to be done."

The casual dismissal of it made something twist deeper in Severus’s chest.

Potter looked at him like this was nothing.

Like the past three months of care, of sleepless nights, of stabilizing a dying man’s magic—

Like watching over him endlessly was simply what he was meant to do.

Severus inhaled sharply, the breath stuttering against the tightness in his ribs.

It should not have mattered.

It should not have meant anything.

But it did.

For the first time, he felt it. The sheer extent of the effort Potter had put into keeping him alive.

Not out of duty.

Not out of obligation.

Just—

Because.

Severus’s throat tightened.

He despised the feeling, the quiet burn of admitting that he owed something to another person.

And yet.

"Then..." he forced the word out, each syllable a battle with his own pride.

He gritted his teeth, his voice coming quiet, raw.

"Thank you."

Potter’s head snapped up.

For a moment, he looked caught off-guard. As though the thought of Severus expressing even a fraction of gratitudehad not even been a possibility.

Then—he blinked.

And shrugged again.

"You would have done the same."

Severus frowned.

Would he have?

Would he have spent three weeks pouring himself into another person’s survival?

Would he have refused to leave, run himself ragged, burned himself down to nothing just to ensure someone else made it through?

Would he have done it for Potter?

Severus did not know.

He hated that he did not know.

But he hated even more that Potter had not hesitated.

The silence between them stretched.

Severus exhaled, his fingers twitching.

"What day is it?"

Potter rubbed a tired hand through his hair.

"January 13th, I think."

Severus’s lips thinned.

Of course.

Potter blinked. Then, his brow furrowed.

"Oh—" he hesitated.

"Happy late birthday. I, uh… I didn’t get you anything."

Severus scoffed.

"I woke up, didn’t I?"

Potter’s lips twitched.

A pause.

Then—he huffed a quiet laugh.

"Yeah. Guess that counts."

He reached for a vial, pressing it into Severus’s lips.

"You should rest more."

Severus drank it automatically.

Potter hovered.

Then—he turned away.

And for the first time in his life—

Severus watched him go.

Without resentment.

Severus had never feared weakness.

He had feared failure. Had feared exposure. Had feared the Dark Lord’s wrath, Dumbledore’s expectations, the price of betrayal.

But this?

This was different.

This was his own body failing him.

He realized it the first time he attempted to lift his hand.

The effort was pathetic—his fingers barely twitched against the sheets, trembling under the mere weight of their own movement. His limbs felt thin, too light, as if the muscles had been stripped from them entirely. He flexed his fingers, and pain lanced through the joints—deep, dull, bone-deep.

A fresh wave of resentment crawled up his throat.

This was what three months of stillness had done to him.

A prisoner in his own body. A thing to be lifted, carried, adjusted like some fragile relic of war. The very thought made his stomach twist in something dangerously close to loathing.

A noise.

Potter.

Severus gritted his teeth, ignoring the sharp pulse of pain in his temples as he turned his head.

Potter was watching him.

Severus scowled. "Don't."

Potter did not move.

"You're not strong enough yet," he said simply.

Severus’s scowl deepened. "I did not ask for your assessment, Potter."

"No, but you're getting it anyway."

Severus hated the way Potter said it.

He tried again.

His fingers barely curled into a fist before his knuckles locked up, aching so sharply he nearly hissed. His arms felt like lead, his shoulders weak, burning under the mere effort of movement.

Damn it.

A single breath. Two.

 Then—Potter reached forward.

His touch was firm but careful, fingers pressing into Severus’s palm, massaging the stiffness from his joints.

"Your circulation is poor," Potter murmured.

Severus should have pulled away. Should have snapped at him, rejected the assistance outright.

But his body betrayed him again.

His fingers twitched in response, muscles too exhausted to recoil.

The pain lessened, slightly, beneath Potter’s careful touch.

He exhaled through gritted teeth.

He would not thank him.

Not again.

The first time Severus tried to sit up properly later, he nearly collapsed back into the pillows.

His head swam violently, vision going black at the edges the moment he attempted to lift himself. His ribs ached, his spine protesting the movement as if he had been turned to stone.

A firm grip caught his shoulder before he could fall.

"Steady."

Severus’s teeth clenched. "Let. Go."

"No."

Potter held firm.

"You’ve been in bed too long," Potter said evenly. "Your muscles aren’t going to work properly for a while. If you push too hard, you’ll just make it worse."

Severus forced his glare upward. "Do you ever stop lecturing?"

"Do you ever stop being stubborn?"

Severus was breathing too hard, each inhale tight and shaky, his body trembling from the mere effort of sitting upright. He loathed the sight of Potter—braced beside him, perfectly steady, whole—untouched by this miserable fragility.

He shoved at the mattress with both hands, teeth bared.

One inch. Two.

Then—his elbows buckled.

Severus jerked forward, his body folding against itself—

And Potter caught him.

Again.

Severus shuddered violently, his breath ragged against Potter’s shoulder.

He had never felt smaller.

"Easy," Potter muttered. "I've got you."

Severus squeezed his eyes shut.

Mortification burned through him.

The first time he stood, he had waited until Potter was out of the room.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed—an effort that left his body shaking.

His feet touched the ground.

For a moment, he thought he could manage.

Then—his knees buckled.

The ground lurched upward.

He barely registered Potter catching him.

He was back in the bed before he even realized he had fallen.

Silence.

Then—Potter sighed.

"Would you stop that?"

Severus’s humiliation flared.

"I am not a—"

"Fragile relic of war?" Potter arched a brow. "No, but you’re also not bloody invincible."

Severus’s fingers dug into the sheets.

He, once again, expected mockery. More chastisement.

Instead—Potter softened.

"You’re not weak, Professor."

Severus stilled.

"You’ve survived something no one else has."

Potter’s voice was quiet, raw, nothing like the arrogant boy Severus once knew.

"You have nothing to prove to me."

Severus exhaled shakily.

By the time three weeks had passed, Severus could sit up without dizziness. He could move across the room with support. He could, for short periods, be left alone.

And yet.

Potter had never left for more than an hour.

So when he did, something felt wrong.

"I’ll be gone for a few days."

Severus stilled.

Potter said it casually. Too casually.

As if he had not spent every waking moment of the past three weeks at Severus’s bedside.

Severus’s gaze narrowed. "And where, precisely, will you be vanishing off to?"

Potter hesitated.

"It’s nothing for you to worry about."

Severus’s scowl deepened.

"I dislike being left in the dark—particularly by someone who has made a hobby of interfering in my every waking moment."

A sharp exhale.

"I’ll be back soon."

It was a lie.

Severus could see it in his eyes.

"And I assume I am expected to continue rotting in this bed in your absence?"

"Winky will take care of you."

Severus stiffened. "Winky?"

At that, Potter smirked.

"Yes. Since you insist you need no assistance, I’m sure you’ll enjoy being fussed over by a house-elf instead of me."

Severus sneered. "Oh, I’ll relish the peace. My recovery will be far more tolerable without you stomping about."

Potter smirked, adjusting his bag. "Sure you will."

"Spare me your insights and leave, Potter."

A pause—too long.

Then, a nod.

"See you in four days."

The door shut.

Silence.

Severus exhaled, sinking back.

He wanted Potter gone.

He wanted his peace back.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 10 ( Early February, 1999)

The first morning after Potter left was glorious.

Severus woke to an empty room, no Potter hovering over him, no insufferable fussing, no steady hands adjusting his pillows when he shifted in his sleep.

For the first time in weeks, there was nothing but quiet.

And he relished it.

Yet, as he shifted in bed, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness settling into his muscles, he found he could not quite settle. The pillows felt too high. The sheets too loose.

His body, still healing, had grown accustomed to something—or rather, someone—being there.

He dismissed the thought immediately, forcing himself to stretch, cataloging the dull ache in his limbs with detached precision.

Winky appeared promptly in the morning, balancing a tray of food and potions, her large eyes peering up at him with cautious deference.

"Master Harry says Winky must make sure Professor takes all his potions and eats properly," she chirped, placing everything neatly within reach.

Severus smirked. "Unlike Potter, you will actually listen when I say I am perfectly capable of feeding myself."

Winky wrung her hands anxiously but did not argue. She merely nodded and vanished, reappearing only when necessary.

It was infinitely preferable to Potter’s insufferable presence.

For the first time, Severus had his thoughts to himself.

No one hovering.

No one checking his temperature.

No one forcing potions down his throat.

Just quiet.

And he enjoyed it.

The second morning, Severus noticed the first sign of absence.

It was not the emptiness of the house, nor the unfamiliar stillness pressing down on him.

It was the flower.

The same red ranunculus Potter had left beside him the day before he left.

Severus had not thought much of it at first. Potter was meticulous in his routines—the potions, the meals, the daily replacement of the damn flower. It had always been fresh, always present.

He had assumed it would remain so.

Potter could have arranged for Winky to replace it.

He should have.

And yet—

The petals had begun to curl at the edges. The deep red had dulled, and a faint dryness crept along the veins of the leaves.

Severus frowned.

He stared at it, unsettled.

It was, of course, nothing.

A simple flower.

An insignificant thing.

But the sight of it, the subtle decay, left something twisting in his chest that he did not care to examine.

Winky arrived with breakfast, her usual quiet efficiency ensuring everything was placed within reach before she vanished again.

He reached for his tea, but his eyes kept flickering back to the flower.

It had been vibrant for so long.

Why now?

He shook the thought away and forced himself to eat, ignoring the strange weight in his chest.

By the third day, the flower had wilted further.

Its petals drooped, a fragile thing on the edge of collapse, and though Severus refused to acknowledge it, the sight left him tense.

Potter had been gone for three days.

He told himself it was a relief. That the house felt better this way—quieter, calmer.

But that was a lie.

The house did not feel peaceful.

It felt empty.

Severus tried to ignore the itch beneath his skin, the way his muscles coiled with an energy he could not release.

He tried to read, but the words did not settle in his mind.

He took his potions without prompting, but for what purpose?

No one was watching.

No one was there.

Winky came and went, her presence fleeting, her movements careful.

She did not hover.

She did not linger.

And Severus noticed.

He should not miss the infernal presence that had taken root in this house.

But he did.

By the fourth night, Severus found himself checking the clock.

Not consciously. Not with any real concern.

But his gaze flickered toward it more than once, as if counting the hours.

Potter had been gone for four days.

And Severus, who had been desperate for solitude, found himself on edge.

It was not concern.

Certainly not.

He was simply accustomed to structure, to routine.

He was not waiting.

And yet, when he glanced at the flower, now nearly lifeless, something inside him curled tight.

Potter was supposed to be back by now.

Winky arrived with dinner, her expression unreadable as she placed the tray beside him.

Severus did not eat.

He merely sat there, staring at the damn flower, as the weight of silence pressed down on him.

Severus did not move when the door creaked open.

He had spent the last hour pacing in his mind, forcing himself into a state of composed disinterest.

He had not counted the minutes since Potter left.

He had not watched the door.

And yet, as it finally swung open, a tension in his chest loosened—so sharp and sudden he nearly exhaled audibly.

But then, he saw Potter.

And the relief curdled into something else entirely.

Snow clung to the folds of his cloak, melting in uneven patches down his shoulders. His hair was a disaster, even more unkempt than usual, dampened by the storm outside.

His posture was weighted, dragged down by exhaustion—but worse than that—

There was blood.

A thin gash cut across his cheekbone. A bruise was forming along his jaw. His knuckles, raw and reddened, flexed absently as if testing for pain.

Severus’s breath stilled.

Potter did not acknowledge it.

Did not speak.

Instead—his gaze dropped to the bedside table.

The untouched dinner tray.

The full set of potions.

The undeniable proof that Severus had not eaten.

The tension in Potter’s jaw tightened.

Severus barely had time to prepare before Potter moved.

A sharp, frustrated exhale.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

"Are you trying to make this worse?"

Potter crossed the room, shrugging off his cloak without care, tossing it toward the nearest surface.

Severus narrowed his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

Potter gestured toward the tray with a pointed look, but his voice—his voice—was not exasperated.

It was weary.

"You didn’t eat."

"Perhaps because I wasn’t particularly hungry."

Potter let out a tired, irritated sound, reaching for the potions instead. He lifted one, squinting at the label, his thumb brushing the glass.

Unopened.

Then another.

Unopened.

Severus watched his shoulders rise and fall.

Too tight. Too measured.

"Brilliant," Potter muttered, setting them down with deliberate control.

Then, he turned back to Severus, shaking his head.

"You’re supposed to be healing, not—"

But mid-sentence, Potter paused.

And then—suddenly moved.

A slow press of warmth, firm and assessing.

Checking for fever. Testing him.

The touch was startling. Not the quick, clinical movements of a Healer, nor the impersonal gestures of duty-bound care.

No—this was different.

This was familiar.

And then—Potter's fingers slid lower.

Brushing the side of Severus’s face.

Lingering at the hollow of his throat, where his pulse fluttered beneath the skin.

At first, the touch was barely there—a ghost of pressure, as if Potter himself wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.

Then, his fingers pressed in, firm and steady, as if grounding something between them.

Severus stilled.

Heat bloomed beneath his ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, curling in his chest like an ember stoked to life.

And then—

The flower in his hand bloomed.

It happened without warning—a sudden burst of life, petals unfurling, deep crimson darkening with renewed vibrancy. The edges, once curled in decay, smoothed effortlessly, shifting from brittle dryness to silken softness.

He had not been aware of it—had not consciously thought of magic, had not meant to—

or the first time since before the war, since before his magic had been stolen from him, something flickered inside him—something alive, something real.

Magic.

Severus exhaled sharply, chest too tight, too unsteady.

His eyes flickered toward Potter—toward the stunned expression, the unreadable depth behind those too-bright green eyes.

But before Severus could speak, before he could process the weight of it, Potter's hand shot out, gripping his wrist.

And then—

His forehead pressed against Severus’s shoulder.

A tremble. A sharp inhale.

Severus sat frozen.

The warmth bled through the fabric of his robes, seeping into his skin, into the still-healing fractures of his body.

He should have pushed him away.

He didn’t.

And then—Potter spoke.

"I told you."

The words were whispered, half-buried against Severus’s shoulder, edged with something frayed.

"I told you I’d fix this."

His grip remained firm—not clinging, not desperate—just there.

Present.

Unmoving.

And Severus, for the first time, did not pull away.

Instead—he shifted.

Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to mean anything.

But enough to accommodate Potter's weight.

And when Potter’s breathing evened out, when his body sagged slightly, exhaustion finally winning, Severus knew.

He had fallen asleep.

Severus sat motionless for a long time.

Potter’s hair tickled his jaw, his breath warm against Severus’s collar.

It should have been uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t.

Severus let out a slow, measured breath.

And then—without thinking—he shifted again.

Just enough.

Just enough to pull them both toward the pillows, toward the bed, toward warmth.

Potter did not wake.

Severus did not let himself think about what he was doing.

And in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, with the flower still in bloom, with the weight of Potter resting against him, Severus closed his eyes.

And slept.

Severus woke to warmth.

The embers in the fireplace flickered low, painting shifting shadows across the walls. The weight beside him was unmistakable—Potter’s presence curled against his side, his head still resting where it had been last night, against Severus’s shoulder.

For a moment, Severus did not move.

He simply existed in that space between waking and awareness, where sensations were felt before they were understood. The warmth of another body, the steady rise and fall of breath—comforting in a way that made his chest tighten.

His heart stumbled, just once.

Then, logic took over, and he stiffened.

His gaze sharpened.

Potter’s jaw was bruised. A deep gash ran along his cheekbone, swollen at the edges. The candlelight caught against it, highlighting the contrast of red against pale skin. Faint streaks of old blood lingered on his wrist, disappearing beneath his sleeves. His fingers flexed absently against the sheets, as if testing for pain.

Severus inhaled slowly through his nose.

"Potter," he said, his voice low, edged with impatience.

The body beside him shifted slightly but did not wake.

Severus reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing along Potter’s wrist, feeling the warmth of his pulse, searching for anything else out of place.

It worked.

Potter tensed. His breath hitched. Then—his eyes fluttered open.

Severus immediately withdrew his hand.

For a brief second, Potter merely blinked at him, sluggish, still caught in the haze of sleep. Then—awareness flooded back. His eyes snapped fully open, scanning Severus first—checking for fever, for signs of weakness, for anything amiss.

Severus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You’re the injured one," he said instead.

Potter groaned and dropped his head back against Severus’s shoulder.

"If you’re talking about the bruise, it’s fine."

Severus’s jaw tensed.

"That is not an answer."

Potter sighed, deeply. Then, as if this conversation were the greatest inconvenience of his life, he sat up, rubbing a tired hand through his disastrous hair.

"Go clean yourself up," Severus said sharply. "You look—"

Potter raised an eyebrow.

Severus hesitated. He refused to say like hell, even though that was precisely the phrase circling in his mind.

Instead, he settled for, "Unfit to be in my bed."

Potter’s lips twitched.

"Oh? Am I too young? Or is it my gender?"

Severus scowled.

Potter grinned—grinned. It was insufferable.

Heat crept up Severus’s neck before he ruthlessly crushed it, convincing himself it was irritation, nothing more.

Severus did not think. He simply lifted a hand and shoved.

Potter yelped as he tumbled straight off the bed.

The thud was satisfying.

There was a moment of silence. Then—Potter laughed.

"Alright, alright," he muttered, voice muffled from the floor. "Message received."

As he pushed himself up, his hand caught Severus’s ankle—playfully, briefly, skin against skin.

Too casual. Too easy.

Severus felt it. His breath hitched. Immediately, his gaze jerked away, locking onto anything else—the fireplace, the sheets, the wilting flower on the nightstand.

Potter, oblivious, dragged himself up and made his way toward the washroom, still grinning like an idiot.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Severus exhaled slowly, fingers brushing over the chrysanthemum still resting on the bedside table.

It had bloomed against all logic.

By the time Potter returned, clean but still bruised, he carried two plates of breakfast.

Severus had long since gathered himself, dressed, and braced for Potter’s inevitable hovering.

Potter set the tray down without a word, handing Severus a plate before sinking into the chair beside the bed.

Neither spoke for several moments.

Then—

"Why did you leave?" Severus asked, curious.

Potter paused, lifting his fork, expression carefully neutral.

Then—he answered simply.

"Azkaban."

Severus stilled.

"Excuse me?"

Potter took a bite of toast, far too casual for someone who had just admitted to breaking into a high-security prison.

Severus put his plate down.

"You broke into Azkaban?"

Potter nodded.

"Yes."

"For what purpose, exactly?"

Potter finally looked up.

His expression was unreadable, but his magic thrummed against the air—steady, restrained, but potent.

"The Carrows," he said. "They were already in custody. I retrieved them for the ritual."

Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line. His grip on the teacup tightened slightly before he set it down with deliberate care.

"We could have waited."

Potter shook his head, jaw tense.

"You were taking too long to recover." His eyes flickered over Severus, assessing, as if confirming his own frustrations.

"You shouldn’t still be this weak."

And then—

"I stole magic from weaker Death Eaters to store it inside myself."

Silence.

Severus inhaled. Exhaled.

Then, very carefully, he asked,

"You did what?"

Potter set his fork down and straightened. "The big ritual forced magic into you all at once. It’s too much, too fast. I realized I could store small amounts of power from the others to use in-between. You’ll recover faster—"

"You stored magic inside yourself?" Severus interrupted, voice sharp.

Potter did not flinch.

"I drew runes on myself to hold it," he explained, rolling up his sleeve.

Severus’s breath caught.

Delicate, glowing runes wove along Potter’s skin, pulsing faintly with contained power. A foreign power.

His fury shifted instantly into something else.

Not anger.

Fear.

"You could have killed yourself."

Potter frowned. "It wasn’t—"

"You could have burned your core, destabilized your magic beyond repair, left yourself with fractures worse than mine—"

"I didn’t."

Severus’s hands tightened into fists. "You risked—"

"I knew what I was doing, Severus."

Severus went silent.

Because Potter had never used his name like that before.

Not carelessly. Not thoughtlessly.

Potter exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Look—will you let me do this or not?"

Severus said nothing.

But he did not move when Potter reached for his arm.

Did not pull away as Potter drew the rune directly over the Dark Mark.

A warmth shot through him instantly.

And then—

A snap.

A break.

The Dark Mark shattered.

Severus gasped.

It was as if a shackle had been broken.

His own magic surged, unrestricted, no longer burdened by chains that had weighed on him for decades.

For the first time in his entire life—

He was free.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 10 ( Early February, 1999)

The chamber was silent—thick with the weight of old magic, the sharp scent of burning runes, and the presence of inevitability.

Alecto and Amycus knelt in the center of the circle, their wrists bound in glowing runic restraints, wide, darting eyes betraying the panic they were trying to suppress. Unlike Lucius, there was no quiet resignation in them—no attempts at negotiation. Just fear. Just the desperate, wild knowledge that they were trapped.

Severus sat in his chair, watching.

This was different.

Lucius had been about power. About necessity.

But this—

This was retribution.

Alecto swallowed hard, breath uneven. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, gaze flickering between Severus and Potter. “You don’t—Snape, we followed orders. We didn’t—”

Severus’s gaze did not waver. "You tortured children," he said, voice cold and smooth, like a sharpened blade. "You used my name to justify it."

Alecto flinched.

But Amycus—Amycus laughed.

A wheezing, breathless chuckle, even as his body trembled against the magic binding him. “Still hiding behind Potter, Snape?” he rasped, sneering through his fear. “Just like always. A dog at the heel of whoever’s strongest.”

Severus did not react.

Amycus’s sneer widened, sensing an opening. His gaze flicked to Harry, something sharp curling at the edges of his mouth despite the blood on his teeth.

"Of course, you’d whore yourself out to the Chosen One," he spat. "Tell me, Potter—does he beg for—”

Harry struck before Severus even registered the movement.

A sickening crack echoed through the chamber as Harry’s fist connected with Amycus’s jaw, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed against the stone.

Before Amycus could crumple, Harry caught him—fist twisting into his robes, yanking him close. His hand shot up, locking around his throat, fingers pressing deep, cutting off air.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to him? Talk now, since you’re so brave!"

Harry shouted, voice raw, vibrating with fury. His magic crackled in the air, thick, unrestrained, surging with an intensity that made the room tremble. His grip tightened—too tight, too much— his fingers pressing harder, his arm shaking as he shook Amycus, rage pouring from every inch of him.

Severus was stunned—not just at the violence, but at the sheer, unrelenting fury behind it. At the way Harry had struck without hesitation, had defended him with a force that left the air trembling.

It was reckless, dangerous—gratifying.

A foreign, unfamiliar warmth curled in Severus’s chest, something dangerously close to pleased—to being claimed.

Amycus's eyes bulged, his kicks weakening. His lips parted in a desperate, choking wheeze, and—

The ritual.

Severus pushed himself up immediately.

His body was still weak, still regaining its footing, but he forced himself forward. The moment his legs buckled, he reached out—and Harry, without hesitation, caught him.

Severus curled his fingers into Harry’s arm, grounding him.

"Harry."

Harry’s entire body was shaking.

"It does not matter," Severus murmured, voice even.

Harry’s eyes burned. His magic hissed in the air, but his grip did not waver. His fingers pressed against Severus’s waist, steadying him, supporting him.

"It matters to me," Harry murmured.

The air shifted.

The last remnants of the Carrows' magic bled into the runes, the ritual complete. A warmth spread across Severus’s forearm, brief but undeniable. His breath stilled.

He glanced down.

Thin, golden runes flickered across his skin, shifting and fading atop the Dark Mark before vanishing completely.

The moment the ritual completed, the weight of it pressed down on him—slow at first—then suffocating. His vision wavered, his knees threatened to buckle, and Harry’s grip instantly adjusted, tightening around him.

"You need to sit." Harry’s voice was low, still vibrating with tension from before, but the sharp edge of anger was gone. Now, there was only concern.

Severus didn’t argue.

Not because he agreed, not because he wanted to be helped—but because his body had already leaned into Harry’s grip, his muscles relaxing before he even registered the action.

Harry adjusted his hold.

And then—before Severus could protest—he was being lifted.

A sharp inhale.

His fingers twitched against Harry’s shoulder, but he did not resist.

Harry adjusted him effortlessly.

"I’d say ‘you didn’t have to do that,’" Severus muttered, voice slurred from exhaustion, "but I assume you’d ignore me."

"Completely," Harry said, already moving toward the exit.

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of his body feeling lighter in Harry’s grip than it should.

For the first time—

He did not mind.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 10 (Mid-February, 1999)

Severus had always appreciated silence at breakfast. The peace of the morning was a fragile thing, best left undisturbed. For once, Grimmauld Place was accommodating—the usual creaks and groans of the old house settling into stillness. The fireplace crackled softly, casting shadows over the walls, as Severus read the newspaper, tea in hand.

Then, the door creaked open.

Severus did not look up, but he felt the shift in the air—warmth, movement, the scent of something fresh. Harry strode in with his usual effortless ease, a tray balanced in one hand as he set it on the table.

“Eat,” he instructed, placing a plate of buttered toast, eggs, and a fresh pot of tea in front of Severus.

Severus barely reacted, merely turning a page in the Prophet. “I was not aware I required supervision.”

Harry hummed, pouring tea into Severus’s cup. “You don’t. But I’ll keep bringing breakfast until you stop looking half-starved.”

Severus flicked his gaze to him, unimpressed. “I have regained my strength, Potter.”

“Harry,” he corrected. “And I’ll believe that when you stop swaying every time you stand too fast.”

Severus let out a sharp exhale, returning to his paper.

For a moment, as Harry reached for his own cup, Severus’s gaze lingered—just briefly—on his hands. The flex of his fingers as he wrapped them around the porcelain, the way his wrist curved slightly when he spread jam onto his toast. The motion was simple, thoughtless.

Severus looked away before he could think too much about why he had noticed at all.

"War’s Shadow: Are We Truly Free?"
"Months after the fall of Voldemort, whispers of former Death Eaters vanishing in the night continue. The Ministry remains silent, offering no official statements on the disappearances."
"Should the public be concerned, or is this long-overdue justice?"

Severus tapped a finger against the headline, frowning. It was here, a week after the ritual.

"Interesting," he murmured, scanning the rest of the article.

Harry, who had started spreading jam onto toast, didn’t even glance up. “They don’t know anything.”

"Yet," Severus corrected.

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t deny it.

Severus set the paper down. “And if the Wizengamot starts prying?”

Harry merely sipped his tea, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “They’re not exactly in a position to challenge me.”

Severus narrowed his eyes slightly.

There was something deliberate in the way Harry had said that. Something calculated.

Severus studied him. “Are you planning on blackmailing them , potter ?”

Harry smiled into his cup, not confirming or denying.

"I am," he admitted after a moment. "It’s just taking time."

Severus let out a slow breath. Harry Potter had been many things, but subtle was not one of them.

And yet—he was learning.

Severus drank his tea, gaze flicking to Harry, who was now picking at a croissant, entirely unconcerned. For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

"What did you do with the bodies?"

Harry paused mid-bite. His fingers curled slightly around the edge of his plate.

"Why do you want to know?"

Severus tilted his head. “I feel that as one of the inhabitants of this house, I am entitled to an answer.”

Harry set his food down and leaned back, too casual.

"Cellar wall," he said at last.

Severus blinked once. Then, slowly, he set his teacup down with deliberate precision.

"Excuse me?"

Harry shrugged. "The bodies. Buried them in the cellar wall. Reinforced the wards, too, in case you’re worried about smell."

Severus closed his eyes briefly. Inhaled. Exhaled.

Then, with great patience, he said, "We are moving."

Harry grinned. "So the murders weren’t the issue, but my interior decorating is?"

Severus gave him a deadpan look.

Harry snorted. "I’ll be honest, I thought you’d like it," he mused. "Dark, secret passages, ominous atmosphere… You strike me as the type who would have a hidden dungeon somewhere."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Potter."

"Harry," he corrected.

"Stop talking."

Harry laughed.

Time passed in a quiet, steady rhythm. Grimmauld Place, for all its gloom, had settled into a kind of uneasy stability—one neither Severus nor Harry acknowledged aloud. The discussion of moving had been circling them for days, weaving in and out of conversations, resurfacing at odd moments before slipping away again.

Now, as evening stretched its lazy fingers across the room, they found themselves discussing it once more.

A half-empty plate of sliced fruit and cheese sat between them—an odd compromise between Severus’s preference for minimal indulgence and Harry’s insistence that he eat something. The fire crackled softly in the grate, throwing flickers of light across the stone walls, casting long shadows.

Severus had just finished arranging the papers from his afternoon reading, setting them aside with precise care, when Harry—casual as ever—brought it up again.

"We’ll start looking this week."

Severus, who had been reaching for his tea, paused only briefly before nodding.

"I have a Muggle bank account," he said, voice measured. "The bare minimum remains in my Gringotts vault, but for property, the funds are elsewhere."

Harry blinked, clearly surprised. "You—?"

"Did you assume I would leave my finances entirely in the hands of goblins?" Severus arched a brow. "I have little interest in storing my wealth in a system that requires approval from creatures who detest me on principle."

Harry tilted his head, considering that. Then, without hesitation, he said, "Don’t worry about it."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Why wouldn’t I?"

Harry looked at him like he was missing something obvious. "Because we’re living together, of course."

The words landed with the same casual inevitability as if Harry had announced the weather.

Severus stilled.

"Why?"

Harry lifted his cup, taking a slow sip, watching him over the rim. He had the nerve to look amused, as if Severus’s confusion was a mild curiosity rather than something grating against every self-sufficient instinct he possessed.

"You’re the one who said WE are moving."

Severus inhaled sharply.

A slow, creeping realization sank into his chest—he had said it. He had spoken as if it were a given, as if their continued cohabitation was already decided. The slip had gone unnoticed in the moment, but now, under Harry’s watchful gaze, it felt impossibly obvious.

His fingers twitched slightly against his teacup.

"That was—" Severus began, then stopped himself. He wasn’t sure what it was. A slip? A habit? A resignation?

He had spent too many months with Potter here, adjusting to his presence, his routines, the steady way he occupied space without asking for it. Somehow, that expectation had taken root without him realizing.

The embarrassment was a slow burn, creeping at the edges of his thoughts.

Then, Harry leaned forward slightly, expression sobering. "I don’t know how many more rituals it’ll take to fix you," he admitted. "And I’m not leaving until it’s done."

Severus exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against his teacup.

"You cannot possibly intend to be my caretaker indefinitely."

Harry’s grin found its way back. "No, of course not. That’s just until you’re better. After that, I’ll be your housepet."

Severus gave him a long, unimpressed look.

"Or a housewife," Harry added. "I think I’d be quite good at it."

Something strange curled in Severus’s stomach. He did not analyze it. He simply pushed it away.

"Potter."

"Harry," he corrected smoothly.

Severus took a measured sip of tea. "You are insufferable."

Harry beamed. "And yet, here we are. About to buy a house together!"

Severus exhaled, shaking his head. "I am paying half."

Harry, still grinning, waved a hand. "We’ll talk about it."

Severus’s eyes narrowed. "There is nothing to talk about. I will not be indebted to you."

Harry snorted. "Severus, I think we’re a little past ‘keeping accounts’ at this point."

"Perhaps you are," Severus said coolly. "I, however, am not."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, we’ll split it—if it makes you happy."

Severus’s lips twitched. "You overestimate how much your approval affects my happiness."

Harry grinned again. "You say that, but you still want to live with me."

Severus inhaled deeply. Patience, he told himself. Patience.

He could not bury bodies on his own yet. 

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 8 (March 1999)

Severus did not care about aesthetics.

Or at least, that was what he had firmly believed—until Harry Potter had forced him to spend the last three days reviewing property listings like a particularly insufferable real estate agent.

"I don’t see why I need to be involved in this," Severus said flatly, folding his arms as Harry handed him yet another list of potential homes. "You already insisted on purchasing it yourself, so why not choose it yourself?"

Harry, skimming another listing, didn’t even look up. "Because you’re the one who has to live there."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "You will also be living there."

Harry hummed noncommittally. "And yet, I don’t need a fully equipped potion lab, a library with ‘proper charm stability,’ or a place that ‘does not offend my very existence with its architecture.’"

Severus scowled. "I said that once."

"About the third house," Harry reminded him, flipping to another page. "And then the eighth." He smirked. "Oh, and let’s not forget the one with the rooftop greenhouse. I believe your exact words were—‘if I wished to waste away in a glass coffin, I would have allied with Albus sooner.’"

Severus ignored him. Like he was any better anyway.

At first, he had assumed he would be the one making the final decision—that Harry was only facilitating the process, as he so often did, while Severus dictated his requirements.

But after three days and fourteen rejected homes, Severus realized something.

Harry was rejecting houses before Severus even had a chance.

Severus folded his arms, watching as Harry barely even glanced at a particularly large estate before tossing the parchment aside. "Too grand," Harry muttered, moving on.

Severus arched a brow. "You rejected that one without even reading the details."

"I read enough," Harry replied, skimming another listing. "It’s bigger than the entire Ministry atrium. I don’t need a house that screams ‘monument to excess.’ Next."

Severus pursed his lips. "I was unaware you had such a distaste for luxury."

"I don’t," Harry said easily. "But I also don’t need my own ballroom."

Harry flipped to another parchment, then wrinkled his nose. "No, this feels like Malfoy Manor—next."

Severus snatched the parchment before he could discard it. "You cannot possibly know that from a single photograph."

Harry gave him a flat look. "White marble. Intricate silver chandeliers. Walls covered in family crests of people I don’t know. I’d rather not have my own personal museum to dead rich people, thanks."

Severus sighed, setting the paper down.

A moment later, Harry dismissed another listing with a scoff. "Too cold."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are aware heating charms exist, Potter?"

"Yeah, and I’m also aware that I don’t want to spend my time in a house that looks like it was designed for dementors."

Severus glanced at the listing. An old manor nestled in the Scottish Highlands—stone walls, dark wood floors, excellent security. "You would reject a house simply because it looks… dramatic?"

"I refuse to freeze in my own house," Harry said firmly.

Severus tilted his head, watching as Harry moved on without a second thought.

Then, Harry flicked past another property without comment.

Severus, curious now, reached for the listing. "What’s wrong with this one?"

Harry barely spared it a glance. "Too old."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I like history."

Harry smirked. "And I like history too. I just don’t need to live inside it."

Severus stared at him for a long moment. "Your standards are ridiculous."

Harry just smirked.

At first, Severus had assumed Harry was being careless with his choices.

But now, he realized it was the opposite.

Severus tapped a finger against the latest rejected listing. "So. You dislike grand estates, cold interiors, and houses that look like they belong to old pureblood families."

Harry shot him an amused glance. "Look at you, putting things together. What gave it away?"

Severus ignored him, continuing, "You’re rejecting luxury, but not outright. You dislike history, but only when it feels imposing. You don’t like places that look like they’ve been lived in by generations of the same family." He looked at Harry, searching. "Why?"

Harry hesitated. It was brief—barely a flicker in his expression—but Severus caught it.

Then Harry shrugged, too casual. "I don’t know. I guess… I just don’t want a house that feels like it belongs to someone else."

Severus exhaled slowly. "You never argue with my preferences."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"The moment I reject something, you move on. No questions. No arguments."

Harry blinked, as if he hadn’t even realized. "Well, yeah. Why would I argue? You’re the one who has to live there."

Severus was silent for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, "We both do."

Harry met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Severus tilted his head. "What, exactly, would meet your ridiculous standards?"

Harry hesitated again. Then—after a beat—he finally answered.

"Something warm," he said eventually. "Something real. Something that feels like…"

He trailed off, brows furrowing slightly, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of the words himself.

Severus nodded as if Harry had answered him fully.

Because he had.

And so, for the first time, Severus wasn’t just looking for a house.

He was looking for the way Harry’s shoulders would ease when he stepped inside.

The way he would pause, listening to the silence, feeling it settle with him instead of around him.

The way he would breathe—not out of habit, but because he could.

It Took Them Three Weeks Before They Found It.

They had been at it for weeks. House after house, rejection after rejection. Too grand, too cold, too impractical. Some were falling apart, some were too suffocating, some were enchanted to sing every time someone entered a room.

Severus had grown tired of it all. Not just in patience, but in the way it pressed at his ribs and weighed at his limbs.

He had walked more than he should have.

Not that he would say as much.

They had just rejected another house, one that by all practical measures should have been right—but Severus had stood in that cramped little clearing and, after far too long of an internal battle, had finally forced himself to say no.

He had spent his life in places that were not his. He had learned to accept what was given, to make do, to survive.

And for the first time, he had rejected something.

That thought still lingered as Harry helped him step through the tree line, onto one last property.

And immediately—everything felt different.

The house stood at the edge of an enchanted forest, tucked away but not hidden, private but not isolated. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth and wildflowers, and though the wards were fading, they were strong—old but flexible, willing to bend rather than break.

Harry stilled beside him.

Severus didn’t need to look at him to know why.

He had been watching Harry’s reactions for weeks now—not intentionally (certainly not)—but with each property, he had noticed the same thing. A slight tightening of Harry’s shoulders. The faint lines around his mouth when something felt wrong.

But here—

Harry relaxed.

His body eased. His breath deepened. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was resisting the urge to reach for a broom.

Severus should not have cared.

And yet, something settled in him at the sight.

Harry moved ahead, stepping toward the clearing. Severus followed more slowly, his steps measured, deliberate. He wasn’t struggling—not exactly—but he felt the stiffness creeping into his limbs.

Harry, infuriatingly perceptive as always, didn’t say anything—but he slowed just enough that Severus wouldn’t have to tell him to.

They stepped inside.

And then—there was the library.

Two stories tall, lined with towering shelves, filled with dusty but well-preserved books, and a spiraling wrought-iron staircase that led to a second-floor balcony. The moment Severus stepped inside, he stilled, his gaze flicking up to the high-vaulted ceiling, taking in the sheer immensity of the collection.

Harry smirked beside him. "Oh, so you have a weakness."

Severus huffed. "It is not a weakness to appreciate craftsmanship, Potter."

"You’re sparkling," Harry teased, watching as Severus subtly brushed his fingertips along the spines of old tomes, eyes scanning the layout with thinly veiled delight.

Severus turned, expression blank. "If I were sparkling, Potter, you would be blinded by my radiance."

Harry snorted but said nothing.

For Harry, it was something else entirely.

The land surrounding the house was vast—acres of open space, stretching into untamed wilderness, with no neighboring homes in sight. The old wards surrounding the property were still intact, and while they would need reinforcing, their foundation was solid.

And most importantly—

Beyond the house, just beyond the tree line, was an open clearing.

Wide. Unobstructed.

Harry could fly here.

He didn’t say anything at first, but Severus noticed the way his shoulders loosened, the way he breathed deeper, his eyes flicking toward the sky like he could already see himself soaring.

Severus hummed. "You’re the one sparkling now."

Harry shot him a look, but his lips twitched at the corners.

"Shut up," Harry muttered.

Severus smirked. "Very eloquent, Potter."

The house itself was warm, lived-in but not neglected. Plenty of rooms with the potential to be converted into potion labs—a necessity, of course. There was even a stone cellar beneath the house, thick-walled and naturally cool, ideal for storing ingredients.

The greenhouse, however, was a tangled mess of overgrown vines, long abandoned, but Severus could already picture the restoration. He could envision his hands in the soil, cultivating rare magical flora. It was an opportunity, a project that—if he were honest—he found himself wanting.

It was not grand.

It was not extravagant.

But it was theirs.

They stood outside for a long moment, neither speaking. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of rain-soaked earth and wildflowers that crept along the garden’s edge.

This was home.

Severus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"This is it," he said, voice quiet but firm.

Harry watched him for a moment, then—voice lighter than before—said,

"Aren’t you glad we said no to the other cottages?"

Severus blinked, caught off guard.

Then—a slow, reluctant smirk.

"I said no," he pointed out. "You were willing to give up your precious flying space."

Harry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "And yet, you hesitated so much I thought I’d have to pry the words out of you."

Because, irritatingly enough—

Harry was right.

Once the papers were in their hands ,They split their days between Grimmauld Place and the cottage, spending daylight hours working through renovations before returning to London to sleep.

Harry, despite his constant complaining, seemed to thrive on the work. He threw himself into it—adjusting ward structures, restoring ancient enchantments, reinforcing windows, staircases, and walls.

Severus, however, had his limits.

His endurance had improved, but he tired too quickly, magic faltering when he pushed too hard. His limbs still ached on bad days, his body not yet fully recovered from years of war and potions damage.

Harry wasn’t hovering—that would be too obvious, and Severus would never tolerate it. Instead, he worked aroundSeverus, subtly shaping the house to accommodate his recovery without making it seem like that was his intention.

When Severus needed to sit, the chair was always sturdy, cushioned just right. When he had to reach for something, it was already placed within easy grasp. The staircases were warded for extra stability, and any tripping hazards were gone before Severus even noticed them.

Severus never said anything.

Harry never mentioned it.

But one afternoon, as Severus reached for his potions kit, Harry passed him a pain relief draught before he even realizedhe needed it.

Severus stilled, glancing up.

Harry didn’t even look at him—just kept working, adjusting the layering of a ward.

Severus took the potion without a word.

Harry smirked.

Severus had expected Harry to hire someone—an entire team of curse-breakers, renovators, and warding experts—to prepare the house.

He had not expected Harry to do it all himself.

"Potter, do you intend to single-handedly remodel an entire house?"

Harry’s lips quirked. "Yes. And stop calling me Potter."

Severus exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the chair Harry had forced him into.

"Is that an order, Harry?"

Harry only smirked, flicking his wand, watching the furniture begin shifting into place under his careful guidance.

"No. Just a strong suggestion."

And, to Severus’s great amusement, he had done exactly as he promised.

At first, Harry seemed capable enough—his magic was steady, his attention sharp, and his energy boundless. He worked tirelessly, adjusting ward structures, fixing unstable flooring, even reinforcing the weatherproofing charms.

Severus, still recovering, was forced to let him.

At first, he found it entertaining.

Then he found it mildly impressive.

And then—after watching Harry drag himself half-conscious to the kitchen table one evening—

Severus found it deeply irritating.

Severus sat at the kitchen table, watching with mounting irritation as Harry wrestled with the cabinetry, wand clenched in one hand, the other bracing himself against the counter.

The house was still unfinished, still in progress. The upper floors needed reinforcement, the staircases needed securing, and the lab wasn’t even functional yet.

And yet—Harry was here, sweating over the damn cabinets.

He had been at it for over an hour, muttering under his breath, adjusting hinges, reinforcing the wood with preservation charms, ensuring the doors swung open and shut with what could only be described as obsessive precision.

Severus had seen enough.

"This is unnecessary."

Harry, not even looking at him, cast another charm to adjust the alignment of a shelf. "You’re welcome."

Severus’s expression flattened. "Do not be smug. This is bordering on excessive."

"The cabinets were unsteady," Harry replied without looking up, tightening the fixings with a flick of his wand.

Severus exhaled slowly. "This is the third time you’ve adjusted them."

Harry scowled, shoving his wand into his pocket and crouching to inspect the base of the structure. "And? You’d rather have them collapse while you’re reaching for ingredients?"

Severus’s brow twitched. "They were not going to collapse."

Harry made a vague, dismissive gesture. "Eventually."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "You can hire someone to do this, Potter."

Harry snorted, tugging at one of the lower shelves. "And you’d trust someone else?"

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I trust that we are not the only two competent people left in the world."

Harry turned, leveling him with a look. "Yeah? Who would you hire? Name one person."

Severus opened his mouth—
Then promptly closed it.

Harry smirked. "Exactly."

Severus scowled. "That is not the point."

Harry exhaled, straightening up, rolling his shoulders. "Look, you need a proper kitchen, and I need to make sure it actually functions."

Severus’s fingers tightened over the table’s edge. "I do not require you to handle every detail personally."

"Yes, you do," Harry said without hesitation, moving to the next cabinet.

Severus’s eyes flickered. "And you?"

Harry’s hands stilled. His lips parted slightly—just for a second—before his expression shuttered.

"I’m handling it."

Severus exhaled sharply. "That is not an answer."

Harry didn’t respond, turning back toward his work as though that settled it.

Severus watched him for a long moment, irritation curling beneath his ribs.

"You are going to run yourself into the ground."

Harry huffed, barely glancing over his shoulder. "I’ll be fine."

Severus watched him for another long moment.

No, you won’t, he thought.

But he did not say it.

Not yet.

It started subtly—too many hours spent repairing, too many meals skipped in favor of ensuring everything was perfect.

Severus noticed.

The exhaustion creeping into Harry’s frame, the tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped slightly when he thought no one was looking.

The house was halfway done now. The downstairs rooms were nearly complete—the kitchen functional, the sitting room reinforced, the bedrooms taking shape. The worst of the structural repairs had been handled, and yet—

Harry wasn’t slowing down.

And Severus was done watching.

By the time evening arrived, Harry barely made it to the kitchen before dropping his head onto the table.

Severus sighed, summoning Winky with a flick of his fingers. "Bring me the blue vial from my personal stock. And a proper meal," he added as the elf nodded and vanished.

Harry groaned against the wood, not bothering to lift his head. "What are you doing?"

"Ensuring you do not collapse like an overworked house-elf," Severus said dryly.

"I’m fine."

"You’re exhausted," Severus countered. "And a liar."

Winky popped back into existence, placing a steaming mug of restorative potion and a full plate of food before Severus.

Without ceremony, Severus nudged the plate toward him.

"Drink it."

Harry groaned but reluctantly sat up, rubbing his face before taking the potion. He grimaced as he swallowed, then scowled. "That’s disgusting."

Severus gave him a flat look. "You are welcome."

Winky, unimpressed, nudged the plate closer to Harry before vanishing.

Severus watched as Harry hesitated, then finally picked up his fork, stabbing at his food like it had personally offended him.

"I am not a child," Harry muttered, still petulant.

"No, you are a fool who does not know when to stop," Severus said coolly. "That is arguably worse."

Harry smirked around a bite of food, though he looked more tired than amused. "You’re doing a very bad job at pretending you don’t care."

Severus huffed, choosing not to acknowledge the truth in that statement.

"Eat."

Harry did, albeit sluggishly, and Severus let the silence stretch between them.

Finally, as Harry was finishing the last of his meal, Severus spoke again.

"We’re moving into the bedrooms tomorrow."

Harry blinked at him, the exhaustion in his frame momentarily forgotten. "What?"

"It is inefficient for you to be constantly shifting between here and London while still handling repairs," Severus said, watching him carefully. "Half the rooms are livable. I refuse to spend my days in this damn sitting room forever, and it is unnecessary for you to be stretched between two spaces."

Harry opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue—then paused, considering it.

Severus smirked. "For once, Potter, do not attempt to be stubborn simply for the sake of it."

Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. “Fine.”

"Good," Severus said smoothly, leaning back against his chair. "Now finish your tea before you pass out on the table again."

Harry muttered something unintelligible, but he obeyed.

Severus allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.

Tomorrow, they would be moving into the bedrooms properly.

Tomorrow, the house would be theirs.

Tomorrow.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 12- 13  ( Mid- April- Mid-May, 1999) 

Moving in—truly moving in—was an entirely different matter than simply selecting a house.

Severus had expected to pack, to organize, to ensure that everything was transferred in a methodical manner.

Instead, he found himself summarily banned from doing anything useful.

The moment he reached for a stack of books, Harry appeared at his side, scowling.

"No."

Severus arched a brow. "No?"

"You’re still recovering," Harry said firmly, plucking the books from his hands and setting them back down.

Severus exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "And yet, you are running around like a lunatic attempting to do everything yourself."

Harry gave him an innocent look. "I’m fine."

Severus sneered. "Then I am fine."

"You’re not," Harry countered immediately. "And if you collapse, I have to deal with the aftermath."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "If I collapse, you will be the one overexerting yourself trying to handle everything, meaning I will be forced to deal with your reckless disregard for self-preservation." He smirked. "Do you see how that would be an inconvenience for me?"

Harry scowled. "I don’t—"

"Sit down, Potter."

Harry opened his mouth, hesitated, then exhaled sharply.

Severus smirked in satisfaction. However, it did not last. 

Winky and Kreacher, after a single unimpressed glance at both of them, promptly seized control of the situation. They worked with relentless efficiency, flitting between Grimmauld Place and the cottage, whisking away trunks, books, furniture, and whatever ridiculous personal items Harry had accumulated.

Severus, irritated by his own uselessness, settled into an armchair with a book, pretending not to notice Harry sulkingacross the room.

"Happy now?" Harry muttered.

Severus turned a page. "Ecstatic."

Kreacher shuffled by, carrying a stack of robes, muttering darkly under his breath about useless masters who make Kreacher do all the work.

Harry grinned. "I think he means you."

Severus didn’t look up. "You are remarkably dim, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes but said nothing.

By the time the house-elves finished, the two of them had done absolutely nothing.

And neither of them had an excuse to argue about it.

After dinner, Severus retired to his bedroom.

The master bedroom.

At first, he had argued. The house had been paid for by both of them—Harry had handled the purchase itself, but Severus had contributed just as much. He had assumed, naturally, that Harry would take the larger room.

Harry, predictably, had been insufferable about it.

"You’re the one who actually likes having a desk in your room," he had said, with all the patience of someone indulging an idiotic argument. "And a proper fireplace. And a seating area. And a bathroom with actual water pressure. Just take it, Severus."

Severus had been unmoved.

Then Harry had gone for the final blow.

"It’s the only one with enough space," he had pointed out. "You need room to move around if you’re going to start exercising properly. No tripping over furniture, no excuses about cramped space."

Which was, infuriatingly, a fair point.

And so—he had taken it.

The room itself was spacious but not excessive.

A tall bookshelf lined one wall, mostly empty save for the few volumes he had brought with him. A sturdy desk sat near the window, its surface clear of clutter. A thick, dark green carpet covered the wooden floor, and heavy curtains framed the large window. The four-poster bed was well-made, dressed in crisp black linens.

It was… acceptable.

But it was not his.

A single box sat neatly atop the bed—Winky’s doing, no doubt.

Severus exhaled, stepping forward and flicking his wand to light the wall sconces. The room warmed under their glow, but it did not soften the unfamiliarity of it.

Slowly, methodically, he began to unpack.

A stack of books went to the bedside table—his most used research texts, a few alchemy journals, his own handwritten notes.

His silver tea set, carefully polished, was placed atop the low table by the fireplace.

A worn cauldron-stirring rod, an old relic from his apprenticeship, was tucked into the drawer of his desk.

His robes were folded neatly into the wardrobe

He scowled at them but did not remove them.

When he was finished, he stepped back.

It still looked empty.

The furniture was there. His belongings were in place.

And yet, the room did not feel lived in.

His things were few.

Spinner’s End had rotted away.
Hogwarts had been abandoned.
And Severus had never been one to accumulate sentimental items.

He had his journals. His silver tea set. A handful of worn robes.

And yet—

As he sat at the edge of the bed, glancing around the room, something felt…

Missing.

Not uncomfortable.
Not unwelcome.

Just…

Unsettled.

The smell of breakfast lured Severus downstairs.

The scent of eggs, bacon, and fresh bread drifted through the house, and for a brief moment, Severus allowed himself to indulge in the quiet pleasure of a well-made meal.

And then he stepped, slowly, into the kitchen—

And, to his great dismay, Harry was already at work.

The wards had been reinforced overnight—Severus could feel the hum of fresh magic in the air. The kitchen had been fully stocked, every ingredient stored with a level of precision Severus knew damn well Harry had not had before. And there, in the middle of the room, sleeves rolled up, wand moving with practiced ease, was Potter—mid-spell, clearly preparing to throw himself back into heavy-duty renovation.

Severus exhaled sharply.

"Sit down, Potter."

Harry barely looked up. "Morning to you too."

Severus folded his arms, unimpressed. "If you collapse from overexertion, I will be the one left to handle everything. That is unacceptable."

Harry smirked, the look entirely too pleased. "So you do care."

Severus arched a brow. "I care about efficiency. And ensuring that I am not left to deal with your incompetence."

Harry blinked—then grinned .

"Oh, you’re so full of it." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, far too entertained. "That’s exactly what I told you two days ago when you tried to help pack, and I said you were banned from heavy lifting."

Severus, irritated beyond words, scowled. "That is entirely different."

"Uh-huh." Harry smirked wider, but—infuriatingly—he actually obeyed, sinking into a chair at the table. "Fine. No renovations today."

Severus eyed him critically. Even now, there were faint lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Though he had improved considerably over the last two weeks, the sheer amount of energy he had spent securing the house had taken its toll. His magic, powerful as it was, needed time to replenish.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "No. You are banned from any heavy work for the foreseeable future."

Harry groaned. "You can’t ban me from my own house."

Severus sat across from him, pouring himself tea with deliberate ease. "I can when it is also my house, and when you have all the self-preservation of a particularly reckless Hufflepuff."

Harry muttered something unintelligible under his breath, stabbing a fork into his eggs.

Severus took a sip of his tea, entirely unbothered. "You may take up the extremely difficult task of furniture selection. Perhaps you can finally justify your questionable taste."

Harry perked up immediately. "Decorating?"

Severus exhaled, already regretting this. "Yes, Potter. Decorating. "

" After breakfast. "

"Obviously."

Harry, grinning, dug into his food.

Severus rolled his eyes—but said nothing as he reached for his own plate.

And despite himself—despite the absurdity of it all—he felt something settle in his chest.

Something warm.

Something real.

For two weeks, there were no renovations, no exhausting magic expenditures—just calm.

Which, of course, meant that Severus was forced to endure the horrific process of furnishing the house.

Harry thrived in it.

He spent hours flipping through enchanted catalogues, pointing out absurdly extravagant furniture with all the enthusiasm of a child in Honeydukes.

Severus, who already found the idea of spending money on unnecessary things an exercise in frustration, protested. Loudly.

And yet—Harry had already figured out the loophole.

"Oh, look—non-refundable," Harry would say cheerfully the moment something expensive arrived. "Guess we have to keep it now."

Severus, appalled by the sheer audacity, could do little beyond glowering at him.

But—however much he complained—Harry had been selective.

Nothing gaudy, nothing ostentatious, nothing overly luxurious. Just… quality.

The best linens, but in muted, understated colors.

Plush, thick carpets that were soft beneath the feet but did not overwhelm the space.

Heavy, well-made curtains—deep green and rich, earthen browns—framing the windows, filtering in just enoughsunlight to make the house feel warm.

The bathrooms, which had been merely functional, now boasted impossibly soft, high-thread-count towels, thick enough to make even Severus pause the first time he reached for one.

And the beds—Merlin, the beds.

Severus had gone to sit down expecting the same, stiff mattress he had always been accustomed to.

Instead—he had sunk into something soft yet firm, the sheets cool against his skin, the pillows impossibly comfortable.

His eyes had narrowed in deep suspicion, fingers running over the bedding.

And—of course—Harry had been waiting for this moment.

"Potter," Severus had said, deadly calm.

"Yes?"

"What, exactly, have you done to the bed?"

"Oh, nothing," Harry said far too innocently, uncorking his potions. "Just got you something high-end. Egyptian cotton sheets. Some memory foam charms. Down pillows. All non-refundable, of course."

Severus had glowered. He had seethed.

And then—later that night—

He had fallen asleep in record time.

The library—already formidable—became a true sanctuary. The original wooden shelves had been reinforced and expanded, now holding a collection that rivaled the best wizarding studies. A large, sturdy table had appeared in the center of the first floor—perfect for extended research sessions.

And across from Severus’s usual seat, another chair had appeared—its placement making it abundantly clear that Harry had no intention of working anywhere else.

The kitchen—which Severus had assumed would remain a practical, no-frills space—had been subtly upgraded. Every surface was polished to perfection, the countertops smooth and cool beneath his fingertips.

The knives were lethal, honed to a fine edge that even Severus had to begrudgingly admire.

The cabinets were fully stocked, the spice racks organized with military precision, and the bloody kettle—enchanted by Harry himself—heated water to the exact temperature Severus preferred for tea.

And then there was the sitting room.

Severus had entered one morning to find that what had once been a bare corner of the house had been transformed into something… warm.

Deep, comfortable armchairs sat arranged around a low coffee table, an enchanted tea set perched on top, steaming gently as if mocking him.

The walls, previously empty, now held shelves of books neither of them had placed there, the spines shifting subtly—as if sorting themselves.

And the final insult sat near the window—a finely crafted chess set, gleaming in the morning light.

Severus scowled.

"Potter," he called, his voice carrying through the halls.

Harry appeared in the doorway, still slightly damp from his morning shower, ruffling his hair dry with a towel. He surveyed the room with immense satisfaction.

"A sitting room."

"Yes, I gathered," Severus said dryly. "And when, exactly, did I request a fully furnished leisure space?"

"You didn’t," Harry admitted, grinning. "I wanted it."

Severus exhaled sharply. "Of course you did."

Harry flopped down into one of the absurdly plush armchairs.

"Think about it—now you don’t have to retreat to the library every time you want to read. And the tea set’s charmed to stay warm all day, so you don’t have to keep summoning Winky every five minutes."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "I do not summon Winky every five minutes."

Harry gave him a knowing look.

Severus huffed.

His gaze drifted back to the chess set, the elegant pieces standing at perfect attention. Finely carved, charmed to move, enchanted just enough to hold presence.

He could admit—if only to himself—that it was well-made.

"And what, pray tell, am I meant to do with that?" Severus asked, arching an unimpressed brow.

Harry’s lips quirked. "Play, obviously."

Severus scoffed. "With whom?"

Harry’s grin widened. "With me."

Severus stared at him.

"Potter, I refuse to play a game I will inevitably win every time."

"Rude," Harry muttered. "You don’t know that."

"I do."

Harry only smirked, leaning back in his chair.

"You can gloat later. Sit."

Severus hesitated.

The space was undeniably… inviting. The fireplace cast a warm glow over the polished wood, the chairs were arranged just so—not for entertaining, but for comfort.

It was a space meant to be used, not simply occupied.

And, to his own mild horror, he realized that Harry was right—the addition of the sitting room did make the house feel more.

Not just a house.

Something lived in.

Something theirs.

And so, after a moment of consideration, Severus sighed and lowered himself into the chair across from Harry.

The chess pieces stirred to life, sensing the start of a match.

Harry smirked. "Ready to lose, old man?"

Severus reached for a pawn.

His fingers brushed against Harry’s.

It was brief.

Barely anything.

The barest touch of skin against skin, fleeting and unintentional—except it lingered.

Not in reality, not physically, but in the way it settled deep in Severus’s chest, pressing there like an afterimage, a warmth that did not dissipate as quickly as it should.

Harry didn’t seem to notice. He only grinned, leaning back in his chair, utterly at ease.

Severus, however, curled his fingers just slightly, feeling the ghost of it against his palm.

Then, with practiced ease, he moved his piece.

"Do try to keep up, Potter."

It was subtle at first—one or two items appearing at a time, slipped into his closet with calculated carelessness.

At first, Severus had assumed the elves had merely taken it upon themselves to mend his older robes.

But then—one morning—he reached for his usual black overcoat and found that the fabric was finer. The stitching was new. The fit was perfect.

Harry was doing this.

Severus was certain of it.

And the worst part?

He was pretty damn sure these were, in fact, refundable.

Unlike the furniture—the non-refundable chaise lounges and lavish carpets Harry had gleefully foisted upon the house—clothing could be returned.

Robes. Coats. Even Muggle garments.

None of these were inherently permanent purchases.

And yet…

Harry kept buying them.

And the brat had the foresight to simply add it to Severus's wardrobe instead of handing it to him, ensuring he couldn’t even refuse it.

Slowly. Carefully. A new robe here. A jumper there. A perfectly tailored button-up that had somehow found its way into his wardrobe, despite Severus never once stepping foot in a tailor’s shop.

At first, he had dismissed it as another one of Potter’s reckless whims.

But then, Severus noticed something else.

Harry had also been getting new clothes.

Not extravagant, not excessive—but enough that Severus could rationalize it.

If Harry was replacing his own wardrobe, it only made sense that he had ordered extra for Severus as well.

And besides—

He needed them.

His old robes had been worn past their prime. His Muggle clothes—what little he had—had long since fallen apart.

The new additions were practical. Well-made. Comfortable.

And—if he were being completely honest—he did not want to return them.

He would not admit it aloud, but there was a distinct satisfaction in pulling on something that fit perfectly.

In the soft glide of fabric against his skin.

In the simple pleasure of wearing something that was undeniably his.

So—

He let it continue.

He did not protest when new items appeared.

He did not question the way Harry always seemed so sure of his measurements.

And when, one morning, Harry handed him a package, Severus only arched a brow before unwrapping it.

"Try them on," Harry said simply.

Severus scowled but did as he was told.

The robe was… exceptional.

Soft. Tailored perfectly.

Decadent yet practical.

Dark grey with black embroidery—understated, elegant.

The fabric draped over him effortlessly, as if it had been designed with only him in mind.

The lining was smooth, cool against his skin, and when he rolled his shoulders, the material shifted with him instead of fighting against his movements.

It felt good.

Better than it should.

His fingers dragged slowly down the front, smoothing the fabric over his chest, then lower—

enjoying the sensation of quality craftsmanship beneath his touch.

And that was when he noticed it.

A gaze.

Severus turned his head slightly.

Harry was staring.

Not teasing. Not smirking.

Just—

Watching.

His jaw was set, his lips slightly parted, his eyes fixed—burning.

More specifically—

Fixed on Severus’s hand.

Trailing down.

Following every movement.

Gaze dark and heated.

Severus’s fingers froze.

Harry’s jaw clenched slightly, his throat bobbing as though he had to force himself not to react.

Then—too quickly—he cleared his throat and looked away.

"Just wanted to make sure it fits," he said, voice too casual, too offhand.

Severus exhaled—too steady, too careful—and let his hand fall away from the robe.

The spell—whatever this was—shattered in an instant.

Harry turned away abruptly.

Severus remained where he stood.

He flexed his fingers absently against the fabric.

Something had shifted.

Because for the first time—

Severus had noticed him.

And—more importantly—

Harry noticed him back.

Harry had mostly recovered.

He was stronger, steadier, no longer collapsing from magical exertion or waking up visibly exhausted.

But Severus could still see the remnants of strain in the way he moved—

How he rolled his shoulders when he thought no one was looking.

How he sometimes pressed a hand against his ribs after stretching too far.

Severus himself had improved as well.

He could walk short distances around the house without issue, manage the stairs with only mild discomfort, and even step outside for brief walks when the weather permitted.

He was far from at full strength, but—

He was no longer confined to the walls of the house.

No longer struggling to make it through the day.

Their routine had settled into place.

Mornings were quiet.

Tea was always waiting when Severus woke—an unspoken habit Harry had developed.

Breakfast was shared—sometimes with conversation, sometimes in silence—both equally comfortable.

Afternoons were filled with work—

For Harry, reinforcing the wards, ensuring their privacy, securing the estate’s hidden protections.

For Severus, reacquainting himself with his magic, begrudgingly rebuilding his physical endurance, meticulously planning his future potions lab and greenhouse.

Evenings were spent in the library.

Dinner—cooked by Harry—was followed by research.

Severus focused on purging the venom from his system.

Harry refined his formulations, cross-referencing blood magic, healing spells, and alchemical theories with the same intensity he had once reserved for combat.

It was easy.

Surprisingly easy.

But something else had changed.

Harry had always been close.

But now—

Now it was different.

He hovered—

Not overtly, not in a way that Severus could scold—but subtly.

He lingered longer in rooms where Severus was.

When Severus trained his magic, Harry was always nearby, subtly keeping watch.

When Severus moved through the house, he was aware of Harry’s presence—

Not intruding, but there.

And the strangest part?

Severus allowed it.

He let Harry stay near.

Let him pull their chairs closer in the library.

Let him adjust the temperature charms in Severus’s study without a word.

Let him steal moments of easy familiarity—

Casual touches.

Light brushes of fingertips when passing an object.

Standing just close enough that Severus could feel his warmth.

And he told himself it meant nothing.

Of course, it didn’t.

Harry worried.

That was all.

Because anything else?

Anything else was impossible.

Until—

Until.

Firelight flickered softly, casting long shadows across the dark wooden shelves. The book in his hands was an engaging enough distraction, the low crackle of the hearth filling the quiet room.

Harry had been out earlier that evening, disappearing somewhere in the house under the pretense of necessary improvements. Severus had assumed he would not be bothered until morning.

He was wrong.

The door creaked open.

Severus barely glanced up, expecting some nonsense about warding adjustments or furniture rearrangement.

Instead—

Harry stopped short in the doorway.

Something in his expression shifted, his gaze catching on Severus and staying there.

A pause.

Not a casual one.

Not an absentminded flicker of recognition, but something lingering, weighted.

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Are you planning to linger in the doorway all night?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze flicked downward, dragging over Severus in a slow, deliberate sweep.

Severus felt it.

Heat crept beneath his skin, a prickle of awareness he had not invited.

Harry was looking at him.

Not just looking.

Noticing.

And then lingering.

It wasn’t the first time Severus had wondered, in passing—when Harry stood too close, when his hand brushed against his with no immediate necessity, when his stares lasted a fraction too long.

But he had never let himself truly entertain the thought.

Until now.

Because Harry had not looked away.

A slow, deliberate exhale left Severus’s lips, quieter than he would have liked. He shut his book, precisely measured. “What is it now?”

Harry blinked, snapped back to himself.

He ran a hand through his wind-ruffled hair, something off about the way his fingers caught at the strands.

"You're wearing them."

Severus frowned. “Wearing what?”

Then, he followed Harry’s gaze downward.

Ah.

Severus had forgotten.

His usual sleepwear was plain, practical.

But tonight—

For the first time, he had chosen something new.

The black pajamas Harry had bought him—softer, thinner than his usual heavy layers. They draped instead of concealed, fitting with a comfort he had not yet decided if he approved of.

And—

For once, he had left his hair down.

Still damp, it curled loosely over his shoulders, strands slipping forward over his collarbone instead of being tied back in its usual restraint.

His reading glasses softened his sharpness, dulling the edges of his severity.

He had not thought twice about it.

Until now.

Because Harry was still staring.

The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.

Harry’s gaze was steady, too intent, caught somewhere between stunned and transfixed.

And that was when Severus noticed it.

A pattern.

Harry’s focus was not accidental.

The fabric.

The way it skimmed over his frame.

The loose fall of his hair.

The subtle change the glasses made to his expression.

Severus exhaled slowly.

Something settled in his chest—something he should not acknowledge.

But still…

He hummed, dragging a hand slowly down the front of his robe, smoothing the fabric between his fingers, testing the softness beneath his palm.

"It would be foolish to own something and not use it."

Harry’s gaze followed the movement.

Severus saw it.

The way Harry’s breath hitched.

The sharp swallow.

The twitch of his fingers, like he was resisting an impulse he hadn't yet put into words.

Oh.

Severus’s fingers stilled where they had lingered against the fabric.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his gaze lift—meeting Harry’s eyes.

And there it was.

Undeniable.

For the first time, Severus did not ignore it.

Did not dismiss it as coincidence.

Did not push it aside with a scoff.

Instead—

He felt it.

Harry wasn’t just watching him.

He was seeing him.

And Severus—

Severus liked it.

Just a little.

His own pulse jumped, just slightly.

He looked down, turned the page of his book slower than necessary, feigning disinterest.

"You're staring, Potter."

"I'm—" Harry immediately looked away, jaw tightening. "No, I'm not."

Severus tilted his head slightly, gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Then, with a casual flick of his fingers, he returned to his book, flipping a page with practiced ease, refusing to entertain the absurd notion lingering at the edges of his mind.

And then—

In his attempt to casually cross the room, as if he was not at all affected—

Harry walked directly into the bookshelf.

There was a solid thud.

A sharp intake of breath.

The entire shelf rattled, a few books toppling over as Harry stumbled back, gripping his forehead.

Severus lowered his book slowly.

His lips parted slightly.

Then—

He laughed.

Not a mere huff of amusement.

Not the quiet exhale of derision he usually allowed.

A real, genuine chuckle—low and deep, rolling out of him before he could even think to suppress it.

Harry groaned, tipping his head back as if praying for the floor to swallow him whole.

"I hate you."

Severus, still chuckling, stood from his chair, stretching his arms slightly before crossing the room toward him.

"Mm," he mused, smirking. "And yet, I am not the one who just lost a duel with a bookshelf."

Harry scowled, rubbing at his forehead, but there was no true frustration in his expression.

If anything—

Something warm flickered behind his eyes.

Something soft.

Severus noticed it.

Felt it.

Which, of course, only made him smirk wider.

With an idle flick of his wrist, he summoned Winky. “Fetch the bruise paste,” he instructed, voice still laced with quiet amusement. “Potter has managed to wound himself on literature.”

Harry huffed, crossing his arms. “I walked into it, I didn’t start a duel.”

“Ah,” Severus said, tone smooth as silk, “so you surrendered immediately. Even worse.”

Harry groaned again, but this time, his lips twitched—just slightly, just enough for Severus to catch it.

Winky reappeared with the salve, setting it on the table with a pointed shake of her head at Harry before vanishing again.

Severus picked up the small jar, stepping closer. “Hold still, you idiot,” he murmured. “Let me see.”

Harry shot him a glare but begrudgingly stayed put, allowing Severus to tilt his chin up, fingers grazing his jaw.

The moment Severus’s fingers brushed over the forming bruise, something shifted.

Harry’s skin was warm.

Too warm.

Severus pressed his thumb against the mark, a little too slow, a little too deliberate.

Harry did not move away.

"Tsk," Severus murmured, amusement still evident in his tone. "You have survived a Dark Lord, yet you cannot navigate a library."

Harry exhaled slowly, gaze flicking to the side. “Shut up.”

"No."

Harry muttered something under his breath—something suspiciously like a curse—but he still didn’t pull away when Severus unscrewed the cap and dabbed the salve gently along his temple.

Severus worked in silence, methodical, focused—but not entirely unaware. His fingers dragged over the bruise with excessive care, and he could feel Harry’s patience thinning.

"Are you actually treating it, or just drawing this out to be insufferable?"

Severus merely raised an eyebrow, lips curving faintly. "Why not both?"

Harry rolled his eyes but still did not pull away.

And still—

Severus felt it.

The way Harry watched him.

Something settled deep in his chest, pressing in—unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant.

Finally, Severus stepped back, dragging his thumb one last, unnecessarily slow time over the now-healing mark. "Better?"

Harry blinked, like he had forgotten what they were even doing. "Yeah. Fine."

Severus smirked again, tapping a finger against Harry’s forehead, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “Try to win your next fight, Potter.”

Harry scowled, huffing, but didn’t move as Severus returned to his chair, slipping his reading glasses back on, his smirk firmly in place.

When Severus glanced up again—

Harry was still pouting at the book he had picked up, his ears red.

And that, more than anything, was what truly made Severus bite back another smile.

When Severus returned to his room that night, he paused by the mirror.

Nothing had changed.

Not really.

And yet—he felt different.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly in the waves that had dried naturally. It had been years since he had left it loose like this. Years of keeping it tied back, of slipping into the comfort of old habits. Of ignoring the way it had once clung to his skin, heavy with potions residue and grease, no matter how often he washed it.

It had always been a losing battle. A pointless one.

But now—now it was clean, soft. The weight of it unfamiliar against his shoulders.

He exhaled, shaking his head.

He wasn’t confused anymore. That, at least, was settled. There was something between them—something undeniable. Harry had looked at him. Noticed him. And Severus… had liked it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most. Not the possibility itself, but how easily he had accepted it.

He wasn’t a fool.

This was Harry Potter.

Young, impulsive, infuriatingly earnest. And yet, for all that, Severus had never felt humored by his attentions. Harry was many things, but insincere was not one of them.

Which meant—

Severus swallowed, pressing his palm flat against the cool wood of the vanity.

It meant this was real.

And for the first time, he let himself consider it. Not as a fleeting thought, not as something ridiculous to be dismissed, but as something possible.

He wasn’t certain what to do with that yet. But there was no denying it.

His fingers brushed through his hair again, slower this time.

He would be paying more attention to his appearance from now on.

Not because of Harry, of course.

No, certainly not.

Just… because.

And with that thought, Severus let himself rest.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 13-14  ( Late May - Early June, 1999)

Unfortunately, recovery was not linear. 

Severus had been getting stronger. His footing had returned, his magic was sharpening, his endurance was improving.

And then—suddenly, inexplicably—he regressed.

It wasn’t catastrophic. Nothing dramatic. But his limbs grew heavy again, his magic flickered, and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion settled over him like an unwelcome guest.

So, research became their focus.

Each night, without fail, Harry settled across from him in the library, quill scratching steadily against parchment. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t grow bored. And—most annoyingly—he was entirely focused.

Severus had watched Harry study before, of course—months spent in the same room together, Harry always scribbling, always hunched over something with that same determined focus.

At the time, Severus had not particularly cared. He had been too consumed by his own exhaustion to concern himself with whatever fixation had taken hold of Harry Potter.

But now, he was stronger. More aware.

And—somewhat inexplicably—he found himself enjoying their study sessions.

Severus had assumed Harry only excelled under pressure—that the looming threat of death had been the only reason he had ever managed to apply himself. But now, watching him—truly watching him—Severus realized he had been wrong.

The research was meticulous. Harry’s notes were painstakingly detailed, his annotations thoughtful, his spell matrices precise. He cross-referenced healing texts with Muggle nutrition guides, crafted his own formulations, adjusted potions recipes to better fit Severus’s needs.

It wasn’t just research.

It was creation.

And Severus knew that kind of obsession.

And it was… fascinating.

"I had the great misfortune of teaching you once, Potter," Severus remarked one evening, sipping on now-lukewarm tea. "I seem to recall your idea of research was waiting for Granger to hand you the answer."

Harry, still hunched over a stack of medical texts, merely smirked. "I was a good student when I had an incentive to be."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly is your incentive now?"

Harry did not answer immediately.

Severus just watched him. Curious.

Because for the first time, he saw something of himself in Harry’s work.

The discipline. The ruthless curiosity. The obsession with getting it right.

It had been a long time since Severus had seen that in another person.

"Tell me, Potter, at what point did you decide to pursue a Healer’s license, an Alchemy mastery, and a bloody cookbook all in one?"

Finally, Harry turned a page, not looking up. "Would that be so terrible?"

"It would be," Severus said simply. "You’re already infuriatingly competent. It would be downright intolerable if you became more so."

And then—

Harry smirked. That smirk.

The one Severus had learned to be wary of.

"Well," Harry mused, voice too casual, "if I’m going to be your housewife, I have to be competent, don’t I?"

Severus inhaled sharply—and immediately choked on his tea.

Harry grinned.

Oh, he had been waiting for that.

Severus, once he had successfully survived his own drink, slammed the cup down on the table and turned a withering glare onto him.

"Get out of my library, Potter."

Harry, infuriatingly pleased, leaned back in his chair, arms stretching behind his head. "Our library Severus "

Severus considered retaliation—seriously considered it.

Knocking over Harry’s carefully arranged stack of notes? Petty, but effective.

Perhaps setting his ink to vanish every time he tried to write? Too much effort.

Maybe—

Maybe hexing his chair so it tipped just enough to be annoying.

Harry saw it. Felt it, perhaps.

He straightened just slightly, watching Severus, a challenge gleaming in his eyes.

But Severus, exhaling sharply, ultimately decided against it.

It would only encourage him.

Instead, he pointedly ignored the way Harry stretched lazily in his chair, muscles shifting beneath his shirt, fingers flexing absently against the spine of his own book.

Harry, of course, was not done tormenting him.

"Do you prefer silk or cotton, by the way?" he asked idly, quill tapping against the page.

Severus didn’t even look up. "If you’re attempting to continue this housewife fantasy, Potter—"

"Just trying to decide what fabric our wedding robes should be," Harry cut in smoothly, flipping another page.

Severus stilled.

Oh.

This was war.

A slow, creeping warmth crawled up his neck, settling at his cheekbones before he forcefully shoved it down.

No.

Absolutely not.

He refused to acknowledge it.

With far too much force, he turned the page in his book.

Harry tilted his head, all innocence, eyes far too bright with amusement.

"Something wrong, Severus?"

Severus’s grip on his book tightened.

Harry saw it. Knew it.

And smirked.

Severus let out a slow, measured breath.

"Oh, I see," he said smoothly. "This is revenge, isn’t it?"

Harry grinned.

"I have no idea what you mean."

Severus narrowed his eyes.

"Of course," Harry continued, stretching lazily, "if you want to be the one to pick out the wedding robes, I suppose I could let you. Something dramatic, maybe. Velvet. Brocade."

Severus set his book down, very carefully, and exhaled.

"Potter."

"Mm?"

"Your chair is tipping backward."

Harry’s smirk faltered—just slightly—as his chair wobbled.

Severus arched a brow.

A beat.

Harry immediately attempted to correct himself, shifting his weight forward—

And Severus, through sheer willpower and spite, concentrated.

It was small magic, a subtle shift of force—but it was enough.

There was a yelp, a thud, and a muttered curse.

Severus allowed himself a single, deeply satisfied sip of tea.

Harry groaned from the floor. "That was cheating."

Severus set his cup down, expression perfectly neutral. "Was it?"

Harry scowled, rubbing his shoulder. "Did you seriously just strain yourself just to be petty?"

Severus leaned back in his chair, utterly unrepentant. "Consider us even, Potter."

Harry huffed, pushing himself up, narrowing his eyes in a way that suggested he was already plotting his next attack—

But Severus did not miss the way his lips twitched, that infuriating half-smirk caught somewhere between a glare and amusement.

"Oh, we are not even," Harry muttered, gathering his papers. "Not yet."

They never got to continue though, 

Because the next morning, Severus was bed-bound.

It was, objectively, ridiculous.

A mere flick of magic—just a simple push to tip Harry’s chair—and now his entire body had decided to rebel.

His limbs ached, his magic felt sluggish, and standing for more than a few moments left him dizzy. It was absurd. Absolutely, infuriatingly absurd.

Scowling, Severus tugged the blanket higher out of pure spite.

"This is absurd."

Harry, standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, did not look the least bit sympathetic.

"Oh, is it?" he said, voice entirely too smug. "You mean to tell me that after throwing a childish display of magic just to knock me off a chair, you’re now suffering consequences? Truly shocking."

Severus glared.

Harry, infuriatingly unaffected, set a fresh cup of tea on the bedside table. "I hate to say I told you so—"

"Then don’t," Severus snapped.

Harry smirked but, mercifully, said nothing. Instead, he nudged the tea closer before reaching for a potion vial on the nightstand.

"You’ve been pushing too hard," he said, rolling the vial between his fingers. "It was bound to catch up with you eventually."

"This is not ‘pushing too hard,’" Severus muttered, shifting under the blankets as though sheer movement alone could banish the weakness from his bones. "I was getting stronger. I could walk without issue, perform controlled spells—my magic was fine."

Harry perched on the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, chin in his palm.

"And now?"

Severus scowled at the ceiling, as if it had personally offended him.

"Now, I wake up weak again. My magic is behaving like a child’s. Ridiculous."

"Terribly unfair," Harry said, voice light but without real mockery.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Don’t patronize me, Potter."

Harry’s lips twitched, but he obediently held his hands up in surrender. Instead, he lingered, rolling the potion vial between his fingers, his amusement fading into something more intent.

Severus watched, suspicious.

Harry had been hovering. Checking his temperature, pushing food at him, watching too closely.

Annoying.

But also…

Severus glanced at the carefully arranged stack of medical texts by the bedside table. The notes tucked between the pages in Harry’s handwriting. The freshly brewed tea—the precise blend that eased Severus’s headaches.

…Attentive.

Harry sighed suddenly, nudging the potion toward him.

"Take this. Rest. You’ll be fine until I get back."

Severus frowned. "Back? From where?"

Harry hesitated. Then—too casually—"Dolohov."

Severus exhaled sharply, fingers twitching in his lap.

He had known Dolohov had evaded capture, known that Harry had been tracking him—but still.

"You’re going alone." It wasn’t a question.

Harry’s gaze flickered. "Yes."

Severus’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Harry, reading his silence perfectly, let out a breath and shook his head. "It’s routine. I’ll be fine. But you—" He nudged the potion at him again. "—need to actually take care of yourself while I’m gone."

Severus scoffed, but he took the vial and drank it, if only so Harry wouldn’t continue fussing.

Harry stood, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his cloak as he turned toward the door.

"You’d better return alive," Severus said flatly.

Harry grinned over his shoulder, entirely too at ease.

"That the closest thing to concern I’m going to get?"

"Take what you can get, Potter."

Harry chuckled, running a hand through his hair before stepping out.

"I always do."

And then, he was gone.

Severus hated this. 

Not Harry’s absence—no, he had endured plenty of solitude in his life. He had lived in silence, in stillness, in the kind of isolation that settled into his bones like a permanent weight.

He had chosen that existence, once.

But this—this was not solitude.

It was the absence of presence.

The missing weight of footsteps in the hall. The absence of idle chatter, of irritated sighs, of the way Harry always filled the silence with something—whether it was noise, or magic, or simply being there.

Harry had left just after midday, and now the first night had passed without him.

Severus had spent it glaring at the ceiling, shifting restlessly under the covers, irritated at how empty the house felt.

He hadn’t slept.

Not properly.

He had dozed, restless and fitful, waking at the smallest creak of the old house, half-expecting—half-waiting—for the sound of the front door opening, for the familiar weight of Harry’s magic settling back into the walls.

But it never came.

By morning, his mood was foul.

Breakfast was barely touched. The tea was wrong—too bitter, the wrong temperature. The library, usually a sanctuary, felt suffocating.

And so the day dragged on, a slow, tedious thing, measured only by the shifting light through the frost-covered windows.

By nightfall, his irritation had settled into something quieter. Heavier.

And still, Harry had not returned.

The house was too quiet. 

Severus sat in the library, book in his lap, but he wasn’t reading.

His gaze flicked to Harry’s chair, to the books usually spread out before him, to the subtle reminders of his presence that had become so… normal.

His fingers twitched, restless. He closed the book. Opened it again.

The fire burned low.

Still, the door did not open.

He retired to his room early, knowing sleep would not come any easier than the night before, but unwilling to sit in the empty house any longer.

He settled into bed, eyes drifting to the doorway—as if sheer force of will might make Harry appear.

It did not.

Severus exhaled sharply, rolling onto his side.

This was ridiculous.

It was just one more night.

Tomorrow.

He would be back tomorrow.

Severus sat in the library, book in his lap, but he wasn’t reading.

His gaze flicked to Harry’s chair, to the books usually spread out before him, to the subtle reminders of his presence that had become so… normal.

His fingers twitched, restless. He closed the book. Opened it again.

The fire burned low.

Still, the door did not open.

He retired to his room early, knowing sleep would not come any easier than the night before, but unwilling to sit in the empty house any longer.

He settled into bed, eyes drifting to the doorway—as if sheer force of will might make Harry appear.

It did not.

Severus exhaled sharply, rolling onto his side.

This was ridiculous.

It was just one more night.

Tomorrow.

He would be back tomorrow.

Severus must have dozed off, because when his eyes snapped open, the house was no longer silent.

Footsteps.

The front door creaked open.

A familiar magic swept through the house, pressing against the wards in recognition.

Finally.

Severus did not move immediately.

Instead, he listened.

Measured steps. Tired, but not unsteady.

No signs of injury—good.

His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale.

Then, the bedroom door opened.

Harry.

He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim candlelight of the hall. His cloak was askew, his hair a mess, and his face—exhausted.

Not injured.

Just… worn down.

Severus’s hand twitched against the blanket. His first instinct was to reach out—to catch Harry’s wrist, his sleeve, something—to confirm that he was whole, that he had returned in one piece.

But he didn’t.

His fingers curled into the fabric instead. A silent restraint.

Severus arched an eyebrow, voice even.

"Took you long enough."

Harry huffed a tired laugh, stepping inside and toeing off his boots.

"Yes, yes, I missed you too," he muttered, shedding his outer layers as he moved toward the bed.

Severus did not protest as Harry leaned down, pressing the back of his hand lightly to his forehead, checking for fever.

Severus swatted him away, though the gesture was half-hearted.

"I am fine."

Harry hummed, clearly unconvinced. Then, as he looked Severus over, his expression darkened slightly.

"Did you eat?"

Severus scoffed, looking away.

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"Merlin’s—Severus, what part of ‘take care of yourself while I’m gone’ did you not understand?"

"I was fine," Severus muttered, though even he could hear the hollowness of the excuse.

Harry gave him an unimpressed look before turning to the bedside table, where the tea Severus had made remained untouched.

He picked it up, gave it a pointed glance, and then set it back down with a dull clink.

"You didn’t sleep either."

Severus rolled his eyes.

"Your talent for stating the obvious is astounding."

Harry scowled, crossing his arms. "Unbelievable. You give me hell every time I push myself too hard, but the moment I leave, you—"

He stopped, pressing his lips together before shaking his head.

Severus lifted his chin.

"I am not your responsibility."

Harry sighed.

"No, you’re not."

And yet, he still looked annoyed.

Not just irritated—but something else. Something deeper.

Harry exhaled, rubbing at his temple before giving Severus a flat look.

"Well, congratulations, you win. I’m too tired to yell at you properly."

Severus smirked faintly, but it didn’t last long.

Because Harry was watching him.

And then—he moved.

Not away.

Closer.

He sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

He didn’t sprawl out like usual—no casual smirk, no easy banter.

Just silent. Still.

Severus could feel the warmth of him, the exhaustion rolling off in waves, the quiet weight of something unspoken.

Then—Harry leaned in.

It wasn’t sudden.

Wasn’t dramatic.

Just… slow. Gradual.

Like he hadn’t quite realized he was doing it—the way his body tilted, the way his head dipped until the side of his face pressed against Severus’s shoulder.

The way his breath evened out, settling.

Severus froze.

"Harry—"

"Well then," Harry murmured, voice already thick with exhaustion, pressing just a little closer. "Since you clearly weren’t sleeping anyway, you might as well make yourself useful."

Severus inhaled sharply, glancing down at the mess of dark hair now pressed against his shoulder.

…Well.

This was new.

Severus let out a long, long sigh.

"Do you intend to smother me every time you return?"

Harry made a pleased hum.

Severus scowled. But—

He shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket, pulling it over both of them with exasperated resignation.

"Do not drool on me, Potter."

Another amused hum, though Harry didn’t move.

Severus should push him away.

He should.

But Harry was warm.

And Severus was so bloody tired.

So instead, he let his head rest against the pillows.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them needed to.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 13-14  ( Late May - Early June, 1999)

Severus woke up to warmth. 

For a moment, he did not question it.

The heat against his side was steady, his body nestled into it with a comfort that was disturbingly natural. His mind, still sluggish with sleep, barely registered why—only that it was pleasant.

That it felt right.

His fingers twitched, instinctively curling against the solid presence pressed to his side. His hand ghosted over fabric, the slow rise and fall of breath beneath his palm.

He nearly relaxed into it—nearly let his fingertips graze the warmth of Harry’s back—

Then logic returned.

Severus stilled.

He was in bed.
Harry was in bed.
Against him. Again.

His fingers snapped away from where they had almost lingered, curling into a loose fist instead. His body tensed just slightly, awareness crashing over him like cold water.

And yet—

He did not move.

Because Harry—damn him—was still asleep.

Curled against Severus’s side, one arm slung lazily across his ribs, his breath soft and even. His face half-buriedagainst Severus’s shoulder, messy hair tickling the skin at his collarbone.

The weight of him was solid. Unapologetic. Comfortable.

Severus exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

How had it come to this?

This was not supposed to be His. 

He had always assumed—always known—that this sort of thing wasn’t meant for him.

That warmth, that quiet companionship, that ridiculous ease of simply existing beside someone—

Those were luxuries meant for other people.

Not for him.

And yet, somehow, he had found himself here.

Had allowed it to happen.

Had let Harry stay close. Had let himself grow accustomed to his presence.

Had woken up to this.

And the worst part?

Some treacherous part of him did not hate it.

Would It Be So Wrong to Allow It? To enjoy it?

Harry was young. Capable. His whole life stretched ahead of him.

Should Severus not be the one to push him away? To remind him that there was more out there?

That this—whatever this was—should not hold him back?

He exhaled sharply, irritation curling in his gut.

Because that was what made this so unbearable.

He did not want to push Harry away.

And that—more than anything—felt like the real mistake.

A breath stirred against his shoulder, warm and close.

Then—Harry groaned, pressing his face further into Severus’s neck before attempting to stretch.

His body was heavy with sleep, but consciousness was creeping in, tugging at him.

A deep inhale.
A slow exhale.

Then—

"Stop thinking so loud," Harry mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Severus stiffened.

Harry cracked an eye open, blinking at him blearily—then pressed his face back into Severus’s shoulder with a muffled groan.

Severus did not react.

He should push him away. He should make some scathing remark about boundaries and personal space—

But instead, his traitorous body simply... accepted it.

For a moment, Severus let him stay there, because Harry—despite the exhaustion still clinging to his limbs—seemed comfortable.

Too comfortable.

He had relaxed into Severus’s warmth so easily, as though this had always been a part of their routine, as though waking up tangled together was simply expected now.

Severus scowled at the thought.

"Are you planning to rise anytime soon, Potter?" he asked, voice edged with exasperation.

Harry made a vague grumbling noise.

Then, after a beat—he smirked against Severus’s sleeve.

"Well, that depends," Harry murmured, voice still hoarse from sleep."Am I fit to be in your bed now, or do I still need to prove myself?"

Severus felt it before he could control it.

Heat.

Creeping up his neck, burning at the edges of his ears.

He refused to acknowledge it.

Refused to let his expression change, refused to give Potter the satisfaction of—

Harry shifted, his breath warm against Severus’s collarbone, and Severus very deliberately turned his face away.

"For Merlin’s sake," he muttered, gritting his teeth.

Harry huffed a soft laugh but finally sat up, stretching his arms over his head, blinking at the morning light filtering through the curtains.

Severus watched him for a moment.

Then sighed and called out, “Winky.”

A sharp pop, and the elf appeared, bowing low. “Master Severus is needing breakfast?”

"Tea," Severus corrected.

"And something substantial. Potter is insufferable when he is underfed."

Harry snorted.

"Charming."

Severus ignored him, adjusting his position against the headboard as Winky vanished, already preparing their meal.

The Wards of Grimmauld Place Whispered as They Stepped Inside.

Sensing them. Shifting. Watching.

The heavy wooden door shut behind them with a soft thud, locking them into the dimly lit halls of the old Black family home.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

He moved with steady purpose, leading them through the winding corridors, past the concealed entrance, downward—always down—until the walls grew cold and the air turned thick with magic.

Harry carried Severus down the steps without a word, his grip steady, his movements practiced.

He lowered Severus into the armchair as if it were the most natural thing in the world, adjusting the blanket at his side before stepping away.

Severus scowled.

But he did not argue.

He had long since learned that when Harry decided to be insufferably overprotective, resistance was futile.

Instead, he adjusted his cuff, fingers brushing absently over his wrist—feeling.

His magic was still unsteady, shifting in restless waves, unpredictable and jagged at the edges.

Not the wild, childlike bursts from before—this was worse.

It burned, pressing too hard against his core, unstable and unruly, as if his body had yet to decide whether to accept or reject the power forced upon it.

Tonight had to work.

Harry rolled his shoulders, shaking off his cloak as he turned toward the opposite end of the room.

Ancient runes carved into the stone, their edges humming with dormant power.

The preparations had already been made.

The sigils were drawn.
The containment spells layered and reinforced.

And at the very center of it all—

Bound by magic-forged chains—

Dolohov.

Antonin Dolohov Was Not a Man Who Knew Fear.

Severus had fought beside him.

Had fought against him.

Had witnessed firsthand the brutality of his skill, the destruction he could wield with nothing but a word and a flick of his wand.

But now?

Now, Dolohov had no wand.

No allies.

No means of escape.

And yet—he smirked.

"Snape," Dolohov rasped, voice cracked from disuse.

His dark eyes flicked between them, settling on Harry with an expression that was far too entertained for a man in his position.

"Ah. I see how it is."

Harry said nothing.

He merely stepped closer.

Dolohov’s eyes gleamed. Sharp. Knowing.

"You’ve got that look about you," he mused, voice smooth despite the tension lining his shoulders. "The one I’ve seen before. The one that says you’re here to take something."

Harry’s lips twitched—but there was no humor in it.

Only intent.

"You know exactly what I want."

Dolohov’s Posture Shifted.

Barely.

A flicker of tension. A tightening of his shoulders.

His control was slipping.

"And Snape?" Dolohov continued, gaze flicking to where Severus sat, silent. "Not dead after all. Or is that what this is about? Did he drag you back from the grave kicking and screaming?"

Severus did not answer.

Dolohov’s smirk sharpened.

"You think taking my magic will make you whole again?" he murmured, voice lowering.

"You’re a fool, Snape."

Severus exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly.

"You’ll forgive me if I am less inclined to value your opinion."

Dolohov chuckled.

Dry. Brittle. A man grasping for control.

"You’re making a mistake," he continued, shifting against his restraints. "Magic taken by force never sits right. It doesn’t belong to you. You think you’re helping him, Potter?"

His gaze flicked toward Harry.

"You’re only making him weaker."

The Air Changed.

A pulse of power, sharp and electric, pressing against the walls, curling around the stone pillars, creeping into the edges of the runes.

Dolohov’s breathing turned shallow.

Harry did not move.

"You’re trying to stall," he said quietly. "It won’t work."

Dolohov’s jaw tightened.

Then, slowly—

He smiled.

"You’re playing with fire, boy."

Harry tilted his head.

"Good thing I don’t mind the burn."

The Chamber Awakened.

The runes ignited, burning with molten light.

Magic curled at their edges like hungry tendrils, seeking.

Severus watched them both, eyes narrowed, fingers curling against the armrest.

This time—he did not feel weak.

This time—he did not feel like a bystander in his own body.

This time—he was ready.

Harry Turned Just enough to glance over his shoulder , Meeting Severus’s gaze.

"You ready for this?"

Severus inhaled. Felt the last remnants of borrowed magic still settling beneath his skin.

He nodded once.

"As ready as I’ll ever be."

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened.

Then—

He stepped forward.

The Pull Began Slowly—Almost Gently.

Then—

It surged.

Severus inhaled sharply, his body tensing as the foreign magic tore itself from Dolohov’s core. The runes flared golden-hot, burning brighter as the stolen energy twisted and unraveled—seeking. Searching.

And then—

It found him.

Severus felt it—a rush of power, his own magic rising to meet it, stabilizing, accepting.

The fracture in his core—the once erratic flickers of instability—gone.

His magic no longer skittered, no longer trembled like a child's accidental outburst.

It was controlled. Whole. 

Across from Him , Dolohov Gasped a choked, ragged sound as the last of his power was ripped away.

His body slumped forward, shoulders curling inward as the runes dimmed, their glow fading into cooling embers.

Severus Lifted a Hand and flexed his fingers.

The fractured remnants of the Dark Mark shimmered faintly, its once-bold lines now faded and broken. Slowly, a golden glow seeped through the cracks, delicate runes weaving over the damaged brand. The transformation was incomplete—runes growing more distinct, creeping along his skin, yet the remnants of the Dark Mark still lingered, caught in the slow, inevitable process of being overwritten.

Severus exhaled and rolled his shoulders.

He barely had time to react before a firm grip encircled his wrist.

Harry was breathing hard, his magic still thrumming, residual energy crackling in the space between them. His other hand was clenched into a fist at his side, knuckles white.

His fingers pressed firmly into the inside of Severus’s wrist—checking. Assessing.

Severus, without thinking, clasped Harry’s wrist in return.

A steady hold.

Grounding.

For a long moment, neither of them let go.

The chamber was silent, save for the distant crackling of dying magic.

Harry exhaled.

His grip tightened—just slightly—before he finally released him.

His fingers lingered—a fraction too long.

Severus did not mention it.

Neither did Harry.

Chapter Text

📍 Month: 14 (Late May – late June, 1999) 

Severus Woke Slowly.

His mind surfaced through layers of exhaustion—thick, sluggish, heavy.

The first thing he registered was warmth.

Not external. Not the weight of blankets or another body beside him.

His own magic.

It coiled through him in slow, deliberate waves—not burning, not frantic, but settled. Controlled. It thrummed beneath his skin, a quiet, steady presence.

Something that had not been there the day before.

The ritual had worked.

His fingers curled against the sheets, testing, feeling.

There was ache—deep in his bones, woven through his muscles. But it was not weakness. Not sickness. Not failure.

It was the kind of exhaustion that came after exertion. Effort. Victory.

His body had stopped betraying him.

The Second Thing He Noticed—He Was Alone.

The chair beside him was empty.

The blankets were askew, slightly rumpled—not abandoned, but recently vacated. 

The room was quiet.

But the air—

The air carried traces of firewood and bergamot, a faint scent that curled in the dim morning light, slipping beneath the edges of his awareness.

Harry.

Severus exhaled slowly, shifting upright.

His muscles protested the movement—but it was manageable.

No strain. No restriction.

His magic, though not yet entirely stable, had begun to settle. To reshape itself into something familiar again.

He dragged a hand through his hair, a habitual motion.

And then—he stilled.

His fingers brushed against strands that were soft. Clean.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Harry.

Severus sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple.

That meddlesome, insufferable man.

And yet—

His lips pressed together, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his sleeve.

The scent of cooking drifted in from the hallway.

Smoky. Rich. Savory.

Something warm, something hearty—not the bland, functional meals of Grimmauld Place, but something different. Something made with care.

And beneath it—

Tea.

His tea.

Severus exhaled, shaking his head.

Of course.

He pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself before making his way downstairs.

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, the window cracked open just enough to let in the early summer air. The scent of crisping bacon and fresh herbs curled through the room, mixing with the faint traces of toast browning in the oven.

Harry stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pan with one hand while the other reached for the cutting board. His movements were easy, practiced—not hurried, not hesitant.

Severus lingered in the doorway, longer than he should have, watching.

It had become something of a habit—this quiet observation. The way Harry moved, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair in its usual unkempt disaster, standing with that infuriating, effortless confidence. Utterly at ease in Severus’s space.

Their space.

Without turning, Harry spoke. “You’re up early.”

Severus adjusted his sleeve, smoothing the fabric unnecessarily. “I was under the impression I was no longer a patient.”

That made Harry turn, setting the spatula down. His gaze swept over Severus—assessing, searching.

Severus rolled his eyes. “I am fine, Potter. You may cease scrutinizing me as though I might crumble at any moment.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured toward the countertop. “Grab plates.”

Severus arched a brow. “Ordering me about now, are we?”

“Delegating,” Harry corrected easily, turning back to the stove. “I was going to bring it up to you, but since you're already awake, might as well make yourself useful.”

Severus made a quiet sound of amusement but complied, retrieving two plates from the cupboard and setting them beside Harry with precise efficiency.

Harry worked in silence, shifting bacon onto the plates before scooping a generous serving of eggs alongside it. The scent of rosemary and thyme laced the air, subtle but unmistakable.

Severus folded his arms, leaning against the counter. “You are rather domestic, Potter.”

Harry smirked, pouring tea into two cups. “I had to be. No one else was going to take care of me.”

Severus hesitated.

He had meant the comment as a light jab, but there was truth beneath Harry’s words—something weightier, something Severus recognized too well.

And yet, it did not linger.

Harry slid a plate in front of him and nudged a chair out with his foot. “Eat.”

Severus exhaled through his nose but sat. The first bite was warm, seasoned well, balanced.

He glanced up, unimpressed. “I suppose it is edible.”

Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Merlin forbid you admit I’m good at something.”

Severus sipped his tea. “I already conceded that you are an acceptable researcher . I cannot afford to boost your ego further.”

Harry grinned, pleased. “So you do like it.”

Severus pointedly returned his attention to his plate, but the amusement in Harry’s expression lingered.

They ate in silence—comfortable silence, the kind that had settled between them over months of sharing space, of existing without the need for constant conversation.

Then, as Severus reached for his tea, Harry smirked. “Plus, I’m training to be your housewife, aren’t I?”

Severus nearly choked. Once again. This brat. 

He set his cup down firmly and narrowed his eyes. “Be very careful, Potter. I am now perfectly capable of hexing you without straining myself.”

Harry’s smirk only widened. “You wouldn’t.”

Severus arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I? My magic is stable, my spellwork precise, and I plan to spend an inordinate amount of time brewing. It would be a shame if some of those potions found their way into your meals.”

For a fraction of a second, Harry hesitated.

Then he huffed a laugh. “You wouldn’t dare. You enjoy my cooking too much.”

Severus lifted his cup again, taking a slow sip. “Hmm.”

Harry eyed him warily for a moment before shaking his head, smirking. “Go on then, if you dare.”

Severus took another sip of tea, gaze sharp with amusement.

Dare, indeed.

The days passed.

Each morning, Severus woke up feeling more like himself. His magic settled a little more, no longer unruly beneath his skin. His movements were smoother, spells more precise, exhaustion no longer creeping in as quickly.

It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was enough.

And with that return came an itch, a need to do.

For months, he had lived in this house, recovering, regaining his strength, allowing Harry to tend to him in ways he never would have tolerated before. But he was no longer an invalid, no longer a shadow of himself.

He refused to remain idle.

It was time.

So, one afternoon, after lunch, Severus set down his tea, rose from his chair, and made his way toward the one place he had refused to enter since they moved in.

The potions lab.

When they first viewed the house, it had struck him as perfect—a rare find, chosen with precision, not by chance. But he had not stepped inside since.

Back then, standing at the threshold, he had refused to hope. Refused to see what it could be, what it should be. It was not yet his to claim.

Not yet.

But now—now—

The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, the sound breaking the stillness of the corridor. A rush of cool air greeted him, untouched and undisturbed, carrying the faint scent of aged stone and dust.

He stepped inside.

The space unfolded before him—a blank canvas, waiting to be claimed.

The walls were strong, built of sturdy, charmed stone. The floors, solid and smooth, polished but unassuming. Overhead, ventilation shafts had been placed with precision, designed to pull away fumes while keeping the air clear and stable.

Severus exhaled, fingers twitching at his sides. It’s exactly what I wanted.

And yet, it was empty.

His boots echoed as he moved deeper into the room, his gaze sweeping over the unfilled shelves, the bare worktables, the vacant alcoves meant for potion storage.

No cauldrons.
No ingredients.
No scent of brewing in the air.
No sign that this room belonged to him.

Not yet.

But it would.

His hand moved instinctively to his robes, fingers brushing over worn leather. He withdrew his notebook, flipping it open with methodical ease.

Ink-stained pages greeted him—neat, efficient, painstakingly detailed.

Months of planning, of designing, of preparing for this exact moment.

He walked the perimeter, silent, focused, quill flicking across the page as he made adjustments.

Two additional workstations.
Storage units for raw ingredients—deep enough to keep temperature fluctuations to a minimum.
A secondary preparation table, slightly lower, for delicate extractions.
Runes to enhance stability, but only on the external walls—nowhere near the brewing areas.

The quill scratched against parchment, movements swift, precise, a rhythm perfected over decades of meticulous note-keeping.

He paused near the far wall, running his fingers along the bare stone. Shelving here—adjustable, not fixed. Flexibility will be key.

The quill moved again.
Adjustable shelving: necessary. Precision cooling charms—low magic interference.

He stepped toward the center of the room, tapping the notebook lightly against his palm, constructing the space in his mind, seeing it as it should be, rather than what it was now.

Not empty. Not incomplete.

His.

Severus exhaled through his nose and continued sketching, wholly absorbed.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

Didn’t register the shift in air, the subtle presence of another body moving into the room.

It wasn’t until a voice broke the silence—too close, too unexpected—that he stiffened.

"Still as perfect as the first time we saw it?"

Severus startled, head snapping up.

Harry stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the stone frame like he had been there for a while.

Severus narrowed his eyes, pulse steadying as he forced his expression into something neutral. “You’re too quiet for your own good, Potter.”

Harry smirked. “Or maybe you were too distracted to notice.”

Severus made a pointed sound of disapproval but didn’t deny it. He flicked his gaze back to the notebook, turning slightly to the side so Harry couldn’t read over his shoulder.

It was pointless, of course.

Harry, annoyingly persistent as ever, took a few steps into the room. His eyes swept over the space before landing on the notebook in Severus’s hand.

“What’s that?”

Severus ignored him, flipping the page.

Harry, undeterred, reached out and plucked the notebook from his grasp.

Severus’s eyes narrowed, irritation sparking in his chest. “Potter.”

Harry merely grinned, stepping back as he flipped the cover open. “Merlin, this thing is full*.”* His brows lifted as he skimmed the pages. “You’ve got everything mapped out already.”

Severus crossed his arms, watching as Harry’s expression shifted from mild amusement to something closer to admiration.

"You planned all of this?" Harry murmured, his fingers brushing over the inked diagrams, eyes flicking between the sketches and the empty space in the room.

Severus exhaled. "Obviously."

Harry turned a page. “Cooling systems… shelving modifications… exact storage dimensions—even ingredient classifications by volatility levels?”

Severus arched a brow. “And?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he traced a finger over the diagrams. “You’re—bloody hell, you’re really good at this.”

Severus stilled.

The words weren’t exaggerated, weren’t flippant. They were said in earnest, with genuine respect.

He hadn’t expected that.

The corner of his mouth twitched—small, imperceptible. "Of course I am."

Harry grinned. “How long did it take you to get this all down? Every measurement, every material, every minute detail—”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Are you aware that I have been a Potions Master since before you were born, Potter?”

Harry blinked, then smirked.

“... Before I was born? Really*?”*

"Mm," Severus hummed, entirely unbothered. “I received my certification a month before you graced the world with your presence.”

Harry snorted. “Merlin, that makes it sound like you had a deadline to beat.”

Severus smirked. “Yes, because my foremost concern at the time was ensuring I could brew at a mastery level before your insufferable existence disrupted my peace.”

Harry laughed. “Well, you’re welcome*, then.”*

Then, after a moment, his expression shifted—still light, but hesitant. “Did you know?” he asked, voice quieter. “About my birth, I mean.”

Severus hesitated. “There was an announcement in the paper.”

A brief silence stretched between them. Not tense, exactly, but not quite comfortable either.

Harry exhaled, fiddling with the corner of the notebook. “Did Potions Mastery teach you how to build a lab as well? Or did you learn that after? Like…” His smirk wavered, the sentence already slipping from his control. “...Maybe as a distraction…”

The silence between them thickened, teetering on the edge of discomfort. Harry’s fingers stilled on the notebook, his shoulders tensing as if realizing—too late—that he’d walked straight into something heavier than intended.

Severus let out a sharp, unexpected laugh, breaking the tension with ease. “I was not heartbroken that your mother had a child with another man, Potter.” He said, taking the notebook back. “I was disgusted that it was a Potter, sure—”

Severus smirked, flipping to a fresh page and jotting something down with quick, precise strokes. “But I was happy for her. She always wanted a family.”

Harry hesitated before asking, “Did you?”

Severus didn’t look up. “Did I what?”

“Want a family.”

For a moment, Severus only hummed, his quill scratching lightly against the parchment. Then, with an absent shrug, he replied, “Back then? Not really.”

Harry hesitated for a beat before asking, “Why not?”

Severus kept writing, his movements steady. “Many reasons,” he said simply. “One of which was that I already knew I liked men back then.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “Voldemort’s ranks weren’t the most open-minded sort, so I knew a relationship wasn’t in the cards for me.”

Harry frowned slightly. “And your parents?”

Severus scoffed quietly, still focused on his notes as he made a quick notation beside a list of measurements. “My mother didn’t care. It wouldn’t have mattered what Tobias thought.” He flicked his gaze up briefly, lips curling in something wry. “Mainly because he was dead.”

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

Severus hummed, continuing to write. “Are you done with the interrogation now, or must I suffer further distractions before I can work in peace?”

Harry ignored the bite in his tone, eyeing the notebook again. “So when did you learn how to do all this?”

“Be more specific, Potter. ‘All this’ is a frustratingly vague phrase.”

Harry gestured vaguely around them. “This. The planning, the detailed sketches. The way you’ve mapped out shelving dimensions, ventilation points, ingredient classifications—it looks like you have a solid understanding of construction too.”

Severus arched his brow. “And what, exactly, do you find so surprising about that?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just never thought about it.” He glanced around again, then back at the precise, measured notes in Severus’s book. “I mean, I renovated this house, sure, but I used magical guides for most of it. And the little fixes I learned were just—” He hesitated, fingers drumming against the workbench. “Well, you know. From living with less-than-stellar guardians.”

The words carried more weight than his usual light jabs, the air between them shifting slightly.

Severus didn’t look up right away. He didn’t speak, pausing instead, considering just how much he was willing to indulge.

His quill moved with steady precision as he finished the last stroke of a small diagram, his gaze fixed on the parchment. Only when he was satisfied did he set the quill aside, exhaling slowly.

“Same reason,” he said at last. “We didn’t have money to hire anyone. Tobias was too drunk to get around to doing anything. My mother couldn’t use magic in the house, so I learned to use tools before I ever learned wands.”

Harry’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the worktable. “That must have been… hard.”

Severus merely shrugged, as if it was hardly worth mentioning. “It was necessary.”

Harry glanced down at the notebook again, tracing the edge of the paper with his thumb. “And the drawing? You’re—really good at it.”

“It was my mother’s hobby,” Severus replied, his voice growing softer. “She mostly used it to illustrate ingredients for potion books she made for me. I copied her when I started taking my own notes.” He flicked his fingers toward the space where the notebook lay. “As I brewed more, especially with volatile or experimental ingredients, I needed to ensure I was using the correct components. Highly detailed illustrations were necessary.”

His hand moved, fingertips skimming over a rough patch on the shelf. He’d have to sand it down before sealing it properly. A minor flaw, but one that would need fixing.

Harry studied him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, after a beat, he smirked. “You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t have hobbies, you’ve got quite a few.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Skills and hobbies are not the same, Potter.” Then, he grinned slyly. “For example, my hobby these days seems to be spending your money—an activity far more fulfilling than spending time with you.”

Harry snorted, crossing his arms. “Right, and how’s that going for you?”

Severus moved away, examining the alcove. “Absolutely wonderful.”

Harry chuckled. “Glad I could bring such joy into your life.”

Severus flicked through the pages of his notebook one final time, skimming over the meticulous notes he had compiled. The supply list was extensive but efficient—stone tiles for reinforcement, high-quality wood for shelving, adjustable brackets, glass jars with airtight seals, and—

Harry, peering over his shoulder, squinted at the list. “Wait—why are there Muggle tools on here?”

Severus barely looked up, making another notation with sharp, practiced strokes. “Because they are necessary.”

Harry frowned. “But no magical tools? No levitation runes ? not even a bloody wand-powered drill?”

Severus sighed, as if the question exhausted him. “Because spellwork lingers, Potter. Runes and enchantments may be precise, but residual magic can interfere with potion reactions. If I build this lab by hand, everything will be exactly as it should be. No stray energy, no warping, no unexpected reactions.”

Harry made a face. “A drill isn’t casting spells. It’s just using magic to spin faster.”

Severus hesitated. His fingers tapped against the notebook as he considered it.

“…Fine,” he conceded, voice clipped. “A wand-powered drill is acceptable.”

Harry grinned, triumphant. “Knew you had some sense left in you.”

Severus shot him a look and flicked his quill toward the list. “Do not push your luck, Potter.”

Harry chuckled, leaning against the worktable. “Alright, so you’re getting all this together, and then what?”

Severus closed his notebook with a decisive snap. “Then I begin.”

Harry arched a brow. “When we begin, you mean.”

Severus’s expression flattened. “No. When I begin. Alone.”

Harry let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, not happening.”

Severus’s gaze narrowed. “This is my lab.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Snape, some of those shelves span the entire wall. They’re going to weigh more than you.”

Severus lifted his chin. “I am perfectly capable—”

“They’re going to weigh more than me,” Harry cut in, deadpan. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “Pick me up, and I’ll let you handle this alone.”

Severus stilled, irritation flaring at the sheer absurdity of the challenge. “That is the most ridiculous—”

“Go ahead,” Harry interrupted, far too casually. “Bridal style, since that’s what you’ll need to be doing when you get up to the top shelves.”

Severus’s jaw tightened. He could do it—of course he could—except he absolutely could not. Harry was not a stack of potion crates or a cauldron. Even before his extended recovery, his repairs had relied on levitation spells and careful adjustments, not physical strength. He had never needed it. He had never wanted to need it.

And yet, standing here, forced to acknowledge the limitations of his own body, Severus felt something bitter settle beneath his ribs.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, willing his pride into something more manageable. There was no escaping this without giving Harry exactly what he wanted—confirmation.

“Fine,” he ground out, voice clipped.

Harry blinked, clearly surprised it had been that easy. “Huh. Thought I’d have to fight you harder on that one.”

Severus sniffed. “I have learned to pick my battles.”

Harry smirked. “Mature of you.”

Severus only huffed, crossing his arms. “But only the build part. I will be setting up the room myself.”

Harry let out a sigh—dramatic, but not exasperated. “Yes, yes. You can do all the important parts.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “And you will follow all the rules. No ‘this could be better this way’ or ‘have you considered—’”

Harry clapped a hand over his chest, voice dripping with mock reverence. “Of course, your highness.”

Severus shot him a withering look, but before he could snap back, Harry grinned, tilting his head toward the door. “Shall we check out the greenhouse now?”

Severus hesitated for half a second, still lingering on the earlier exchange, still chafing against the knowledge that he had conceded without much of a fight. It felt—incomplete. A loss without the satisfaction of battle.

With a huff, he turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the door.

Harry followed, and Severus could feel his gaze—steady, assessing, unbothered. He was used to Harry’s endless pushback, used to their constant tug-of-war, but this? Harry watching him, not with amusement, not with triumph, but with something quieter—

Infuriating.

Severus clenched his jaw, quickening his pace. Let the insufferable brat follow. He had a greenhouse to inspect.

As they stepped outside, Severus felt the weight of the previous conversation settle into something restless. He still bristled at the idea of needing assistance, at the quiet way Harry had looked at him—assessing but not unkind. It left something unsettled beneath his skin, a prickle of frustration he wasn’t quite ready to name.

The greenhouse loomed ahead, untouched since they had moved in. He had kept it that way for a reason.

Severus reached the door first, brushing his fingers over the metal handle before pushing it open.

The greenhouse was old, but its structure was solid. The glass panes, though streaked with dirt, remained mostly intact. The wooden workbenches, despite years of disuse, were still sturdy.

It was salvageable.

It was his to salvage.

Behind him, Harry stepped in and surveyed the space with an exaggerated breath. “Wow,” he muttered. “This is… definitely a project.”

Severus hummed, stepping further inside. He trailed his fingers along the wooden worktable, testing its sturdiness. It would need reinforcement, but it would hold. The planters would have to be emptied, the soil replaced, the ventilation adjusted—

“So,” Harry said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the frame of the door. “Are you planning to do this mostly alone as well?”

Severus didn’t look up. “Of course.”

Harry sighed, already looking like he regretted asking. “Fine. Just—promise me you won’t strain yourself?”

Severus rolled his eyes, already annoyed. “Do you expect me to break if I so much as lift a potted plant?”

Harry crossed his arms. “I expect you to underestimate how heavy quality pots full of soil can be. Which, knowing you, is exactly the kind you’ll insist on.”

Severus exhaled sharply, caught between irritation and begrudging acknowledgment. He would want the best. And, admittedly, Harry had a point.

There was a silence. Severus tried not to let his feelings of inadequacy ruin this—this new thing. This space he was reclaiming, this work he was doing with his own hands.

Then, after a beat, Harry spoke, his voice lighter, a small smile playing at his lips. “Look, just think of me as... a sentient levitation spell! You’re still doing all the work; I’m just here to hold and fetch things for you.”

Severus let out a short laugh before he could stop himself, the unexpected phrasing catching him off guard. He raised a brow. “A sentient spell, Potter? Not even an assistant?”

Harry grinned, nodding. “A sentient spell. No comments about the project, I promise. It’ll be exactly as you want it. It’s yours.” His smirk softened just slightly. “Just about your health.”

Severus rolled his eyes. Stupid Potter. And his stupid ability to placate him so easily. And his stupid, stubborn care for him.

“If you’re going to stand there prattling on, you might as well be useful,” he said, already turning away. “Sort through anything broken. Be careful.”

Harry, still smirking, gave a mock salute before moving to one of the abandoned shelves.

For a while, they worked in silence. Severus cataloged what could be salvaged, what needed replacing, and what modifications would be required. His quill scratched across parchment as he sketched out the garden layout, making precise notes on spacing, soil composition, and irrigation.

Every now and then, Harry would call out when he found something completely unsalvageable, and Severus would either nod in approval or scowl at the waste.

Eventually, after nearly an hour of combing through items in the greenhouse, Severus perched on a stool, hunched slightly over the worktable as he finalized the last details of his sketch. His quill moved with precise strokes, each line deliberate as he mapped out the garden’s layout with practiced ease.

Harry came up behind him, one hand bracing against the table beside Severus’s notebook, the other landing casually on his shoulder as he leaned in to peer at the pages. “I always assumed you weren’t the gardening type.”

Severus didn’t startle, but he did pause for a fraction of a second before turning slightly, casting Harry a flat look. “And what, exactly, gave you that foolish impression?”

Harry shrugged, shifting his weight, his fingers flexing slightly against Severus’s shoulder as he settled more comfortably behind him. “You never mentioned it,” he said, voice casual. “And you’re more… indoor-suited.”

Severus scoffed, resuming his sketch. “Contrary to popular rumors, I am not a vampire, Potter.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “You are alarmingly pale.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I enjoy it,” he admitted. “I always have.”

Harry didn’t move away. His hand remained where it was, warm and steady against Severus’s shoulder, his thumb brushing idly along the fabric of his sleeve. Severus ignored it, keeping his attention on his notes.

“I used to keep a garden with my mother,” Severus continued, his voice quieter now. “It wasn’t much, but we tended to it every summer.” His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the parchment, a rhythm almost absentminded. “She had a talent for it. Knew the properties of every herb, every root. What thrived together, what didn’t. We didn’t have much, but our garden was always full.”

Harry shifted slightly, leaning in a fraction more, his arm pressing lightly against Severus’s as he glanced down at the sketches in the notebook. “And you carried that with you.”

Severus inclined his head slightly. “Of course. A properly cultivated garden produces stronger ingredients, more potent properties. It is a foundation of brewing.”

Harry tilted his head. “And what about non-potion plants?”

Severus flicked him a knowing look. “You mean flowers and vegetables?”

Harry smirked. “Yeah. A garden for the sake of having one.”

Severus’s lips twitched, his gaze flickering to the wild overgrowth beyond the greenhouse windows. “A well-maintained garden is an extension of its keeper. Order within chaos.”

Harry was silent for a moment before shaking his head, something almost amused in his expression. “I’m learning a lot about your mum today.”

Severus let out a low chuckle. “She was a woman worth knowing—despite her faults.”

Harry made a sound of agreement, his weight shifting slightly. His fingers, still resting against Severus’s shoulder, curled briefly before relaxing again, the touch lingering but not intrusive. Neither of them moved away.

Then, just as Harry tilted his head to glance at him, he smirked. “But seriously? I’m going to see Severus Snape outside, in the sun, voluntarily planting things? And doing construction projects?”

Severus, still staring at his notebook, let the moment stretch just long enough before his smirk turned downright wicked. He angled slightly toward Harry, voice dropping into a smooth, deliberate drawl.

“Well, since you have so enthusiastically taken up the role of housewife, it only makes sense that such responsibilities fall to me.”

Harry stiffened, then choked—so violently and suddenly that his grip tightened on Severus’s shoulder before he yanked his hand back as if burned. “That is not—I did not—Severus!”

Severus merely laughed and got up, rolling up his sketches and stepping away. “Come along, dear.”

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face, still visibly red. “I hate you.”

Severus hummed, thoroughly pleased with himself. “No, you don’t.”

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the sitting room. The weight of the day sat heavy in Severus’s limbs—not the draining fatigue of war or forced obligations, but something earned. A labor that, for once, had been entirely his own.

They had spent hours reclaiming spaces that had once been empty, making them something more. The lab, the greenhouse—the reclamation of things that had once been his, or could be his, if he reached for them. It had been exhausting, but in a way that felt grounding. Necessary.

And now, after a proper meal, he sat here, wine in hand, in a house that had begun to feel less like a place he occupied and more like…

He didn’t finish the thought.

Across from him, Harry sat with his own glass, fingers tracing idly along the rim. His face was thoughtful, gaze flickering in the firelight, and for a moment, Severus debated whether he should leave the silence as it was.

Instead, he spoke.

“You’ve given me so much,” Severus murmured, swirling the wine in his glass. “And yet, I’ve never asked why.”

Harry blinked, drawn from his thoughts. His lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard by the question. Then, after a beat, he exhaled, shoulders shifting with the weight of something unseen.

“I just needed to prove myself,” he admitted quietly.

Severus stilled, his fingers curling just slightly around his glass.

Harry let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it drop. “At first… you weren’t really you to me.”His gaze dropped to the fire, flickering across the flames as though the words were easier to find there. “I died, you know.”

Severus frowned, looking up sharply.

Harry gave a small, almost humorless smile. “I had to let him kill me. That part was true. The first Avada got me—I was in King’s Cross, talking to Dumbledore.” He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Then, I had a choice. To come back. And I did. Whole. Undamaged, physically, at least.”

Severus wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing.

Harry took another sip of wine before continuing. “Once I killed him, everyone was cheering. But I felt… numb. Like a living corpse. Fractured inside. Robbed of something I couldn’t name.” His jaw clenched slightly. “It felt suffocating.”

His fingers tapped against the wood, grounding himself.

“Then I remembered you.” He exhaled. “And I ran back to get you. When I saw you… it was physical—that emptiness. You were still, torn apart, emptied, and I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought, this is what I feel like, except on the inside.”

Severus swallowed thickly.

“I was alive then?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.” Harry exhaled, leaning back against the chair. “Barely. Your breathing was shallow, heartbeat so slow I was afraid it’d stop. I couldn’t feel your magic signature.” His fingers tightened around his glass. “I took you to the infirmary. And they—” He hesitated, as if unsure how much to say.

Severus had already guessed. His jaw locked. “They didn’t want to help?”

Harry gave a tight nod.

A sharp pain went through Severus—not the physical kind, but something colder, deeper.

Seventeen years. Seventeen years of standing beside them—Minerva, Poppy, Filius—people he had fought for, bled for. They had been more than colleagues; they had been the only sense of camaraderie he had allowed himself. He had saved their students, their school, their very lives more times than he could count. He had trusted them, in his own bitter, quiet way. And yet, when the war had ended, when he had been left clinging to life by a thread, it had been Potter—the boy he had spent seven years trying to break—who had been the only one to fight for him.

He inhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“Go on,” Severus said after a moment.

Harry hesitated but continued. “That’s when we found out about your core. I was… I was confused how it could even happen. You were in critical condition for over a month.” He let out a slow, shaky breath. “The first week, I tried to celebrate. Tried to pretend like I wasn’t… like I wasn’t fractured. But it was wrong. So I left. I came back.” He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Then it was like—I even forgot your name.”

Severus frowned. “What do you mean?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I mean I stopped thinking of you as Severus Snape. I stopped thinking of you as a person at all.” He turned his glass in his hands, staring into the fire. “I raised hell. Demanded the best care Hogwarts could provide. Brought in doctors from St. Mungo’s in secret. Hermione and I researched for weeks. Then she left for Australia, and I—” He stopped.

He exhaled, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I let go of my morality.”

Severus went still. “What does that mean?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I started looking into the Dark Arts.”

Severus’s brows lifted, caught between shock and something unreadable.

“The Restricted Section first,” Harry continued, voice measured, distant. “Then the Black library. Then Malfoy Manor.” He let out a short breath. “I helped Narcissa and Draco escape and then tore the place apart. And when I finally found it, Riddle’s notes were detailed—too detailed. He’d already mapped out the damage. He’d known what would happen.”

Severus clenched his jaw.

“I spent three and a half months reading everything I could find,” Harry admitted. “And then… then you woke up.”

Severus exhaled, slow and measured, watching him. “And then?”

“That first week…” Harry hesitated. “I still hadn’t—hadn’t started thinking of you as a person yet. That’s why I took you without asking. Made decisions without explanation.”

Severus expected the flare of anger. The resentment. But surprisingly, it didn’t come.

Instead, something settled inside him. Hadn’t he done the same? Spent his entire life making decisions for others, assuming he knew what was best?

“Then when did you start?” Severus asked, his voice quieter than before.

Harry swallowed. “Not then. Not for a while.” His fingers curled slightly. “After Lucius’s ritual, those two months were their own kind of hell. The magic was unstable. Your fever was high. You wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep for more than two or three hours at a time.” He let out a shaky breath. “Then… you started talking.”

Humiliation burned through Severus.

“All the—” Harry exhaled, voice tight. “All the apologies you made. All the nightmares you relived. It felt personal.” His grip tightened. “And I—I already hated my father before that, but Merlin—I wanted to personally kill all four of them again.”

Severus’s reaction was visceral, his grip tightening around the glass.

“…And Dumbledore?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Harry let out a quiet huff. “Oh, he had a place on the list. Believe me… Even my mom... at some point.”

Severus inhaled slowly.

For all the ways Harry had softened in recent months, for all the ways he had learned to step back, to let Severus be—this admission felt like a glimpse into the raw, untempered version of him.

It was, in some ways, uncomfortably familiar.

And yet, somehow, in the quiet flickering of the firelight, the weight of it all seemed just a little less heavy.

It took a few days for the materials to arrive.

Severus, ever the perfectionist, had scrutinized every delivery, ensuring nothing subpar had slipped through. He had selected the suppliers with care, and when the last crate was accounted for, he wasted no time.

Now, in the hush of early morning, he stood in the newly cleared potion lab, sleeves rolled up, fingers skimming over stacks of wooden planks and crates of stone tiles. The air was crisp, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. It was the best time to work—before the day grew too warm, before Harry inevitably woke and started hovering.

He let out a slow breath and stepped back, glancing down at the list in his hand. Each item meticulously checked, each delivery accounted for. The shelving brackets were sturdy. The workbench wood was thick, properly sanded. Everything was exactly as he had specified.

Severus moved toward the nearest worktable, where his notebook lay open. Ink-stained pages filled with precise calculations and diagrams greeted him. He scanned the sketches, fingers tapping idly as he considered a minor adjustment to the placement of the preparation counters. The dimensions were correct, but shifting them slightly might improve accessibility.

He had just reached for his quill when the unmistakable creak of footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Harry’s voice followed before he appeared. “You’re down here without breakfast, potions, or your assistant? Are you trying to make me hunt you down every morning?”

Severus sighed but did not look up. “ Sentient levitation spell, Potter. not an assistant”

Harry stepped into the doorway, looking entirely too put together for someone who had clearly just rolled out of bed. His hair was its usual disaster, but there was an alertness in his gaze that suggested purpose. He carried a tray with two cups of tea, a plate of toast, and—of course—potion vials.

Without hesitation, he set the tray down on the nearest workbench, scanning the room before narrowing his gaze at Severus. “You know the rules. Potions first. Breakfast second. And then you can obsess over measurements and shelving units.”

Severus rolled his eyes, flipping a page in his notebook. “I am merely ensuring that the delivered items match my specifications. I am not doing anything heavy or unsafe, Potter. If you’re here to harass me over my well-being, kindly save your breath.”

Harry snorted, arms crossing. “Oh, harassing you would require significantly more effort than simply stating the obvious.” He nudged the potion vials toward Severus. “Drink. Humor me.”

Severus huffed but did not argue. He plucked one of the vials off the tray, flicked the cork off with an efficient motion, and downed the contents in one go.

Harry nodded approvingly before handing him a cup of tea and nudging the plate of toast forward. “There. Now I won’t hover.”

Severus sipped his tea, glancing at Harry over the rim of the cup. “Yet.”

Harry smirked but didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flickered over Severus, lingering before shifting into something amused. “But more importantly—what exactly are you wearing?”

Severus frowned, lowering his cup. He had thrown on a plain black T-shirt and a pair of worn, dark jeans—Muggle clothes he had not touched in years. Practical for manual labor, but unfamiliar.

Harry’s grin widened. “Merlin, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything other than layers and misery.”

“If you intend to be insufferable, take your tea and leave.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Harry grinned, stretching, his shirt riding up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. “Now that I’ve seen this, I have to stay. It’s my duty.”

Severus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Your immaturity remains staggering.”

“And yet, here I am, helping you despite it.”

Severus didn’t argue—not when the ache in his arms was already making itself known. He could handle the smaller fixtures, the careful measurements, but lifting entire beams was another matter.

Harry didn’t wait for permission. He picked up one of the longer wooden planks, testing its weight before carrying it toward the marked wall. He moved easily, as if the effort was nothing.

Severus watched him, lips pressing into a thin line.

It was… irritating.

Not just the ease with which Harry handled the labor, but the fact that Severus had expected him to help. That Harry being here, assisting, working beside him—it had become second nature.

And, most frustratingly, that meant Severus had to acknowledge it.

He cleared his throat and turned back to his notes, pretending to be too absorbed in his calculations to care.

Harry, perceptive as ever, smirked slightly as he set down the plank. “So,” he said, dusting off his hands, “when does the actual building start?”

“Now that I have proper materials, I can begin assembling the framework today,” Severus said, setting his empty cup aside. “If you insist on loitering, make yourself useful and clear those crates.”

Harry hummed, walking toward the remaining stack of deliveries. Instead of immediately working, he came up behind Severus, peering over his shoulder at the notes. His hand landed casually on Severus’s back as he leaned in, fingers pressing lightly between his shoulder blades as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Severus did not react.

Not outwardly.

But he felt it.

The warmth of Harry’s hand through his thin shirt. The casual weight of it, more grounding than intrusive.

It was the same way Harry had stood beside him when they had planned this out—steady, close, the space between them familiar rather than invasive.

“Let me see,” Harry murmured, eyes scanning the pages. “You mapped out every bracket and measurement already, didn’t you?”

Severus huffed, flicking a sharp glance toward him. “Of course I did. Do you take me for someone who works without a plan?”

Harry grinned, his fingers tapping lightly against Severus’s back before he pulled away to grab a crate. “Not at all. Just admiring the sheer dedication of it.”

Severus exhaled, rolling up his sleeves a little further. “Get to work, Potter.”

Harry chuckled but complied, moving to clear the space.

And so, together, in the quiet morning light, they began.

Over the next two weeks , the sounds of hammering, shifting wood, and the occasional curse filled the potion lab daily. Severus had designed every detail meticulously, ensuring that each shelf was reinforced, each counter properly measured, and every station arranged for optimal efficiency.

Harry, despite his usual reckless tendencies, had proven to be a capable assistant. He followed instructions well enough and—annoyingly—seemed to enjoy the process.

Severus, of course, refused to acknowledge how easy it had become to work alongside him.

Their old routines had settled into new ones.

Severus preferred the mornings. He was awake by four without fail, preparing for the day's work before the sun had even risen. He spent the first hours of the day adjusting sketches, checking supplies, and marking off what had been completed.

Harry, predictably, worked best in the evenings, staying up to finish organizing materials and preparing the heavier things for the next day. It made sense , then, that while Harry handled breakfast and lunch, Severus had started making dinner.

It had not been a discussion.

It had simply happened.

And, more unsettlingly—Severus found he liked it.

The ease of meals appearing without question. The quiet understanding that dinner would be ready when Harry finally emerged from the lab. The unspoken balance of their schedules.

It should have been strange.

But it wasn’t.

By the third day, Harry had made his opinion very clear.

“You are not lifting that,” Harry had said flatly, plucking the wooden beam from Severus’s grip like it weighed nothing.

Severus had scowled. “I am more than capable—”

“Nope,” Harry cut in, already stacking the piece into place. “Remember your sentient levitation spell. Just point, and I’ll move it. That’s the deal.”

Severus had exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “You are absurd.”

“Efficient,” Harry corrected smugly, flexing his fingers as if to demonstrate. “And much stronger than you, before you argue. So stop pretending you need to do the heavy lifting. That’s my job.”

By the fourth day, Severus stopped bothering to fight him.

It was annoying, of course, how easily Harry moved the heavier planks, how effortlessly he adjusted and secured things into place. But—fine. If Harry insisted on shouldering the bulk of the labor, Severus would simply focus on what he did best.

And if he happened to watch Harry work more often than necessary… well.

That was justifiable.

It was difficult not to look.

The way Harry’s muscles flexed when he lifted something particularly heavy. The way sweat lined his collarbones, soaking into his shirt, making it cling to his back. The way he rolled his shoulders between tasks, stretching in a way that was infuriatingly distracting.

Severus told himself it was practical observation.

(He was lying.)

By the fifth day, their movements had settled into an easy rhythm.

Severus marked measurements while Harry cut planks to size. Harry held beams in place while Severus secured them. Their interactions became fluid, automatic—small gestures of trust formed over time.

A hand on Severus’s back as Harry steadied him while he adjusted an upper shelf. A casual brush of fingers when passing tools. A brief moment where their shoulders bumped as they worked side by side at the worktable.

He always knew Harry had no concept of personal space.

He did not know, however, why his was changing as well.

On the weekend, after cooking and putting the dishes away, Severus found himself sitting in a chair—silent, tense, and, to his horror, fighting the threat of a blush.

He had been flexing his fingers absently the evening before, rolling his wrists to ease the stiffness after a day of fine-tuned adjustments and careful alignments.

The ache was mild. Manageable. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

But Harry noticed.

Before Severus could protest, before he could even anticipate the audacity—Harry had simply taken his hands.

Severus had frozen.

The touch was firm, deliberate—Harry’s thumbs pressing slow, steady circles into the aching muscles of Severus’s palm, his grip sure and practiced. The heat of it seeped into Severus’s skin, grounding, steadying.

"You’re straining too much," Harry muttered, kneading along Severus’s palm. "You’re letting yourself get stiff before stretching properly."

Severus scoffed—more from habit than anything else—but he did not pull away.

And Harry—Harry worked with easy confidence, pressing into the tension with a familiarity that should have been irritating. Should have made Severus bristle, made him retreat.

But the slow, precise motions of Harry’s fingers against his skin sent something unfamiliar curling in his stomach.

By the time Harry let go, Severus had to resist the urge to flex his hand, to stretch and chase the feeling.

But he didn’t have to.

Because the next day, Harry did it again.

And then—because Harry had no sense of boundaries whatsoever—he started on Severus’s arms.

Then his shoulders.

And, Merlin help him—his feet.

"Potter," Severus gritted out the first time Harry grabbed his ankle, "if you—touch—"

Harry arched a brow, utterly unfazed. "If I what? Give you the best massage of your life?"

Severus glared.

Harry smirked—and did it anyway.

Severus should hex him.

Should sneer, make a cutting remark—something.

But the slow press of Harry’s thumbs against his arch melted every insult from his tongue.

He relaxed.

Like a fool.

The attraction between them grew n leaps and bounds  in these days.

Before this, both of them had known. But perhaps they had both been hesitant—content to leave it unspoken, to let it linger in the quiet spaces between them.

Severus could not ignore it any longer .

It was in the way Harry’s gaze lingered when he thought Severus wasn’t paying attention. The way his smirks had softened into something less teasing, more considering. The way his casual touches—brushing hands when passing tools, steadying Severus when he misstepped—felt increasingly deliberate.

And after that incident—after Severus had sat there, frozen and speechless as Potter had gripped his ankle like it was the most natural thing in the world—Harry had grown bolder.

It had begun in small ways.

On the ninth day, Severus had been struggling to keep one of the support beams steady. His grip was firm, but his muscles ached from the effort.

Without a word, Harry stepped in behind him.

One hand braced the beam. The other settled against Severus’s waist.

Not a fleeting touch. Not a brief graze.

A firm, steadying hand, his fingers curling slightly as he shifted Severus just enough to take some of the weight.

Severus should have shrugged him off.

Instead, he exhaled.

Let him.

They said nothing of it.

But something shifted.

The next time Severus found himself adjusting a shelf, Harry didn’t wait for him to struggle—he simply reached out and nudged him into place, hands pressing lightly against his hips to shift him out of the way before taking over.

It wasn’t just assistance anymore.

It was casual. Natural.

Unthinking.

Harry no longer hesitated before touching him.

And, worse—Severus had stopped hesitating too.

By the tenth day, Severus had grown too aware of it. 

Of the way Harry leaned just a little closer than necessary when checking their measurements.

Of the way Harry’s breath hit the back of his neck when he murmured something about spacing, his voice low, familiar.

Of the way Severus’s own body betrayed him, leaning into the steady warmth of Harry’s presence when he stood too close.

Counting and filing every little touch like a teenage girl with crush. 

Like when he reached for a tool, knowing Harry’s fingers would brush against his before he pulled back.

Like when he let himself step slightly into Harry’s space rather than moving away.

Like when he realized, to his absolute horror, that he had started seeking out the contact himself.

Not obviously.

Not intentionally.

But—

When he bent over the worktable, he was suddenly more aware of where Harry stood, shifting just enough that their shoulders pressed together.

When Harry steadied something with a hand against Severus’s back, he found himself pausing just a second longer than necessary before stepping away.

When he reached past Harry for a tool, he didn’t rush to pull his hand back—he let their fingers graze, as if by accident.

And, most damning of all—

Harry noticed.

By the twelfth day, their touches were no longer accidental.

Harry had started using them to make a point.

A steadying hand on Severus’s lower back whenever he leaned too far.

A guiding press of fingers against Severus’s arm when maneuvering around the worktable.

A quick, unapologetic grip on Severus’s hips when he needed to move him aside.

There was no hesitation.

No second-guessing.

Harry touched Severus whenever he pleased—like it was his right.

And Severus, despite himself, let him.

The worst moment came when they both reached for the same bracket.

Severus had expected another fleeting touch—expected Harry to smirk, to make some insufferable quip about their hands meeting.

Instead—

Harry caught Severus’s wrist.

Didn’t let go.

For a fraction of a second, his thumb brushed across the inside of Severus’s wrist—gentle, considering.

It was a touch that had nothing to do with their work.

A touch that lingered.

Severus’s pulse jumped.

Harry let go with a smirk—but Severus saw the flicker of something in his eyes before he did.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

But Severus felt it.

A slow, tangible shift.

Something inevitable.

Something neither of them were naming.

Not yet.

But it wasn’t just the touches.

It was Severus himself.

At first, it had been easy to dismiss.

An extra moment spent fixing his hair in the mirror—an entirely reasonable habit.

Choosing finer robes instead of the worn, practical ones—because presentation mattered, of course.

Ensuring his glasses were on, even when his vision wasn’t straining—because that was simply good sense.

But then—

It was brushing his hair before dinner, when before he had never cared.

It was putting on the expensive robes Harry had gifted him, the ones that had sat untouched in his wardrobe for months.

It had become a routine. A quiet, unspoken shift.

And worse still—Harry noticed.

Severus knew he noticed.

He noticed the way Harry’s gaze lingered longer in the evenings. The way his eyes flickered across him, a slight, appreciative shift before he turned away.

The way Harry noticed the thinner, softer sleepwear. The new glasses. The loose hair.

The way he smiled, almost to himself, whenever Severus sat across from him at the table.

Severus hated how much he was aware of it.

How much he was letting it happen.

But then—he started noticing Harry.

He told himself he had always been observant. He told himself it was merely the nature of his mind, trained for detail, sharp and meticulous.

And yet—

His eyes strayed more often now.

The way Harry rolled his sleeves up when they worked outside, forearms taut, dust smudged against his skin. The way he pushed his hair back absentmindedly, eyes narrowing in focus. The way his shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, muscles shifting beneath it when he moved.

It was infuriating.

Worse—Harry knew it.

He knew when Severus’s gaze lingered.

And he made no effort to stop it.

No, neither of them did.

Once they finished the lab, they simply moved on to the greenhouse a few days before the end of June.

They had initially planned to rip everything out—clear the space entirely and start fresh. But within the first afternoon, as Harry was tugging at a stubborn vine wrapped around the base of an old planter, he paused.

"Severus," he called, brushing dirt from his hands. "Come look at this."

Severus had expected another tangled mess of roots, another weed that required precision to extract. But as he stepped closer, his gaze landed on the cluster of dull, pale leaves nestled beneath the overgrowth. His breath hitched.

It was Valerian.

Fully matured. Healthy despite years of neglect.

Severus crouched, fingers ghosting over the soft, feathery leaves, eyes narrowing as he traced the distinct serrated edges. The root system beneath would be thick and potent, likely enhanced by the surrounding plants leeching weaker nutrients from the soil.

"How the hell is this still alive?" Harry asked, nudging aside a rotted wooden beam.

Severus let out a slow breath. "Valerian is a delicate ingredient, Potter. It should not be surviving in conditions like this—not alongside plants that are far more aggressive in their nutrient absorption."

Harry frowned. "So, what? Some of the overgrowth is actually protecting it?"

Severus inclined his head, already cataloging the implications. "It appears so." His fingers moved to the surrounding foliage, cataloging each plant mentally. "These are all highly resistant flora, capable of balancing unstable soil conditions. They're acting as a natural barrier—shielding the Valerian from being overrun."

Harry let out a low whistle. "So instead of clearing everything, we need to sort through it?"

Severus hummed in agreement. "If there is Valerian, there may be others."

Harry grinned. "Good thing you’ve got an assistant, then."

"I thought you were a sentient levitation spell?"

"I was. I decided to promote myself," Harry said smugly, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Levitation spells can’t recognize potion ingredients."

Severus rolled his eyes and chuckled—just a little—but did not argue.

And so, rather than tearing the greenhouse apart, they worked together—Harry clearing debris, uprooting plants, and bringing them to Severus one by one.

It was an extension of the lab renovation—Harry hovering, teasing, looking smug, and most importantly, looking stupidly fit.

Then somewhere along the way, the closeness spilled out of work into their usual routine.

Harry no longer sat across from him, maintaining some respectable distance as they sorted through texts on soil composition and rare bezoar classifications.

Instead, he sat beside Severus, their arms brushing as they poured over the worn pages together.

Severus told himself it was simply for convenience. That having their books open side by side made sense.

But he did not comment when Harry slouched just enough to press their legs together beneath the table.

Did not react when Harry leaned over him, resting his chin on his hand as he peered at Severus’s notes.

And, worst of all, he did not stop him when Harry’s fingers drifted.

At first, it had been minor—fixing a wrinkle in Severus’s sleeve, smoothing the collar of his shirt absently as they worked.

But then it was more.

Running a hand through Severus’s hair, barely ruffling it before resuming whatever he was reading.

Straightening the hem of Severus’s robe with a casual flick of his wrist.

Placing a hand on Severus’s thigh—just briefly—when reaching for a book.

Harry continued his massages, pressing his fingers into Severus’s shoulders after long hours bent over their work, trailing them down his arms as if assessing the tension before kneading it away.

He liked to crowd Severus in the kitchen too, standing just behind him, close enough that Severus could feel the warmth of his breath as he peered over his shoulder to inspect whatever was simmering in the cauldron or roasting in the oven.

Severus should have been annoyed.

Should have scowled, pulled away, told him to stop.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Despite what Harry thought, he was just a man, at the mercy of his nature.

And nature, it seemed, had decided to conspire against him only a few days later.

The summer heat had been growing unbearable, pressing thick against their skin, making the air inside the greenhouse stifling despite the open windows.

Severus had long since abandoned his usual layers, reducing himself to rolled-up sleeves and an unfastened collar. It was not enough.

Then Harry—of course—decided to be insufferable about it.

Severus heard the soft rustle of fabric before he saw it.

A discarded shirt.

Bare skin.

Harry, standing in the sunlight filtering through the greenhouse roof, sweat-slicked and utterly unbothered.

Severus did not react.

He did not let his gaze drag over the broad lines of Harry’s shoulders, the lean definition of his torso, the way the golden light caught the sheen of sweat along his collarbone.

Except—

He did.

Harry noticed.

And, because Harry was Harry, he smirked.

Severus clenched his jaw. "Put your damned shirt back on, Potter."

Harry stretched, rolling his shoulders like some insufferable cat. "Too hot."

"Then go inside."

"Mm, no. I like it here."

Severus rolled his eyes. Of course, he does.

Harry laughed, easy and unbothered. "Well, you know us Gryffindors—big fans of the sun, us."

Severus hummed as he looked away.

Well. Tried to.

His stupid eyes kept betraying him—catching on the way the sunlight glowed golden over Harry’s skin, the sharp cut of his collarbone, the shift of muscles as he stretched, arms flexing in an utterly unnecessary display.

One more glance. One more flex. One more—fuck.

He was not doing this.

Not here. Not in the middle of the damn greenhouse while Harry stood there, bare-chested and smirking, smug and entirely too self-satisfied in his knowledge that Severus was looking.

Severus inhaled slowly, pointedly turning back to his notes, gripping his quill like it was his last line of defense against absolute and total humiliation.

Harry, of course, was not merciful.

"You know, Severus," Harry said, voice too casual, too pleased with himself as he walked over.

Severus stiffened as Harry planted a hand on the table beside him, leaning in. Close.

Far too close.

"There’s nothing wrong with admiring your housewife," Harry murmured, mischief curling at the edges of his smirk.

Severus froze.

The quill in his fingers stilled mid-stroke as heat crawled up his spine, flooding his face, burning at the tips of his ears. A slow, wretched flush spread across his cheeks—light, barely-there, but undeniable.

He turned to glare at Harry, ready to eviscerate him, only to find him right there—close enough to see the tiny mole just beneath his lip. Close enough that Severus could feel the warmth radiating off his sun-kissed skin, smell the faint trace of sweat and soil clinging to him.

Close enough to—

No.

Absolutely not.

"Accio bucket," Severus snapped.

The bucket of cold water shot toward him, and without hesitation, he dumped it over Harry’s head.

There was a yelp, a flurry of wet limbs as Harry stumbled back, spluttering in shock.

Severus, satisfied, tossed his quill onto the table and turned briskly on his heel, heading for the greenhouse exit.

Behind him, he could hear Harry wheezing, laughter bubbling between shivers.

Chapter Text

📍 Month 15 (July 1999)

A few days after dousing Harry with cold water, they had finally decided to take a break from the greenhouse renovations. It was the first Saturday of the month, which meant Harry was off doing whatever it was he did on the rare occasions he wasn’t breaking into Azkaban.

Which—now that Severus thought about it—he probably was.

Severus hummed thoughtfully as he walked back toward the house. He had taken a stroll after his late lunch, enjoying the quiet now that their project was temporarily halted. With the greenhouse on pause, Severus had decided to explore the property—especially after his discovery of Valerian and multiple other previously overlooked potion ingredients.

The enchanted forest bordering their land had been particularly fruitful. He had found several highly expensive potion ingredients flourishing within its depths, some so rare he would have paid a fortune to acquire them otherwise. A successful trip.

Now, carrying cuttings of his newfound treasures, he stepped into the house, pleased.

He heard movement from the kitchen—the distinct shuffle of someone moving about.

Severus arched a brow and headed toward the noise.

"Potter, look what—"

He stilled.

The air was different.

Magic.

Not just magic—Harry’s magic.

It thickened the room, coiled tight, humming with an energy that hadn’t been there before.

Harry stood there, arms crossed, his stance deceptively relaxed. His expression was carefully controlled—toocontrolled.

"Where the hell were you?"

The words weren’t shouted, weren’t bitten out in anger.

But they were sharp. Too sharp.

It was the kind of restraint Severus recognized.

The kind that came before something snapped.

Severus exhaled slowly, removing his outer cloak with deliberate ease. "On a walk. On our property. I went to see if we could find more—"

Harry’s jaw tightened. "Alone?"

Severus arched a brow. "You personally warded the entire area."

Harry took a sharp breath, his fingers curling into his palms. "And if something had happened? If you—"

He stopped.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "If I what, Potter?"

Harry’s jaw flexed, his gaze flickering—something unspoken, something he swallowed back before shaking his head, forcing his tone flat. "Never mind." Then he stepped forward, reached out, and without preamble, gripped Severus’s forearm.

Before Severus could react, Harry tugged up his sleeve, exposing the runes on his skin.

Magic flared.

A rush of warmth surged through Severus’s veins—steady, potent, filling the lingering cracks in his magical core.

Severus remained still, absorbing the flow, the transfer. But something about the process was different. It wasn’t just the ritual. Harry was different.

His magic wasn’t calm. It was sharper, tighter, pressing into Severus’s skin like a barely leashed current.

The process ended. But Harry didn’t step back.

His breathing was slow, deliberate. His hands were still clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white from the force of it.

Finally, he exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I went to visit Ron and Hermione today."

Severus remained silent, waiting.

Harry swallowed. "And apparently, certain officials have decided now is a great time to smear your name while the press is still focused on the trials." His lips curled slightly, but there was no humor in it. "They’re calling it ‘justice.’"

Severus inhaled deeply through his nose. "Typical."

"Yeah, well." Harry let out a breath, his voice rough with barely contained anger. "I’m handling it."

Severus frowned. "You are not wasting time—"

"Yes, I am," Harry interrupted, voice like steel. "I’m intercepting records. Confessions. I’ve been interrogating captured Death Eaters, using their testimonies against the people trying to twist this."

Severus studied him carefully. "This is why you’re on edge."

Harry’s shoulders remained taut, his magic still pressing outward like a caged beast. "You’re a target, Severus. And I won’t let them make you one again."

Severus held his gaze.

The exhaustion hidden beneath the fury. The way Harry’s hands trembled slightly, the way his whole body braced.

It wasn’t just anger.

It was fear.

Not for himself.

For Severus.

Something in Severus’s chest tightened.

He let out a slow breath. "Forget it for now, Potter."

Harry’s jaw flexed, as though physically biting back words. "Severus—"

"You have other things to concern yourself with," Severus continued, voice quieter but firm. "My potions lab still needs supplies. The greenhouse needs restoration. And you have your own life to deal with."

Harry’s breath hitched.

For a moment, he just looked at Severus.

Like he was trying to decide.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he wanted to—

But then—slowly—his shoulders eased.

Not entirely.

Not fully.

But enough.

Harry exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Alright."

The storm broke.

His magic settled. The pressure in the air lifted, no longer crackling, no longer pressing against Severus’s skin like static.

Severus sighed, moving past Harry and into the sitting room. He poured himself a drink and sat, opening the book he had left earlier.

Harry didn’t move right away, still lingering where he stood.

Then, after a long pause, he followed, dragging a chair out across from Severus and sitting heavily.

A comfortable silence settled between them. The occasional scratch of Harry’s quill against parchment, the rustle of Severus turning a page, the soft clink of ice shifting in his glass.

It was almost peaceful.

Until Severus, suddenly remembering something, spoke again.

"What are you doing for your birthday?"

Harry’s quill stopped mid-stroke.

Severus glanced up. "Since you visited your friends, you must have made plans."

Harry hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Yeah."

Severus arched a brow. "And?"

Harry sighed, setting his quill down and leaning back in his chair. "The Weasleys invited me for dinner."

Severus nodded. "What time?"

"I won’t go," Harry muttered.

Severus frowned. "Why not?"

Harry glanced away, his fingers tapping absently against the table. "Because you can’t go outside yet."

Severus blinked.

"Why would that matter?"

Harry’s expression shifted—something quiet, something uncertain. His brows furrowed, his jaw tightened slightly, and for the first time in the conversation, he didn’t have a quick answer.

Then, finally—

"It just does," he said, voice lower than before.

Severus narrowed his eyes.

Harry wasn’t looking at him. His hand had curled slightly into a loose fist against the table, his usual easy demeanor now stiff with something unspoken.

Severus didn’t understand.

And that, more than anything, bothered him.

But for now—he let it go.

He exhaled through his nose, returning to his book. "Suit yourself."

Harry didn’t respond immediately.

But after a long moment, Severus heard him sigh, the tension in his posture easing—just a fraction.

And they fell back into silence.

The day after Harry’s outburst, things seemed normal.

Or, at least, close enough to it that Severus didn’t immediately take notice.

They fell into their routines easily—the ones they had built over months of shared space, of unspoken understandings. Breakfast was served, tea was poured, the day was planned. Work resumed in the greenhouse, and at first, nothing felt off .

Except, it was.

And Severus, being the insufferable creature of habit that he was, did not immediately realize.

Not when Harry still showed up every morning, still met his gaze when they discussed the next phase of restoration, still followed instructions without complaint.

But—

There was something missing .

At first, it was barely perceptible.

Just a fraction less humor in Harry’s teasing remarks. Just a slight dullness to the warmth in his eyes when he glanced at Severus. Just a little less ease in the way he stood beside him.

Nothing worth acknowledging.

Nothing Severus should have been noticing .

So he didn’t.

Not yet.

By the fifth day, Severus began to recognize the absences.

They were small. Insignificant, even.

But— there .

No more warm glances across the breakfast table.

No more pointless chatter while they worked.

No more teasing comments that served no purpose except to get a rise out of Severus.

And—most damning of all—no more casual touches .

At first, it had been easy to ignore. A missing joke here, a missing glance there. Nothing important.

Then it wasn’t.

Now, he caught himself looking—watching for something that wasn’t there. Waiting for a quip that never came. Finding his hands empty where there should have been another’s touch, a guiding press of fingers, a fleeting brush of skin.

It was infuriating. Because he should not have noticed. He should not have cared.

Harry still worked beside him, still existed within reach, but he did not touch him.

And Severus—

Severus noticed.

It took longer than it should have for him to admit that.

By the end of the first week, irritation had begun to curl in Severus’s chest.

He did not miss Harry’s attention.

(Except, he did.)

He was not affected by this.

(Except, he was.)

And it was infuriating .

Because it was not obvious , not something Severus could call out without sounding ridiculous .

Harry had not changed anything directly .

He was still here.

Still speaking to him, still working beside him, still laughing at Severus’s sharp remarks.

But something had shifted.

The silence felt different. The distance was intentional .

It wasn’t avoidance, not quite.

It was something worse.

A deliberate, measured withdrawal.

Severus caught himself glancing over more often than necessary—watching for what , he didn’t know.

Maybe for a flicker of amusement that never quite reached Harry’s eyes.

Maybe for the casual bump of a shoulder, the press of a hand to his back, the small, familiar gestures that had settled into their dynamic without Severus realizing.

Maybe just to confirm that Harry was still here .

And yet, every time Severus thought he caught something—an opening, a moment when Harry might revert back—Harry would shut it down before it could happen.

It was subtle. Almost insidious .

The way Harry’s gaze flickered away too quickly when Severus looked at him.

The way he made sure to keep an extra step of space between them when they walked.

The way he responded to Severus’s remarks with words, but not with the ease he once had.

And Severus—Severus hated it.

By the twelfth day, it had become unbearable .

Not in any tangible way—nothing Severus could call out .

But in the absence of things.

The missing glances.

The missing warmth.

The missing Harry .

Severus did not bring it up.

Of course, he didn’t.

Instead, he let it fester.

He told himself it was nothing. That Harry was simply preoccupied. That the shift between them was imagined, a result of Severus paying too much attention to things that should not matter.

And yet—

His eyes tracked Harry more often than they should.

He caught himself waiting— expecting —the teasing remarks that never came.

He noticed, with an almost clinical precision, the exact moment when Harry stopped reaching out. When he stopped leaning in just a little too close. When he started keeping his hands to himself.

And it bothered him .

More than it should.

More than it had any right to.

Severus exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the workbench as he stared at the unfinished shelving unit in front of him.

It was ridiculous.

This— this —was ridiculous.

And yet, the weight in his chest remained.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to convince himself he didn’t care.

Tried to work through the growing frustration in his ribs.

But as the day stretched on, as the hours passed with nothing but empty space where something should have been—

Severus felt something foreign settle beneath his skin.

Doubt.

Had he done something wrong?

Had he overstepped ?

Was it that conversation ? The one where he had dismissed Harry’s concern? Had he been too harsh? Too dismissive?

Harry wasn’t angry .

That much was clear.

But—he was different.

And Severus—damn him—had noticed .

Had felt it in every quiet moment, every step of distance, every word exchanged without the usual ease.

Had he imagined it? Had he been foolish enough to think—

He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away.

No.

No, he would not let his mind spiral into that .

Not over this .

He set down his quill with a precise, measured movement, pressing his fingers against his temple.

Whatever this was, whatever had shifted between them—

He would not let it affect him. affect them.

It was a week before Harry’s birthday when Severus finally decided—enough was enough.

For the past two and a half weeks, something had been off.

Harry had not been avoiding him. Not physically. He was still there for meals, still helped with the greenhouse, still worked with him in the lab. But the space between them—the closeness—had shifted.

No more teasing comments. No more casual touches. No more warm glances over breakfast.

But—he had never missed dinner.

Harry never missed dinner, because Severus still took a plethora of potions. And while Severus was perfectly capable of taking them himself, Harry liked to make sure.

But tonight—

He wasn’t here.

Severus could no longer ignore it.

At first, he dismissed it.

Then, he waited.

Too long.

So, that evening, he waited again—for him.

The kitchen was dimly lit, a candle flickering beside the book in front of him. He had barely turned a page in the past hour. His tea sat untouched, long since gone cold.

The clock ticked past midnight before he finally heard it—the soft creak of the front door.

Harry stepped inside, moving carefully—guiltily—like he knew how late it was, like he knew he had been gone too long.

Severus didn’t move.

Harry blinked when he saw Severus still awake, his steps faltering slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to eat,” Severus replied smoothly.

Harry didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze flickered to the potion vials on the counter, checking their levels with practiced ease.

“You should have eaten already,” he muttered, picking up one of the empty vials and inspecting it. “Did you take all of them?”

“Yes. With some sandwiches,” Severus said evenly, pushing his chair back and rising. “But I didn’t feel like having dinner alone.”

Harry ran his fingers over the remaining bottles, checking their placement—making sure nothing had been missed. Satisfied, he set them back down with a quiet exhale.

Behind him, Severus pulled a plate from the cooling charm, setting it on the table with a muted clink.

Harry hesitated only a moment before stepping forward and lowering himself into the chair across from him.

The silence between them felt… awkward.

Not tense. Not angry.

Just off.

Severus hated it.

He picked up his fork, rolling it between his fingers before finally speaking.

“Where did you go?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering down to his plate. “Ron and Hermione.”

“Ah.” Severus let the word settle between them, his grip tightening slightly around the handle of his fork. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Did you eat out?”

“No,” Harry muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “We didn’t have time to eat.”

Severus stilled.

“…I see.”

Another silence stretched between them, heavier this time.

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, grabbing his fork with a little more force than necessary.

“Did I do something to upset you?”

Harry, who had just reached for his fork, froze.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“What?”

Severus watched him carefully. “Have I done something to upset you?”

Harry’s fingers curled around his fork, knuckles going white. “No,” he muttered, too quickly.

Severus tilted his head slightly. “Then why have you been acting like I have?”

Harry was staring—glaring—at his plate. “I haven’t—”

“You have.”

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, setting his fork down with just a little too much force.

“Why does it matter?” he muttered.

Severus looked up, gaze sharp. “Why does what matter?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “That I’ve been acting differently.”

The words were flat, but the tension behind them was not.

Severus stilled.

Something cold curled in his chest, pressing against his ribs.

A memory surfaced unbidden—his own voice, weeks ago:

“Why would that matter?”

He had said it without thinking, offhand, when Harry first mentioned skipping the Weasleys’ gathering. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. A simple conversation.

But now—sitting across from him, watching the way Harry’s expression remained carefully guarded—Severus wondered.

Severus exhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Because—” He hesitated, realizing just how much weight sat behind the answer. He swallowed and tried again. “Because I have noticed. Because you aren’t… there anymore. And because—”

His fingers curled slightly against his fork.

“It does matter.”

Harry’s gaze snapped up, surprise flickering across his face.

For a brief second, pleasure flickered across Harry’s face—subtle, barely there—but Severus caught it in the way his shoulders eased, like he hadn’t expected to hear those words, like he’d wanted to.

But then—just as quickly—his brows furrowed, fingers curling against the table.

“You didn’t say anything.”

It wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t even angry.

It was—confused. Almost disbelieving. Like Harry himself didn’t quite understand why he was saying it.

Something in Severus shifted.

A quiet, sinking realization.

Because Harry was right.

He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t reached out. He hadn’t done anything.

He had waited.

Waited for Harry to fix it.

Waited for Harry to fill the silence, to close the distance—just as he always had.

Harry had been there, right in front of him, every single day. Still sitting beside him at breakfast, still walking with him in the gardens, still hovering over him in the lab, always within reach.

And Severus—he could have reached back.

At any moment.

He could have put a hand on Harry’s wrist, on his shoulder, could have nudged him the way Harry always had, could have said something.

Could have given Harry the reassurance he had been waiting for.

But he hadn’t.

Because deep down, some foolish, prideful part of him had expected Harry to be the one to close the gap.

Just like he always had.

But Harry had stopped.

And Severus—Severus had let him.

He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his fork as the weight of it settled.

“I could have,” Severus admitted, voice quieter now. “At any time.”

Harry blinked.

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

For a moment, he just looked at him.

Like he hadn’t expected Severus to say it.

Like it meant something.

And maybe—maybe it did.

Because the tension between them wasn’t tension anymore.

It was something else.

Severus wasn’t sure what, but it was there, thick and heavy in the air between them, in the way Harry’s fingers twitched slightly against the table.

Harry’s voice was quieter now, less certain than before. “You didn’t say anything.”

Severus inhaled slowly, setting his fork down.

“No.”

There was no point in denying it.

Another silence settled between them, heavier than before—not tense, but weighted with something unspoken.

Then, suddenly.

“Because I wanted to celebrate with you, alright?”

The words hung between them.

A faint flush crept up Harry’s face, and his gaze darted away like he regretted saying it immediately.

Severus could only stare.

That—

That was why?

Not anger.
Not resentment.
Not some perceived slight or frustration.

Just—

Severus inhaled sharply, forcing himself to find words, to fix what he had somehow made worse.

“Yes, of course. Of course, we will celebrate.”

“You don’t have to force yourself—”

“No! No!” Severus interrupted, too quickly. “I was— we were always going to celebrate...” He stopped, pressing his lips together, frustrated with himself. “Merlin...”

Severus took a slow, steadying breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’ve gotten so used to you just... understanding me, I never thought you would think otherwise. We were always going to celebrate. Just us. Here. Before you left.”

He hesitated for only a second before finally reaching out, his fingers brushing against Harry’s.

Harry’s lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering down to their hands, then back up.

“You know...” Severus started, voice quieter now. “Last month, and... especially with the whole 'wife' thing... I thought we...” He trailed off, feeling just as flustered as Harry looked. “I thought we wouldn’t need to talk about it.”

Harry blinked. “Oh... Well, when you said it didn’t matter, I thought—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Severus cut in, voice firmer this time.

He squeezed Harry’s hand slightly, grounding them both.

“I meant that we would celebrate separately. Because I cannot leave the house. Then it wouldn’t matter whether I went with you or not—to their celebration.”

Harry exhaled, fingers twitching beneath Severus’s.

“...You’re not deciding this last minute?” he asked, almost cautiously.

Severus frowned. “No, I am not. I already ordered your gifts before that conversation happened. You can ask Winky if you don’t believe me.”

Harry blinked. “Ah... I see.”

Severus gave a small nod, then glanced down at their joined hands.

He squeezed once more—deliberate this time.

Harry didn’t let go.

Severus cleared his throat. “Eat. You barely touched your food at lunch—you must be hungry.”

“Mm.” Harry hummed but didn’t let go, grabbing Severus’s hand again just as he tried to pull away.

Severus glanced at him, questioning.

Instead of answering, Harry shifted, moving to sit right beside him, pulling his plate closer. Their shoulders pressed together.

Severus blinked. What—?

Before he could ask, Harry spoke.

“Catching up. On all those days.”

“Mm. Are you?”

Harry hummed again, more content this time, and Severus found himself watching him—really watching him.

The tension from before had unraveled, replaced with something quieter, something warmer.

The way Harry finally smiled, a real one that reached his eyes.

The way his hand stayed steady over Severus’s.

The warmth of him, solid and real, pressed up against his side.

Severus should have worn his pajamas.

It was a ridiculous thought, but all he could think was—he would have felt more of that warmth.

It wasn’t awkward now, not in the slightest. But suddenly, Severus was greedy.

For what, he couldn’t quite say.

Only that he wanted more.

Chapter Text

📍 Month 16 (August / 1999)

The match flared to life with a quiet snap, casting a soft glow over Severus’s hands as he touched it to the candle’s wick. The flame caught, flickering, its golden light joining the dim pre-dawn hues painting the sky.

Severus exhaled slowly, watching as the candle steadied, its tiny warmth standing against the cool morning air.

Everything was ready.

The table, simple yet deliberate, was set with care. Breakfast, warm and freshly made, lay arranged with precision. The single flower in the silver vase swayed gently in the breeze. And at the center—

A modest, imperfect cake.

Severus had made it himself.

Above them, a soft canopy of fairy lights twinkled, their glow shimmering faintly against the early morning mist. They encircled the table in a wide, protective ring, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the neatly arranged plates. The lights weren’t extravagant—just enough to create a quiet, intimate warmth, complementing the deep blues and purples of the retreating night.

The air smelled faintly of vanilla and spices, a quiet testament to the hours spent preparing—cooking, baking, arranging, ensuring everything was just so.

It was… not extravagant. Not overwhelming. But he wanted it to be right.

After their talk, things had been different.

They had been making up slowly—gradually falling back into old habits. The small, familiar touches had returned: fingers brushing when passing books, shoulders bumping when working together, the press of a hand against his back when passing by. But now—now, there was something else beneath it.

Every touch came with the possibility of more.

It was no longer just casual. No longer just familiarity.

There was something there. Something unsaid, something heavy in the space between them. The kind of tension that wasn’t uncomfortable, but expectant.

Severus had fallen. How could he not?

How could he not love him after seeing him like this—fierce in his loyalty, unwavering in his stubborn care, yet afraid to demand more from Severus than he could give? How could he not, when Harry had been the first to reach for him, to look at him, to stay—again and again, despite everything?

Severus loved him. God, he loved him.

He adjusted the cuffs of his black button-up, the silver buttons catching the candlelight. A gift from Harry. His hair, usually unstyled, was neatly half-tied with a silver clasp, a rare effort. His nails—black, gleaming subtly—were a last-minute indulgence. His skin was soft, a result of careful grooming, lotions, and creams he still wasn’t sure why he’d bothered with.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Severus straightened, his breath hitching against his will.

Harry stepped out, dressed simply in a loose white shirt and dark trousers, his hair messier than usual, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Severus, what’s happening this earl—"

And then he stopped.

His gaze landed on Severus.

And he stared.

Severus—

He froze.

Harry’s eyes moved—his hair, his shirt, the silver buttons, the black-polished nails, him.

Severus felt the heat climb his neck, his hands tightening around the edge of the table.

Harry’s mouth parted slightly—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

The candle burned.

The silence stretched.

Severus swallowed, hating the way he felt exposed under that gaze, hating that his pulse betrayed him, hating that he had to force himself to speak just to break the unbearable moment.

He cleared his throat, voice too soft, too nervous.

"Happy birthday, Harry."

Harry stared a second longer, full of something unspoken.

Then—

"Master Harry!" Winky’s voice broke the spell, sharp and impatient. "Master Snape has been preparing this for two hours—hurry up!"

Harry startled, blinking rapidly before shaking his head, a breath of laughter escaping him.

"Right—yeah, okay."

Severus exhaled sharply, shoving down the mortifying heat curling in his chest.

Winky—he was going to strangle Winky.

Harry stepped forward at last, his eyes flickering to the table, the cake, the sunrise—and then back to Severus.

"You did all this?" His voice was quiet.

Severus inhaled, shifting slightly. "Clearly."

Harry’s lips curved just slightly, something fond flickering in his expression.

Severus felt bare under it.

The candle flickered, waiting.

Still, Harry said nothing.

"Make a wish before they go out," Severus murmured.

Harry blinked, then stepped forward. He closed his eyes, exhaled softly, and blew out the candles.

The glow vanished, leaving only the fairy lights overhead.

Then Harry reached for the knife, cutting through the soft cake in a slow, deliberate motion.

His hands were steady.

But he still didn’t speak.

Not until the first piece was lifted, on a spoon placed nearby.

Then, he let out a quiet breath.

"…You made this," he murmured, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite say out loud.

Severus nodded. "Yes."

Harry inhaled, exhaling slowly, blinking down at the spoon like he was gathering himself.

Then—

Severus blinked as Harry lifted the spoon toward him.

Severus stared.

"What are you doing?"

Harry’s lips curved upwards. "The first bite always goes to the spouse."

Severus froze.

A joke.

It had always been a joke.

But now—now...

Something real.

Something no longer just a joke but a possibility.

Something that made Severus want.

His throat went dry.

Harry’s expression was bright, like always, but his eyes—his eyes weren’t teasing at all.

Severus exhaled sharply, pulse jumping, before leaning forward.

The spoon slid past his lips.

And then—

Damn it.

It was good.

Harry grinned, clearly waiting for a reaction.

"It's good, like I knew it would be," Severus said, turning to cut a piece for Harry. He placed the slice on the small plate this time, intent on feeding it to Harry as well.

But when he turned back—

Harry was too close, too solid, pressing into his space as if he belonged there. The warmth of his hands burned through the thin fabric of Severus’s shirt, fingers sliding down his back—slow, deliberate—before settling at his waist.

Severus shivered.

"Why didn’t you dress warmer?" Harry murmured, eyes sweeping over him again, lingering just a little too long.

Severus rolled his eyes, reaching for the fork and slicing off a piece of cake. "Stop ruining the mood with your worrying,"he muttered, lifting the fork to Harry’s lips before he could say anything else.

Harry chuckled, but he still let Severus feed him, lips closing over the fork as he hummed in approval. "Mmm. It’s perfect." he said after a moment, licking a stray crumb from his lips. "I didn’t know you baked."

Severus looked away, suddenly feeling too warm. "Guess who taught me?"

Harry’s grin widened, and before Severus could react, he scooped up another bite with his free hand, holding it out.

Severus took the offered bite without complaint, but just as he was pulling away, Harry moved the fork ever so slightly—smearing a bit of frosting against his bottom lip.

Severus stilled.

Harry stared.

Then he grinned, eyes darkening with something unmistakable. “My turn,” he murmured.

Before Severus could react, Harry reached forward, plucking the plate from his hands and setting it aside without looking. His movements were slow, deliberate—giving Severus the chance to stop him.

Severus didn’t.

Harry leaned in, his gaze flickering down—watching the frosting that now sat against Severus’s lip. His intent was clear, his breath warm as he hovered, close enough for Severus to feel it ghost over his skin.

"Can I?" Harry asked, voice lower now, rougher. "Sev?"

Severus couldn’t answer for a second, staring at Harry—at the sheer want in his eyes, at the way his grip on Severus’s waist tightened, firm and certain.

"Can I?" Harry whispered again, voice softer this time, but no less intense. His fingers curled slightly into Severus’s hips, his touch steady, grounding. "Please, Severus."

Severus’s breath hitched. His heart was a heavy drum in his chest, thrumming loud enough that he swore Harry could hear it. He had spent a lifetime mastering restraint, pushing down every foolish desire before it could fester.

But this—watching Harry plead for him—this was different.

Slowly, Severus nodded.

And then—

Warmth.

Harry kissed him.

And it was—it was fireworks.

Severus had heard about this before, the way people spoke of first kisses, the ridiculous nonsense about sparks and magic and losing yourself in the moment. He had always dismissed it as foolish, the idealized drivel of lovesick teenagers.

He had been wrong.

Every muscle in his body locked as Harry pressed against him, lips soft but insistent, tasting of cake and something sweeter—something uniquely, undeniably him.

A long, stretched-out second passed before Severus finally exhaled against him, his grip loosening just enough for his hands to move—to curl into the fabric of Harry’s shirt, holding him close. His kiss was clumsy at first, uncertain, hesitant—but Harry was patient, guiding him, letting him feel, letting him want.

They only pulled away when breathlessness forced them apart.

Severus inhaled sharply, feeling his own pulse against his ribs, his lips tingling in the aftermath. His hands remained clenched in Harry’s shirt, unwilling to let go.

Harry smiled, gaze tracing every inch of Severus’s face like he wanted to commit it to memory. His voice was low, full of something deeper, something reverent.

"You look so beautiful tonight…"

Severus swallowed. The words shouldn’t have made his stomach twist the way they did. He was too old, too jaded to be affected by something so simple.

And yet—

"I tried," Severus murmured, his grip tightening ever so slightly, like he was afraid to let go.

Harry’s grin widened, his hands still resting at Severus’s waist, his thumbs moving in slow, absent circles against the fabric.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, the weight of what had just happened settling between them.

Then, finally, Severus exhaled, clearing his throat. "Come eat," he muttered, tilting his head toward the still-warm breakfast waiting for them.

Harry chuckled, eyes still lingering on Severus like he wasn’t quite ready to look away. "Yeah," he agreed, voice light, pleased. "Let’s eat."

They ate slowly, conversation easy between them. Harry had dragged his chair right next to Severus’s without hesitation, close enough that their legs brushed beneath the table. They spoke of the greenhouse, of potion ingredients they needed to restock, of future plans for the property.

And every so often, without warning, Harry would pick up a piece of food and press it to Severus’s lips—grinning as Severus hesitated before accepting it, cheeks warming each time. Severus tried to retaliate once or twice, but Harry was far too pleased by the idea, opening his mouth with a smug look whenever Severus lifted a fork toward him.

Once the sun came up, and plates were cleared away, Severus waved a hand, and the gift boxes appeared on the table.

One was unmistakable in shape—long and narrow.

Harry laughed. "I wonder what that is."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Just open it."

Harry wasted no time, tearing into the paper to reveal exactly what they both knew it was—the latest Nimbus model, sleek and gleaming in the morning light.

Severus watched as Harry ran his fingers over the polished handle, eyes alight with something almost childlike.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathed, voice full of quiet awe.

Severus smirked. "You haven’t been flying too much lately. I thought it was the broom’s fault."

Harry’s head tilted, eyes flickering to Severus with that familiar glint of mischief. They both knew exactly why he hadn’t been flying.

Still, he played along. "Mm, it was," he said, dragging his fingers over the broom's frame. "Such a shame I couldn’t afford a new one."

Severus rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Yes, tragic," he muttered.

Harry grinned, setting the broom aside with an exaggerated sigh, as if he had suffered.

Severus huffed, then reached for the next box—a shallow rectangular one wrapped with precise folds. He handed it over, raising a brow. "Try not to be too dramatic this time."

Harry tore into the second gift with the same enthusiasm as the first, revealing a neatly folded set of clothing—a deep red shirt with intricate gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar, subtle but undeniably elegant. The fabric was soft beneath his fingers, tailored to fit him perfectly. Beside it lay a pair of sleek black trousers, pressed to perfection, and polished dress shoes that gleamed in the morning light.

Harry whistled low, holding up the shirt to examine the embroidery. "Sev, this is nice."

Severus arched a brow. "I assume that means you like it."

"Like it?" Harry grinned, already tugging the shirt against his frame. "I’m wearing this to dinner. Hell, I’d wear it now if I wasn’t already comfortable."

Severus snorted. "Try it on later before you make declarations."

Harry’s grin widened as he noticed the final detail—a pair of cufflinks shaped like Golden Snitches, their delicate wings curling slightly at the edges. He picked one up between his fingers, turning it in the light. "You really went all out."

Severus huffed. "You’ll at least look put together for once."

Harry chuckled, placing everything neatly back into the box before reaching for the last gift—a small, shallow rectangle.

His movements slowed.

Unlike the other gifts, he unwrapped this one carefully, fingers tracing the edges before he pulled back the lid.

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, sat two watches.

A set.

One silver. One gold.

Harry stilled.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

Then, slowly, he picked up the gold one, turning it in his fingers, feeling the weight of it. It was charmed—he could tell immediately from the warmth against his palm, the subtle hum of magic woven into the metal.

"They’re linked," Severus said, his voice quieter now. "If one of us is in danger, the other will feel it—the hotter it burns, the worse it is. You can also tap it twice with your wand to let the other know you’re checking in. Each color means something different."

Harry exhaled, soft and slow, his thumb running over the engraved details along the edges. He swallowed. "You—Severus—"

"You worry too much," Severus muttered, as if that explained everything.

Harry ran his fingers over the watch’s surface, the magic thrumming beneath his touch. Then, after a moment, his lips curved into something soft—something warm and familiar.

"Put it on me?" he asked, grinning up at Severus.

Severus rolled his eyes but took the watch, fingers deftly adjusting the strap before fastening it securely around Harry’s wrist. His touch lingered for a second longer than necessary, fingertips brushing against Harry’s skin as he made sure it sat properly.

Harry hummed, flexing his wrist, watching the way the light caught the gold. "Looks good."

Severus huffed. "Obviously."

Before he could pull back, Harry grabbed the silver one from the box and reached for Severus’s hand. "Your turn."

Severus stiffened slightly but didn’t protest as Harry carefully fastened the clasp around his wrist, fingers brushing the sensitive skin there. His touch was steady, deliberate. When he was done, he ran his thumb briefly over the smooth metal, as if making sure it sat just right.

"There," Harry murmured, staring down at the matching bands.

Severus scoffed, but it lacked any real bite. "Don’t be so sentimental."

How was he still blushing? How many of these moments could happen in a single day? Merlin.

Harry chuckled, thumb absently tracing Severus’s. "Feels like an engagement ring, doesn’t it?"

Severus stilled for a fraction of a second before inhaling slowly. He should roll his eyes, make a sharp remark, dismiss it the way he always did when Harry said something ridiculous.

Instead—and because he wanted to see his reaction—he nodded. "Yes. I suppose it does."

Harry’s breath hitched.

Severus watched, fascinated as he was the one blushing this time—faint, barely noticeable, but there. His grip on Severus’s wrist flexed, tightening just slightly.

"You’re the one who said it," Severus reminded him, enjoying the rare moment of Harry losing his usual ease.

"I—" Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, his ears going red. "I thought you’d tell me not to be stupid!"

Severus arched a brow. "Mm. And do you think it’s stupid?"

Harry froze.

Harry swallowed, his fingers still absently running over the band on his wrist. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

"No… no, I don’t. It’s practical."

Severus tilted his head, considering him before nodding once. "Practical."

Harry let out a breath of laughter, glancing down at the watches, at their matching bands. His thumb brushed over the metal again before he murmured, "Not a replacement for actual rings, though?"

"No," Severus shook his head. "Not replacements. Just… too soon."

Harry pulled him forward, guiding him effortlessly until Severus found himself settling onto Harry’s lap.

Severus stiffened, hands braced against Harry’s shoulders, but Harry simply held him there, his arms wrapping securely around Severus’s waist, keeping him close.

Harry kissed him again, softer this time, but with no less intent. His hands, warm and steady, cupped Severus’s face, thumbs brushing lightly over his cheekbones. A grin pressed against Severus’s lips as Harry pulled back just slightly, their breaths mingling, his eyes glinting with something both teasing and utterly sincere.

"Too soon?" Harry murmured, tilting his head. "Severus, I have killed more people for you than when I had to save the world."

Severus laughed—a sharp, startled sound escaping before he could stop it. He tilted his head back slightly, shaking it as amusement curled in his chest. "How perfectly macabre, Potter."

Harry smirked, fingers tightening slightly at Severus’s back. "I think it shows my devotion."

Severus huffed, rolling his eyes, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he settled against Harry just a little more comfortably. "Is this meant to be romantic?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Are you charmed?"

"Enough to be sitting here kissing you, apparently," Severus muttered, exhaling deeply as the rush of adrenaline faded, leaving behind a slow, creeping exhaustion. His body, now pressed comfortably against Harry’s, felt heavier, the warmth of the moment lulling him into something dangerously close to contentment.

Harry’s arms remained steady around him, firm but gentle. He smiled, softer this time. "Thank you so much. This is… this is—"

Severus huffed and pressed a fleeting kiss to Harry’s cheek, effectively cutting him off. "This is barely anything compared to what you’ve given me," he murmured, his voice already dipping lower, lazier. Then, shifting just slightly to get comfortable, he sighed, "Now shut up and be a good chair."

Harry let out a breath of laughter, tightening his grip just slightly, as if to hold Severus in place. "Mm. Good night, love."

Severus didn’t even have the energy to protest the term. He just hummed, closing his eyes as the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing and the warmth of the morning sun pulled him under.

The evening air had cooled, slipping through the open window and rustling the edges of Severus’s robes as he leaned against the doorframe. He watched, arms crossed, as Harry stood before the mirror, fussing with his tie—adjusting, tugging, untying, retying. Then, as if dissatisfied, he repeated the process again.

Severus smirked, waiting exactly ten more seconds before drawling, “You’re fussing.”

Harry let out a short laugh but didn’t stop. “I’m making sure I don’t look like an idiot,” he muttered, still fidgeting with the knot. “This is a very… you outfit.”

The deep emerald fabric, the dark trousers, the crisp shirt—yes, it was something Severus would wear. And yet, on Harry, it looked…

Severus shut that thought down before it could fully form.

Instead, he strode forward and, without asking, undid Harry’s tie with a flick of his fingers, ignoring the little noise of protest. “And yet,” he murmured, retying it properly, “I wear it without issue.”

Harry grinned, eyes glinting far too knowingly. “Is that your way of saying I look amazing?”

Severus rolled his eyes, but his fingers lingered at the collar just a second too long, smoothing down the fabric as an excuse. “You look acceptable,” he said, tone deliberately bored.

Harry pouted—actually pouted—as if that answer was wholly unacceptable.

Severus sighed. Loudly. Then, as though it physically pained him, he muttered, “You look amazing.”

Harry’s grin widened. Predictably. “Knew it. But—” He paused, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Wait, is this because it’s my birthday, or is this a lovers’ benefit? Because if this is a standing perk, I feel like I should start dressing up more often.”

Severus gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “If you’re fishing for more compliments, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Harry hummed, clearly not believing him at all. “So it is just a birthday thing,” he mused, smirking. “That’s disappointing. Thought I had a good thing going here.”

Severus huffed, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he stepped closer.

And then—before Harry could get another word in—he kissed him.

It was brief. Soft. Completely deliberate.

Harry froze for half a second. Just long enough for Severus to pull back, arms already crossed again, face already schooled into neutrality.

“It’s a birthday thing,” he said coolly. “Don’t expect too much.”

Harry stared at him for a second too long before laughing. “Right, sure. Not at all. Definitely won’t be looking forward to it or anything.”

Severus rolled his eyes, exhaling in mock exasperation. “You should leave before your ego inflates further.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry reached for his coat, pausing for the briefest moment before turning back.

And then, with no hesitation at all, he pressed a quick, warm kiss to Severus’s lips before stepping back again.

Severus blinked.

Harry smirked. “Are you sure I can’t skip?”

Severus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Go,” he said, his voice a touch softer than intended. Somehow, despite himself, a small smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

Something flickered warmly in Harry’s eyes at that. He grinned before heading for the door.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Out, Potter.”

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Severus lingered for a moment, watching the empty space where Harry had just been, fingers still tingling from where they had rested at his collar.

Then, with a slow breath, he turned toward the open doorway leading to the lab.

It was time.

The house felt strangely quiet once Harry was gone.

Severus stood in the entryway for a moment, fingers idly brushing over the watch on his wrist—a habit he’d yet to break—before exhaling sharply and turning on his heel. He strode toward the lab, the door already slightly ajar, waiting for him.

This was what he’d been waiting for.

Pushing open the door, Severus inhaled deeply as he stepped inside. Cool air greeted him, carrying the crisp scent of parchment, dried herbs, and polished oak. Shelves lined the stone walls, stacked neatly with vials and ingredient jars, their labels facing forward exactly as they should be.

And yet, the room still felt unfinished.

He rolled up his sleeves, glancing around. Boxes remained stacked in the far corner, waiting. Jars and phials—some old, some new—sat in disarray on the center worktable, uncatalogued.

Unacceptable.

Severus cracked his knuckles and got to work.

The first order of business was unpacking the remaining ingredients.

One by one, he unboxed, inspected, and arranged them by category. Dried roots and herbs to the left. Preserved specimens in the cooling cabinet. Powders and crushed minerals sorted by reactivity and volatility. His fingers moved with muscle memory, easily recognizing the subtle weight of each jar, the distinct textures of the powders as he sifted them between gloved fingers.

With a flick of his wand, shelves adjusted themselves to accommodate his preferred organization. Several vials floated into place. The bookstand repositioned itself closer to the largest cauldron.

He reached into another box and paused, lips twitching slightly at the sight of a familiar tin—a small, battered container of tea leaves. A comfort he’d always kept in his lab, a quiet indulgence during long hours of brewing.

Carefully, he placed it on the high shelf by his workbench.

Next came the delicate task of reorganizing his tools. Silver stirring rods, each perfectly balanced. Scalpels honed to razor sharpness. Pestles matched precisely to their respective mortars—granite for tougher ingredients, marble for finer pastes.

A deep satisfaction settled in his chest as the space transformed before his eyes.

Finally.

This—this—was where he belonged.

With the last jar in place, Severus dusted off his hands, surveying the now immaculate workroom.

Perfect.

He stepped toward the large iron cauldron at the heart of the room, fingertips grazing its rim.

Then, with a flick of his wand, he lit the first burner.

Blue fire flared to life beneath the cauldron, its flickering glow casting long shadows across the room. A sharp heat blossomed, chasing away the lingering chill. Severus watched for a moment, exhaling slowly as warmth seeped into his bones.

For the first time in a long while, something inside him settled.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles still stiff from months of recovery. His magic, once erratic and unstable, no longer wavered when he reached for it. His hands—once prone to tremors—were steady as he reached for the first set of ingredients.

He was back.

With practiced ease, he measured out precise portions of dried monkshood and crushed asphodel, letting them slide into the simmering water. A familiar rhythm settled over him as he reached for his stirring rod, each movement precise, deliberate.

The scent of brewing potion filled the lab—a scent he had missed.

The door creaked open behind him.

Severus didn’t look up from his cauldron—he didn’t need to.

“You’re late,” he murmured, carefully adjusting the flame beneath the potion.

Harry chuckled as he stepped inside. "Figured I’d find you here."

Severus finally turned, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry looked pleased, a little warm from the evening, his cheeks flushed just enough to suggest a few drinks but not nearly enough for the sobering potion Severus had just finished brewing. His shirt was untucked, sleeves pushed up, the watch Severus had gifted him still gleaming on his wrist. He looked utterly at ease, the kind of relaxed Severus had rarely seen in him before.

"You enjoyed yourself, then?" Severus asked, watching as Harry crossed the room.

"Yeah," Harry said, voice light, affectionate. "Didn’t stay out too late, though." He stopped by the workbench, eyeing the cauldron. "Didn’t want you down here all night, brewing away and forgetting to eat."

Severus scoffed, lifting a freshly corked vial from his tray of completed potions. "I was quite productive, actually. Here."

Harry blinked as Severus pressed the vial into his hand.

Harry turned it over, examining the soft shimmer of the potion inside. "A Sobering Potion? You thought I’d be a mess, huh?"

"I like to prepare for all possibilities," Severus said dryly. "And given that you’ve had alcohol, you should take it."

Harry huffed, smirking as he uncorked the vial. "I’m barely even tipsy. You wasted a whole brewing session on me?"

Severus arched a brow. "Would you prefer I tip it over your head instead?"

"Alright, alright," Harry laughed, knocking it back in one go. The warmth in his cheeks faded instantly, his senses sharpening in that familiar, slightly unpleasant way. He wrinkled his nose. "Hate that feeling."

Severus smirked. "Then next time, drink water between rounds."

Harry grinned, setting the empty vial on the workbench. "You’re in a good mood."

Severus hummed, stirring the last of the cooling potion in his cauldron. "Brewing again properly does tend to improve my temperament."

Harry leaned against the workbench, watching as Severus moved easily in the space—unpacking fresh ingredients, adjusting labels, cataloging his work.

"You’re really settling in here," Harry said softly.

Severus stilled for just a second before nodding. "I am."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the quiet bubbling of the potion the only sound between them.

After a moment, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package, setting it on the table.

Severus eyed it warily. "What is that?"

Harry smirked. "I brought you dinner. Because unlike me, you actually do forget to eat."

Severus narrowed his eyes at him but said nothing, just plucked the package off the table and unwrapped it—sliced fruit, some bread, and a bit of cheese. Simple, but thoughtful.

Harry’s smirk softened. "Go on, then. Take your potions too."

Severus rolled his eyes, but this wasn’t an argument, just routine by now. He picked up the first vial and downed it, then the next, then the next.

Harry watched him with a small, pleased smile. "Good."

Severus exhaled through his nose, finally setting the empty vials aside before turning toward him fully. Harry looked comfortable, loose from the evening but still present, still here.

"You look well," Severus admitted.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the rare compliment. He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "I, uh—yeah. It was a nice night." His smirk returned, playful. "Your gift helped. Think I got a few second glances tonight."

Severus hummed, amused. "Pity for them, then, that you’re mine."

Harry’s smirk faltered just slightly—not out of protest, but surprise.

Severus tilted his head. "What?"

Harry grinned, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just—nice to hear you say it, is all."

Severus simply regarded him for a long moment, then reached out, tugging lightly at the loose hem of Harry’s untucked shirt.

"Come," he murmured. "You’re swaying."

Harry huffed a laugh. "Not swaying."

"Tipsy, then."

"Not anymore."

"Then you’re tired."

Harry tilted his head, considering. "That one, I’ll give you."

Severus arched a brow but said nothing, just nudged him lightly toward the door.

Harry didn’t resist, falling into step beside him.

"Gonna fuss if I take you to bed?" Harry asked, nudging their shoulders together.

Severus exhaled in amusement. "Not tonight."

Later, freshly showered and changed, they slipped into bed, the room quiet and warm.

Harry, half-asleep, curled against Severus without hesitation.

Severus exhaled, kissing his forehead. “Happy birthday, Harry,” he murmured.

Harry hummed, already drifting off. “Thanks, Sev.”

Severus closed his eyes. Sleep came easily.

The library was quiet, save for the rustle of parchment and the scratch of Severus’s quill. Books were stacked around him, ink staining his fingers as he made notes in the margins of an old potions text. The dim candlelight flickered against the aged pages, illuminating carefully documented theories and formulas.

A muffled yawn echoed from the doorway, followed by the soft shuffle of bare feet.

Harry stood there, hair still damp from his shower, drowning in one of Severus’s loose-knit sweaters. The sleeves were pushed up carelessly, and the lazy way he moved suggested he had only recently crawled out of bed. He dropped into the chair beside Severus with all the grace of a cat claiming its favorite spot.

“Morning Sev” he murmured.

Severus arched a brow. “Potter, why have you started raiding my wardrobe?”

Harry smirked, tugging at the fabric. “It’s called being romantic, Severus. Live a little, will you?”

Severus huffed, refusing to acknowledge the way his chest warmed at the sight of Harry wrapped in his clothes. “Two weeks in, and you’ve already become insufferable. This does not bode well.”

“Ah, the tragedy,” Harry lamented, pressing close and kissing his cheek. “Two weeks in, and I’m already being scolded for loving you. How will I ever survive?”

Severus shook his head, dipping his quill back into the ink. “If that’s your idea of romance, I fear for the future of this relationship.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry muttered, peering at the open book. His gaze flicked over the dense text before he frowned. “What are you working on?”

Severus tapped a finger against the page. “A modified version of the venom antidote I developed for Arthur Weasley.”

Harry straightened. “Not strong enough?”

“For a fresh wound, yes. But my case is different.” Severus exhaled, rubbing his fingers against the ink-stained parchment. “The venom has settled in my system. It’s woven into my magic, adapted over time. Conventional healing won’t remove it.”

Harry’s expression darkened slightly. “So, what do we do?”

Severus glanced at his notes. “We need something strong enough to destabilize it at its core. Basilisk venom, carefully controlled, could do it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You mean the same venom that nearly killed me?”

Severus smirked faintly. “It also saved you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, after I nearly bled out on the Chamber floor.”

Severus waved a dismissive hand. “Details.”

Harry shook his head but didn’t argue. “Alright. And?”

“Phoenix tears,” Severus continued. “To counteract the venom’s volatility.”

Harry let out a low whistle. “You don’t make things easy, do you?”

“I prefer effective over convenient.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the armrest. Then, suddenly, he grinned.

“Lucky for you,” he said, stretching, “I’m very good at getting things I’m not supposed to have.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “Harry—”

Harry only hummed, utterly unconcerned, already standing and ruffling his hair. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Potter—”

Harry turned, walking backward toward the door with a cheeky grin. “Try not to spend all night in here.”

Severus sighed, returning to his notes. “No promises.”

Harry chuckled as he disappeared down the hall.

Severus let out a slow breath, glancing at the book again. He had no doubt Harry was already scheming, and though he should probably intervene before his husband did something infuriatingly reckless, a traitorous part of him trusted that if anyone could get the impossible, it was Harry Potter.

They had tried to do things properly at first.

Harry, being Harry, had assumed gold would solve the problem. A few discreet inquiries, some well-placed contacts—surely, there had to be a legal way to acquire basilisk venom and phoenix tears.

There wasn’t.

Basilisk venom, if it was ever available, was strictly controlled. Even the black market rarely carried it, and when it did, the cost was absurd. Not that price was the real issue—Harry had enough gold to buy the entire bloody Ministry if he wanted to.

No, the issue was that anyone asking for both basilisk venom and phoenix tears immediately raised several red flags.

The only available vial of venom in Knockturn Alley had tripled in price the moment the seller recognized him.

Another seller laughed in their faces when they mentioned phoenix tears, saying “You’ll have better luck convincing a phoenix to cry on you directly.”

Severus, arms crossed, had given Harry a look at that.

Harry scowled. "Alright, Plan B then."

Severus sighed. "Dare I ask?"

Harry grinned. "We get it ourselves."

Which was how Severus found himself standing in the dim glow of their library, staring at his insufferably reckless lover, who was very clearly about to suggest a crime.

"Absolutely not," Severus said immediately.

Harry tilted his head. "You do know there’s a fully intact basilisk  just sitting in the Chamber of Secrets, right?"

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am aware. I am also aware that it is in Hogwarts, the moment we step foot, Minerva will know."

Harry waved a hand dismissively. “She won’t.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “And what, pray tell, makes you so certain?”

Harry grinned. “Because Hogwarts still recognizes me, and—" he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief, "—I have a strong suspicion it still recognizes you, too.”

Severus scoffed. “Hogwarts does not—”

But Harry was already pulling the Marauder’s Map from his pocket, unfolding it with practiced ease. He tapped his wand against the parchment, and the familiar ink spread across the page, revealing the entirety of Hogwarts.

Severus watched, reluctant yet undeniably intrigued, as Harry scanned the names walking the halls. “See? Nothing to worry about,” Harry said smugly. “We just time it right, avoid a few nosy students, and we’re golden.”

Severus sighed. “I cannot believe I am entertaining this.”

“You love it,” Harry shot back, already turning toward the door. “Now come on, I have a school to rob.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, help me.”

Harry grinned. “You have to admit, this is a very heist movie—sneaking in under cover of darkness, stealing from a heavily guarded location, getting away before anyone even knows we were there.”

Severus exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I’ve fallen in love with a delinquent masquerading as a hero.”

Harry gasped in mock offense. “I prefer charming rogue—adds to the aesthetic.”

Severus gave him a look. “You are many things, Potter. Subtle is not one of them.”

Harry only laughed, grabbing his cloak. “Fine, fine. Let’s get on with it before you start lamenting your life choices.”

The path from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts was familiar, the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow granting them easy passage. Harry moved with practiced ease, the Marauder’s Map tucked in his pocket, ensuring they avoided patrols.

As they reached the entrance, Severus braced for resistance—but the castle’s wards didn’t push them away. The heavy iron doors unlatched without hesitation.

The castle welcomed them.

Severus stilled, fingers tightening around his wand.

Harry, smug, squeezed his hand. “Told you.”

Severus exhaled. Of course it did.

Without another word, Harry led him inside.

The descent was as unpleasant as Severus expected.

The entrance to the Chamber remained unchanged, hidden within the second-floor girls’ lavatory, its entrance a simple, unassuming sink. With a quiet hiss, the stone shifted under Harry’s command, revealing the gaping tunnel beneath.

Severus barely had time to sneer before Harry grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward.

Then, they were falling.

It was a steep, slick descent, the tunnel twisting as they slid downward. Severus braced himself, robes billowing, until they landed—Harry with a practiced roll, Severus with a sharp flick of his wand to steady himself before his boots even hit the ground.

Harry grinned. “Not bad for your first time.”

Severus dusted off his sleeves with a look of great displeasure. “This is not how one enters a laboratory.”

Harry laughed, lighting his wand with Lumos as he turned down the passage. Severus followed, the air growing damper, thicker with ancient magic.

Then, they stepped into the chamber itself.

Unchanged.

The grotesque carvings. The towering serpent statues. The eerie stillness.

And at the center—

The basilisk.

Untouched. Like it had been killed just yesterday.

Its massive form lay undisturbed, scales still gleaming beneath layers of dust, its fangs sharp as ever. Even in death, it commanded the space, coiled as if waiting to strike.

Severus exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “It should have decayed.”

Harry shrugged, twirling his wand between his fingers. “Hogwarts has a habit of preserving things.”

Severus ran his hand along one of the massive ribs, feeling the lingering magic pulsing through the remains. The venom, if still potent, would be unlike anything else in existence.

He turned, flicking his wand. “Lumos Maxima.”

Light flooded the chamber, shadows stretching unnaturally against the carved serpent heads. The basilisk’s hollow eyes seemed to glisten under the glow.

Harry whistled low. “You know, I expected this to feel weirder.”

“Returning to the place where you nearly died? Yes, quite the casual experience.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “I suppose it helps that I’m with you this time.”

Severus ignored the warmth that settled in his chest at that.

Instead, he conjured a sturdy stand, carefully propping up one of the massive fangs. “Stay out of the way unless you wish to be poisoned beyond salvation.”

Harry mock-zipped his lips, grinning.

Severus rolled his eyes and got to work.

Severus worked methodically, his focus sharp as he extracted everything of value from the basilisk’s remains. The venom had been the priority, but it would be foolish to ignore the wealth of rare ingredients at their disposal.

With careful wandwork, he began harvesting the fangs, each one still razor-sharp, pulsing with latent magic. He sliced through connective tissue with effortless precision, preserving them whole. The bones followed—dense, reinforced with centuries of magic, they would serve as powerful potion catalysts.

Harry, watching with barely contained admiration, leaned against one of the massive stone pillars. “I’d say something suggestive, but I’m afraid you’ll stab me with one of these.”

“An excellent deterrent,” Severus murmured, his hands steady as he flicked his wand. A femur detached cleanly from the skeletal remains, hovering beside him before he guided it into a conjured preservation bag.

Harry whistled low. “I’m serious, though. You make it look effortless.”

Severus allowed the faintest smirk. “Years of expertise, Potter. I do not bumble my way through things.”

Harry snorted. “Unlike me?”

Severus gave him a flat look. “You said it, not me.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he steadied another vial while Severus moved on to the scales. He whispered an incantation, and the emerald-hued plates lifted away from the skeleton, shimmering under the dim light of the chamber.

“These alone are worth a fortune,” Severus mused, examining their flawless condition before storing them carefully.

Harry nodded toward the massive eye sockets. “What about those?”

Severus hummed, stepping closer. “The membranes are dried, but the essence of basilisk sight may still linger.” With a precise severing spell, he extracted the fragile remains of the beast’s eyes, preserving what little was left.

They worked in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft hum of magic and the steady rustling of their preparations. By the time Severus sealed the last of their harvest, they had amassed a trove of impossibly rare materials.

“Not bad,” Harry mused. “All that’s left is phoenix tears.”

Severus pocketed the final vial, casting a cleansing spell over his gloves. “A far more difficult acquisition.”

Harry stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Good thing I have a plan.”

Severus fixed him with a stare. “Why does that concern me?”

Harry grinned. “Everything I do concerns you.”

Severus exhaled through his nose, straightened his robes, and turned on his heel.

“Lead the way, you reckless menace.”

Harry, still grinning, walked ahead.

The castle let them in without a whisper of resistance.

Through the halls, past the moving staircases—there was no alarm, no shifting magic trying to deter them. Even now, even after everything, Hogwarts still recognized them as its own.

The thought made Severus sick.

Harry walked ahead with quiet confidence, his steps unhurried, his gaze fixed forward. When they reached the stone gargoyle, he didn’t even hesitate.

“Lemon drop,” he said dryly.

The passage spiraled open at once.

Severus followed him up, feeling the weight of the past pressing against his ribs.

Then, as they stepped inside—

“I expected you sooner.”

Severus's breath left him in a slow exhale.

There, seated as though he had never left, Dumbledore’s portrait watched them with familiar, quiet expectation.

Harry ignored him. He strode across the office, straight for the locked cabinet behind the grand desk, and with a flick of his wand, the first layer of enchantments fell away.

Severus didn’t move.

He simply watched.

Watched as the old man who had shaped both their lives held his tongue.

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered toward Severus for a moment—measuring, weighing. Then, to Harry.

“Harry, you know what you’re doing is dangerous.”

Harry stilled, his fingers curled around the cabinet’s handle.

For a moment, Severus thought he wouldn’t respond.

Then—

“Oh, now you care about danger?” Harry asked, his voice light, cold. He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he wrenched the cabinet open. “Funny how that works.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I only meant—”

“—that I should be careful?” Harry interrupted, plucking the vial of phoenix tears from its place. His fingers tightened around the glass. “That I should tread lightly? That I should be mindful of my actions? That I should—what, think before making reckless decisions?”

The portrait was silent.

Severus could see the anger in Harry’s shoulders—coiled tight, simmering beneath his skin.

“You saved this,” Harry muttered, rolling the vial between his fingers. “For what? Some future war? Some noble cause you’d decide was worthy?” He turned, green eyes dark. “And what? Severus wasn’t?”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change.

“You let him rot,” Harry said quietly. “You let both of us rot.”

Severus exhaled slowly, watching as the weight of something heavy settled between them.

“I did what I thought was right,” Dumbledore murmured.

Harry’s grip on the vial tightened. "And it was so easy, wasn’t it?" His voice was quiet, shaking at the edges. “You stood in this office and you played god and you told yourself it was for the greater good.”

A pause.

Then, sharper—

“But you knew.”

Dumbledore’s expression flickered.

“You knew Voldemort was using him,” Harry pressed, his voice cutting. “That he was leeching off his magic, draining him dry. That he was going to burn him out until there was nothing left.”

Severus’s fingers curled into his palm.

Harry took a step forward. “You knew he might survive the war as a squib. That even if he lived, he’d be empty—that he’d never be the same, that he’d never be whole again.”

Severus swallowed, forcing his jaw to stay locked, his expression neutral.

But Harry—

Harry’s voice dropped, quiet and sharp as a knife’s edge.

“You knew, and you let it happen anyway.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes. “I had hoped—”

“Hoped?” Harry’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Oh, brilliant. You hoped. You threw him into hell and hoped he’d make it out the other side.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Severus should have spoken.

He should have stopped this—should have cut it down, should have dragged Harry out of this office before it swallowed them both whole.

But he didn’t.

Because Harry was right.

The truth of it sat heavy in his chest, old and festering.

And so, he simply watched.

Dumbledore, for all his power, for all his wisdom, looked small.

And yet, still, he dared.

“If I had told you the truth,” he said softly, “would you have fought any less fiercely?”

The words struck like a physical blow.

Harry's entire frame stilled.

The room was utterly silent.

Harry’s fingers curled around the stack of parchment.

Then, without looking back, he turned away and kept rifling through Dumbledore’s hoard.

Dumbledore, unsuccessful with Harry, turned to Severus. "Severus, you must see where this is leading. Harry—he walks dangerously close to a line he may not return from. And you—your soul has already been torn enough."

Severus chuckled. "Oh, Albus. You, lecturing me on the state of my soul? How ironic."

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, but Severus only tilted his head. "Did you ever wonder if I felt it? The night you begged me to cast the curse? You made me your executioner, and now you mourn the consequences?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You were never a monster, Severus."

"No, but I learned." Severus’s lips curled. "And you—so careful, so clean—you never had to bloody your own hands."

Harry scoffed, shoving another vial into his bag. "Now you care about torn souls?"

He turned, eyes sharp. "I died, remember? You let me be marked, sent me to slaughter, let him rip a part of me away like it was nothing. And now you think you get to lecture us?"

Dumbledore was silent.

Severus smirked. "Spare us the moralizing, Albus. We’ve paid your price. Now we live."

The portrait went dark.

Harry let out a breath of laughter, turning toward him. "I can’t believe you just blinded Dumbledore."

Severus smirked, tucking a few extra books he had always wished to own into his pocket. "You’re the one who robbed him, love. I simply decided I didn’t wish to be lectured."

Harry gave him an exasperated look—one that melted into something softer as they stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of their past.

Once, they had stood in this room as his boys.

Now, they left as their own men.

Severus held out a hand.

Harry took it.

And together, they walked out.

Chapter Text

📍 Month 16 ( August 1999)

They snuck into Hogwarts again only a few days after their heist. Given that the castle—despite everything—still welcomed them back without resistance, Severus had decided to make use of the opportunity. Not to linger within the castle itself, but to return to his favorite part of the grounds.

The Forbidden Forest.

Specifically, the patches of land where he had spent the last fourteen years carefully cultivating potion ingredients to be of the highest quality possible. Hidden from the prying eyes of incompetent students and meddlesome staff, these growths had flourished under his meticulous care—rare, untampered, and far superior to anything found in apothecaries.

And now, under the cover of night, he was harvesting the rewards of his patience and hard work once again.

Harry, however, was not nearly as enthused.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—Severus, tell me honestly, are we harvesting or relocating the entire damn forest?”

Severus did not bother glancing up from the patch of moonwort he was carefully plucking. The delicate, silver-veined leaves shimmered faintly under the glow of his wand, potent only when gathered beneath the full moon. “We are collecting necessary ingredients, as you well know.”

A few feet away, Harry made an exaggerated show of inspecting his hands, sleeves, and the dirt beneath his fingernails with great offense. “I know that, but we’ve been here for two hours. I can’t feel my fingers!”

Severus hummed, entirely unsympathetic. “Perhaps if you spent less time pouting and more time working, you’d be warmer.”

Harry scoffed. “I am working! I’m being very useful. My contribution is invaluable.” He gestured vaguely at the darkness around them. “You, on the other hand, are practically frolicking. It’s disturbing.”

Severus finally glanced at him, arching a brow. “ Frolicking implies an unnecessary excess of enthusiasm.” He plucked another sprig of moonwort with deliberate precision. “I am simply… better at this than you.”

Harry groaned, running a hand down his face. “Unbelievable. Of course, you’re enjoying yourself. I bet if you had it your way, we’d spend every night foraging like medieval apothecaries—”

Severus turned back to his work, smirking. “An excellent suggestion. I’ll adjust your schedule accordingly.”

Harry opened his mouth, no doubt to launch into another dramatic complaint, when his fingers brushed over a thick, spiny patch of leaves. “What about these?”

Severus flicked a glance at them and huffed. “Wolfsbane. And if you value your future offspring as much as you value sleep, you’ll use gloves before handling them.”

Harry snorted, tugging on his gloves with deliberate slowness. “There isn’t going to be a future offspring if you keep making me dig through dirt at midnight instead of being safe and warm—where we could be cuddling. Better yet…” He grinned, tilting his head in that insufferable way he did when he was about to cause trouble. “Making an offspring.”

Severus exhaled sharply, plucking another sprig of moonwort with unnecessary precision. “Given that we are both men, ‘making an offspring’ for us would involve a great deal of Ministry visits and paperwork , which, I am fairly certain, is not something that can be accomplished in the middle of the night, in the comfort of our own home.”

Harry let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back. “You know what I meant, Sev!”

Severus did not even pause in his harvesting, his tone infuriatingly smooth. “Do I?”

Harry shoots him a look but says nothing, rolling his shoulders before bending down to examine a patch of Stargrass growing along the base of a nearby tree. The silvery-white blades shimmer faintly under the moonlight, its delicate tips swaying even in the still air. It is a temperamental plant, one that grows only in deeply magical soil, and yet another example of Severus’s careful cultivation.

“Do you need this?” Harry asks, brushing a finger just shy of the stalk.

Severus glances over. “Yes. Pluck it at the base. And do not damage the roots—I’ll be replanting them.”

Harry mutters something about fussy old men under his breath but obeys, collecting the stalks and tucking them into a small cloth pouch.

They work in relative silence after that, moving methodically through the clearing. Severus harvests a fine collection of Dittany leaves, their potency far exceeding what is typically sold in Diagon Alley. Harry unearths a handful of Starthistle bulbs, grumbling as he wipes dirt onto his already-ruined trousers.

“Do you really need Venomous Tentacula pods?” Harry grumbles after a while, shifting his weight as he eyes the writhing vines cautiously. “These things bite.”

Severus smirks as he reaches for his shears. “They do, if you’re careless.”

Harry grumbles under his breath but carefully extracts the pods, holding them at a cautious distance before stowing them away.

For all his complaints, Severus notes, Harry is good at this. He works efficiently, knows exactly how to extract ingredients with minimal damage, and—most importantly—he doesn’t ask stupid questions.

Well. Not often.

“How do you even know where all these things grow?” Harry asks, standing with a stretch, his cloak rustling.

Severus gives him a pointed look. “Because I’ve been cultivating them for years.”

Harry blinks. “Wait. You mean… all of this? The Moonwort, the Asphodel, the Tentacula—it’s all yours?”

Severus rolls his eyes, as if the answer is obvious. “Hogwarts has an entire greenhouse, but the fools running it never understood the true potential of wild-grown ingredients. I have been tending these patches, ensuring a supply of superior materials.”

Harry lets out a slow whistle. “Merlin. No wonder you’re so picky. You literally grew your own black market.”

Severus smirks but says nothing, reaching for a cluster of Fireseed berries.

Finally, after three more hours of careful harvesting, Severus assessed their haul—seven full crates, each meticulously packed and preserved. A highly productive night.

Beside him, Harry let out a long, suffering groan.

“Are we done?” he whined. Then, eyeing Severus warily, “Or is there a secret ingredient vault I should know about?”

Severus gave him a flat look. “We’re done.”

Harry lets out a triumphant noise, dragging a hand through his hair. “Thank Merlin. If I’d known sneaking into Hogwarts would turn into an extended foraging expedition, I’d have asked for something in return.”

Severus smirks, sealing the last crate. “I seem to recall you enjoying yourself just fine during the actual heist.”

Harry grins. “Fair point. But you’re still taking me somewhere warm after this.”

Severus hums, brushing the dirt from his gloves. “Fine. But you’re carrying those two.” He nods toward the smaller containers left on the ground.

Harry groans but sits up properly “I can’t believe you’re making me work after I nearly died out here.”

Severus shoots him an unimpressed glance. “You’ve been near death far too many times for that to hold weight.”

Harry chuckles, stretching his body. “Yeah, but not all of them were in this exact forest.”

Severus frowns slightly at that. “What?”

Harry nods toward a break in the trees. “Somewhere over there, I think. Hard to say exactly.”

Severus’s brow furrows. “You mean—?”

Harry sighs, expression unreadable. “Yep. Voldemort. Final battle. That whole thing. Tragic, really. Usually, seventeen-year-olds get kissed in the Forbidden Forest. Of course, I had to be different.”

Severus stills.

Severus stilled.

He had known, of course, that Voldemort had killed him. But knowing it had happened here—in this exact patch of forest, beneath these same towering trees—sent an unexpected chill down his spine.

He glanced around, taking in the unremarkable stillness of the clearing, the way the moonlight painted the ground in soft silver, as if this had only ever been an ordinary place. As if death had not stood here.

His fingers tightened around his wand—not out of fear, not even out of discomfort, but something more visceral. Something that settled deep in his chest, cold and unwelcome.

He had spent so many years carrying his own ghosts. He did not expect to feel Harry’s.

Harry, as always, treats it with an infuriating amount of casual ease.

But then, Harry’s grin fades slightly, his gaze flickering toward the distant trees, where shadows stretch long beneath the moonlight.

“I saw them here, you know. My parents. Sirius.” His voice is quieter now, tinged with something unreadable. “They told me they were proud. That they’d stay with me.” He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “It was strange. They felt so close, but… distant, too. Like they were already gone, and I was just borrowing them for a moment.”

Severus doesn’t speak immediately.

He had spent years holding onto hate like a shield, had sworn never to forgive James Potter or Black for what they had done to him in youth. Had sworn to carry his grief for Lily like a wound that refused to heal.

And yet, as he looks at Harry now, there is no hatred burning in his chest, no lingering resentment twisting in his gut.

Only worry—for Harry, for the weight he carries so carelessly, for the past he had to face alone at such a young age.

Severus exhales, his gaze flicking over Harry’s face, his expression, the way the shadows of the trees play against his features.

And then, softly—firmly—he says, “You were brave.”

Something flickers in Harry’s gaze.

Harry blinks.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Then—

A quiet, breathless laugh. “Yeah?”

Severus hums, voice even. “Foolish, reckless, entirely insufferable—but brave.”

Harry huffs, but his lips twitch. “The best at it, you think?”

Severus smirks. “Undoubtedly.”

Something flickers in Harry’s gaze.

Then, he smiles. “You were too, you know.”

Severus scoffs but does not argue.

Instead, he reaches out, curling his fingers around the front of Harry’s cloak, and pulls him in for a lingering kiss.

And there it is.

No anger. No resentment. No ghosts of the past clinging to the edges of his mind.

Just Harry.

Just this.

Harry’s hands find their way to Severus’s sleeves, gripping lightly, just enough to feel something solid. Then he hums against his lips, grinning. “Look at that. I finally got one.”

Severus chuckles, stepping back. “A pity it had to be posthumous.”

Harry grabs the crate with a sigh but is still smiling as he nudges Severus lightly.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the castle. “Let’s get out of here before something actually tries to kill us.”

Severus smirks, finally reaching for his wand to levitate the crates—only to flick it once more at a nearby cluster of Knotgrass, summoning a few sprigs into an empty crate.

Harry groans loudly. “Seriously?”

Severus arches a brow, utterly unapologetic. “Waste not.”

They start walking, but every few steps, Severus absentmindedly plucks more ingredients—a handful of dried nettles from a low-hanging branch, a sprig of mallow, a perfectly intact puffskein nest.

Harry narrows his eyes as he watches yet another bundle of herbs float into the eighth crate.

“You are literally filling up another one.”

Severus humms, as if this is barely worth acknowledging. “Would you rather I return another night?”

Harry throws up his hands. “No, Merlin forbid, I’d hate to interrupt your midnight gardening hobby.”

Severus smirks. “Then stop complaining and keep walking.”

Harry grumbles under his breath but doesn’t argue, falling into step beside him as the last of the night stretches around them.

By the time they were inside, the warmth of their home was a stark contrast to the biting cold of the night. Harry let out an exaggerated groan as he dropped the last crate with a thud, kicking off his boots without care.

"That’s it. I am never stepping foot in that forest again. If you need ingredients, I’ll just throw gold at an apothecary until they bring them to you."

Severus, completely unruffled, flicked his wand, levitating the crates neatly onto the table before removing his gloves.

"Yes, because that has worked so well in the past. Shall I remind you of the subpar Wolfsbane you purchased last month?"

Harry groaned, flopping dramatically into a chair. "That was one time."

"It was a near-death experience."

Harry waved a lazy hand, already slouching further. "Semantics."

Severus snorted, beginning to sort through their gathered ingredients with the same methodical precision he applied to brewing. It was a process that Harry should have been accustomed to by now, and yet—

Harry groaned loudly. “Severus, please—darling, dearest, love of my life—”

Severus paused just long enough to give him a flat stare.

Harry pressed on, undeterred. “It’s three in the bloody morning. We have been outside for five hours. I am tired, my feet hurt, my fingers are frozen, and I cannot spend another second watching you sort herbs while I contemplate the many ways I could be warm instead.”

Severus, unimpressed, flicked his wand, sending the first crate onto the table. “If you are so desperate for warmth, I am certain you are capable of seeking it out.”

Harry groaned dramatically once again. “Yes, but I want to be warm together. And you need sleep.” He gestured wildly at Severus as if to make his point. “Come on, you know you do.”

Severus arched his brow. “I am perfectly fine.”

“You look two minutes away from collapsing.”

“I look exactly the same as I always do.”

“Exactly.”

Severus narrowed his eyes.

Harry only grinned, stepping directly into his space, looping his arms around Severus’s waist before he could protest.

Severus exhaled through his nose, his hands finding their way to Harry’s shoulders, not quite pushing him away.

Harry tilted his head up, smirking. “Admit it. You like me.”

Severus arched a brow. “An unfortunate reality.”

Harry beamed, victorious.

Severus rolled his eyes and stepped back. “As much as I’d love to indulge your dramatics, the crates must be put away.”

Harry let out an exaggerated groan, tipping his head back. “Severus, please. They’ll be fine for one night.”

Severus gave him a look.

Harry huffed, crossing his arms. “You are aware that if I collapse from exhaustion, you’ll have no one to bother at all hours, right?”

Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go heat up dinner. And make tea. Properly.” He leveled a sharp look at him. “And do not drown it in honey.”

Harry’s pout deepened, but he reluctantly pushed himself away from Severus, muttering about cruel, heartless boyfriends who prioritize herbs over their suffering partners.

Severus ignored him, flicking his wand to levitate the crates toward his lab. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Harry trudged toward the kitchen, dramatically dragging his feet. “Five minutes, he says. We both know that means at least twenty.”

Severus smirked to himself as he disappeared into the lab, shaking his head.

Thirty minutes later, they were settled in the sitting room, wrapped in soft, clean pajamas, steaming cups of warm tea in hand. The fire flickered lazily, casting golden light across the room, its heat slowly chasing away the lingering chill of the night. The scent of herbs and spices from their meal still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of tea and something distinctly Severus—potion oils and crisp parchment, dark spices and warmth.

Harry let out a long, contented sigh, sinking further into the couch. His bare feet stretched toward the fire, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, his hands curled around his cup as if he never intended to let go.

Severus, watching him over the rim of his own cup, looked thoroughly unimpressed. “If I had known a cup of tea would earn your eternal devotion, I would have used it to silence you years ago.”

Harry grinned, tilting his head toward him. “It’s not just the tea,” he murmured. “It’s the company.”

Severus gave him a flat look.

Harry nudged him lightly with his foot, stretching out so his legs draped partially over Severus’s lap, his smirk only widening when Severus sighed but did not push him off.

“I can finally feel my toes again,” Harry sighed dramatically, wiggling them.

Severus rolled his eyes, but set his cup aside and, without a word, pulled one of Harry’s feet into his lap.

Harry blinked, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Are you—?”

Severus, expression unreadable, pressed his thumbs into the arch of Harry’s foot, kneading out the tension with slow, deliberate pressure.

Harry let out a noise so unfiltered that Severus nearly paused.

“Oh, Merlin—” Harry groaned, his head falling back against the couch. “Okay. I take it back. I’ll go with you every night if this is what I get afterward.”

Severus smirked, pressing his fingers deeper, expertly working over tight muscles. “Bribery will not earn you favoritism.”

Harry cracked an eye open, smirking lazily. “You say that, but you’re still doing it.”

Severus huffed, but his fingers didn’t falter, trailing up the curve of Harry’s calf, kneading warmth into tired muscles.

Harry sighed, eyes slipping shut. “You’re ridiculously good at this,” he mumbled.

“I am skilled in many things,” Severus said smoothly.

Harry chuckled but did not argue, his body loosening more with each precise press of Severus’s fingers.

For a while, they simply sat there—the warmth of the fire, the slow movements of Severus’s hands, the comfort of the quiet settling between them like something tangible.

Then, without thinking, Harry shifted—sitting up slightly, his legs still draped over Severus’s lap, but now closer.

Severus quirked an eyebrow, but before he could question it, Harry reached out—his fingers curling at the nape of Severus’s neck, thumb brushing lightly against his jaw.

And then he kissed him.

Slow, warm—lingering.

Severus stilled, his fingers faltering against Harry’s calf, but he did not pull away.

Harry tilted his head, deepening the kiss just slightly, a hum of contentment vibrating between them. His free hand slid along Severus’s collarbone, fingertips brushing over the fabric of his robe as if memorizing the shape of him.

Severus exhaled through his nose, his hands settling at Harry’s waist, grounding him.

The fire crackled softly beside them, filling the space with warmth, but it was nothing compared to the heat curling between them now.

Eventually, Harry pulled back, but only just—his nose brushing against Severus’s, his breath still warm between them.

Severus studied him, his dark eyes unreadable, his fingers still resting against Harry’s hips.

Harry grinned sleepily, his thumb still tracing along Severus’s jaw. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m definitely going with you every time.”

Severus chuckled, a quiet, indulgent sound.

Harry, pleased with himself, gave him a quick, playful peck before nudging him with his knee. “Come to bed?”

Severus sighed but allowed himself to be pulled up, reaching for their empty cups before nudging Harry gently forward with a firm press of his hand against his back.

Harry stretched, lifting his arms lazily over his head, before trailing after him down the hall, his footsteps slow and easy with exhaustion , and the moment Severus slipped beneath the blankets, Harry was on him.

Harry was already curling into him—no, on him, pressing his full weight against Severus as if the very act of lying beside him was insufficient. His arm draped heavily across Severus’s waist, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his nightshirt, while his face tucked into the crook of Severus’s neck, breath warm against his skin.

His legs tangled with Severus’s own, shifting slightly before settling, molding against him as if this was the only place he had ever meant to be.

Severus sighed, not in true exasperation, but with the quiet resignation of a man who had long since lost this particular battle. His hand found its way up Harry’s back, fingers trailing absent patterns before slipping into the mess of dark hair, combing through it with slow familiarity.

Then, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of Harry’s head, Severus murmured, “Thank you,” . For going with me. For staying.

Harry let out a soft, contented sigh, mumbling something unintelligible against Severus’s skin, already half asleep.

Severus exhaled, voice softer now. “Good night , harry .”

Harry hummed in response, his hold tightening just slightly as if he’d never let go.

Severus hesitated only a second before settling in fully, his fingers splaying between Harry’s shoulder blades, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his breath.

This—this was good. This was warm. Better than good. He had no complaints.

Severus closed his eyes.

The night had been perfect .

Severus was in the middle of adjusting the temperature on one of his brewing cauldrons a few weeks later when a ripple of magic disturbed the wards above. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, sensing the shift in the air. Someone had entered the house.

His grip on his wand tightened.

Harry had been alone when Severus came down here.

With a flick of his wrist, he stabilized the cauldron before glancing down at his watch. The enchanted timepiece, keyed specifically to Harry’s well-being, remained steady—its hands ticking in a slow, unbothered rhythm. No warning pulse, no flicker of distress.

No immediate danger.

Still, Severus wasn’t one to take chances.

He stepped out of the lab, movements fluid and silent as he ascended the stairs, ears attuned to the voices filtering in from the sitting room.

“And you thought just showing up at the house was the best way to do that?” Harry’s voice, sharp with irritation, cut through the air.

Severus paused just outside the room, listening.

“We thought it’d be better than writing first,” Hermione replied, though she sounded a little uncertain now.

“You could have at least sent an owl!”

“Mate, when do you ever read your post?” Ron shot back.

Harry made a noise of frustration, and Severus decided it was time to make an entrance.

He stepped through the threshold just in time to see Harry running a hand through his hair, the other clenched tightly around a newspaper.

The moment Severus appeared, the room stilled.

Hermione turned first, her breath catching slightly as she took him in. Her eyes widened, flickering over his face, his clothes—lingering just a second too long on his very expensive, very well-fitted robes.

Ron, who had been pacing near the fireplace, stopped mid-step and promptly stepped back. His eyes darted between Severus and Harry with an expression that screamed, what the bloody hell is happening here?

For a long, painful moment, nobody spoke.

Severus merely arched a brow, taking in the sight of them both—older, war-worn, but unmistakably the same in all the ways that mattered. Not children anymore.

Hermione swallowed and straightened her shoulders, shifting into something polite but cautious. “It’s—good to see you, Professor.”

Ron hesitated. Then, after an awkward pause, nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Good to see you.” His voice was oddly strained, as if the words had to be manually forced out.

Severus did not miss the way Ron’s hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for his wand.

He inclined his head slightly. “Likewise.”

Hermione blinked. Ron stared.

Apparently, neither had anticipated actual civility.

Harry, still standing between them, let out a sharp exhale, rubbing the back of his neck like he was considering throwing himself out the nearest window. The newspaper in his grip crinkled violently under the pressure of his clenched fist.

Severus’s gaze flicked downward.

MINISTRY CONCERNED ABOUT SNAPE’S WHEREABOUTS

And beneath it, in damning, smaller text:

UNANSWERED WAR CRIMES?

Ah.

Severus hummed mildly.

Harry, however, was not nearly as calm. His lips pressed into a firm line as he caught Severus’s glance, as if bracing for a reaction.

Severus, however, merely studied the headline for a brief moment before speaking, his tone even.

“Winky.”

A sharp pop echoed through the room as the house-elf appeared, bowing her head.

“Tea for our guests,” Severus instructed smoothly, his gaze never leaving Harry.

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing as Winky gave a quick nod and vanished.

The silence stretched.

Hermione and Ron looked between Harry and Severus, clearly expecting something.

Severus did not particularly care to entertain them.

Without preamble, without explanation, and with absolutely no care for their audience, he lifted a hand to Harry’s wrist, brushing his thumb lightly over his pulse before pressing a firm, grounding kiss to his forehead.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Hermione and Ron looked between Harry and Severus, clearly expecting something.

Severus did not particularly care to entertain them.

Without preamble, without explanation, and with absolutely no care for their audience, he lifted a hand to Harry’s wrist, brushing his thumb lightly over his pulse before pressing a firm, grounding kiss to his forehead.

The reaction was instantaneous.

A tiny, strangled noise came from Granger—halfway between a gasp and a wheeze.

Weasley recoiled. Severus caught the brief widening of his eyes, the slackening of his jaw—then the way his gaze snapped between Severus, Harry, and, most unfortunately, the barely visible mark peeking from beneath Harry’s collar. His mouth opened—closed—then opened again, as if his entire mental framework had been violently rewritten in real-time.

Harry, meanwhile, stiffened briefly before sighing, tension unraveling as Severus pulled away. His grip on the newspaper slackened, but Severus noted the creeping flush rising across his cheeks—the kind of pink that deepened further under the unwavering, stunned scrutiny of his friends.

Severus arched a brow. Hermione’s gaze darted to Weasley, her expression torn between alarm and some rapidly calculating thought process.

Weasley, however, had abandoned all pretense of composure. His face twisted in a manner that suggested deep personal betrayal, as though he had just witnessed something profoundly against the natural order of the world.

Severus smirked internally, satisfied.

Turning, he flicked a glance at Harry, whose scowl was significantly undermined by the furious blush creeping up his neck.

“I’ll be in the lab when you’re done,” Severus said smoothly, his tone far too neutral to be anything but deliberate.

Harry groaned softly, still looking faintly mortified. “You could warn me next time.”

Severus did not bother responding. He had far better things to do.

With a final sweep of his robes, he left the room, leaving them to their existential crisis.

Only thirty minutes later, as Severus carefully measured out a precise drop of phoenix tears into the simmering potion, he heard footsteps descending the stairs.

Severus knew he was approaching—felt the familiar, steady press of his magic entering the lab, threading through the air like an instinctive claim. What he didn’t expect was for Harry to walk straight into his space, arms sliding around his waist from behind as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, he supposed, it was these days. Only seven weeks, and the brat had him forgiving the greatest of offenses—like disturbing his brewing.

Severus stiffened slightly, more out of habit than protest. “What have I told you about lab safety, Potter?” he muttered, reaching for a vial of powdered moonwort.

Harry, utterly unrepentant, hummed against his shoulder. “That I should only bother you when I’m feeling particularly reckless.”

Severus let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head as he measured out the next ingredient. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” Harry agreed easily, tightening his hold slightly before pressing a kiss to Severus’s shoulder. “You were down here a while. Thought I’d come check if you were planning to resurface.”

Severus flicked his wand, stirring the potion counterclockwise before lowering the flame beneath the cauldron. “If that were a concern, I assume Winky would have force-fed me by now.”

Harry chuckled, shifting slightly against him. “True. But I like to think I hold the privilege of being your favorite nuisance.”

Severus scoffed. “Debatable.”

Harry grinned, chin resting against his shoulder as he glanced at the cauldron. “What are you working on?”

“Same thing I am always working on.”

“Mmm” Harry murmured, voice dipping into that lazy, teasing warmth Severus had come to recognize as trouble. His arms tightened slightly before he added, “You know, you didn’t even ask how things went with Ron and Hermione.”

Severus tilted his head slightly, arching a brow. “Would you like me to feign concern?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “No, but most people would at least ask if they were still talking to me after that.”

Severus smirked faintly, carefully adjusting the temperature of the potion before flicking his wand to suspend the process. He turned slightly, glancing at Harry. “Were they?”

Harry groaned, letting his forehead drop against Severus’s back. “Oh, Hermione is fine. She’s still a little—shocked, but she’s taking it in stride. Ron…” He trailed off, exhaling. “Ron’s having a bit of an existential crisis. I think seeing you well-dressed and voluntarily affectionate might’ve short-circuited his brain.”

Severus hummed in amusement. “Understandable.”

Harry nudged him playfully. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”.

 “I don’t see why I should concern myself with their reactions. I have better things to do.”

Harry peered up at him, his expression shifting slightly, something softer settling behind his gaze. “You really don’t care about all this, do you?”

Severus studied him for a moment before speaking, his voice steady. “No.”

Harry’s brows knit slightly. “Why?”

Severus exhaled, turning more fully to face him. He lifted a hand, brushing his fingers along Harry’s wrist. “Because I trust you.”

Harry blinked, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard.

Severus smirked faintly. “Did you not tell me you were gathering blackmail materials against the officials involved?” He trailed a single finger along the edge of Harry’s sleeve. “You brought me back from death, Potter. Why should I panic over something as small as this?”

Harry let out a slow breath, the last remnants of tension in his shoulders easing away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m practical,” Severus corrected smoothly.

Harry shook his head, but the corners of his lips curled up. “If I asked, would you let me kill the ones organizing this?”

Severus arched a brow. “As long as you can do it without getting caught.”

Harry huffed a laugh, pressing his forehead against Severus’s temple. “You are terrible.”

“And yet, you remain.”

Harry grinned before pulling back, his hands settling at Severus’s waist again. “You know, I was going to come down here to convince you to take a break.”

“I am perfectly capable of managing my own schedule,” Severus remarked dryly.

Harry tilted his head, green eyes gleaming mischievously. “Are you?”

Severus narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “What are you plotting?”

Harry tugged him a step closer, fingers curling at his hips. “You, me, outside, and takeout.”

Severus scoffed. “An enlightening proposal.”

Harry smirked. “Figured you could use a proper break. Fresh air. Food. The horrible experience of spending quality time with me.”

Severus studied him for a long moment before exhaling, flicking his wand to fully suspend the potion’s brewing process.

Harry blinked. “Wait. You’re actually agreeing?”

Severus smirked. “I can be persuaded.”

Harry grinned, stepping back and tugging him along. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you change your mind.”

Severus allowed himself to be pulled along, shaking his head. But as he followed Harry up the stairs, the soft sound of their footsteps mingling in the quiet of the house, he found—just this once—he didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

"Harry. Focus."

"I am focusing, love."

"On the ritual. Not me."

Harry grinned, unrepentant, as he rested one hand gently against Severus’s chest. “Bit difficult when you look like this.”

Severus made a sound of mild exasperation, but his body betrayed him—leaning ever so slightly closer as the threads of pale blue magic began to flow from Harry’s palm into his.

The runes along Harry’s forearm pulsed with quiet light, activated the moment contact was made. The transfer was steady, instinctual now—no longer strained or hesitant. Their magic had learned each other’s rhythms, like dancers stepping into a familiar waltz.

Severus’s breath hitched, just faintly, as the warmth spread through him. It settled low in his core, bolstering the tether that had been gradually rebuilding since the first ritual. His fingers twitched slightly, not from pain—never from pain now—but from the thrill of returning strength.

The golden potion simmering nearby responded to the surge, casting lazy, rippling light across the table. Nearly done. Nearly whole.

“You’re getting better at this,” Harry murmured, watching the shimmer across Severus’s skin with blatant appreciation.

“I am,” Severus agreed. “Though perhaps I’d be improving faster if my donor weren’t so clearly preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied?” Harry echoed, feigning innocence.

“You were staring,” Severus said flatly.

Harry leaned in, brushing his nose against Severus’s cheek. “I was admiring my boyfriend . Completely different. Entirely allowed.”

“Debatable.”

“Come on,” Harry said, his fingers curling at the front of Severus’s robes, voice dipping, “you love it.”

Severus didn’t argue. He simply closed the gap between them and let Harry kiss him—slow and certain, familiar and new all at once. His hand found the back of Harry’s neck, thumb pressing just behind his ear as if anchoring him there.

The room felt warmer when they parted.

Their magic hummed quietly between them, lingering where their lips had met. The potion thickened, the gold deepening in tone, like it, too, was listening.

“It’s close,” Severus murmured, forehead resting against Harry’s. “But not enough. Not yet.”

Harry reached up, brushing his thumb lazily along Severus’s collarbone. “Still not satisfied, are you?”

Severus gave him a look. “The last siphoning was from Travers. He could barely string together a full sentence.”

Harry laughed, then tilted his head in consideration. “Right, we need someone more potent.” He leaned his weight onto the table, lips twitching. “Well then. How about Macnair?”

Severus’s gaze sharpened. “Macnair?”

“Mm,” Harry hummed, casual. “He’s been seen skulking near Edinburgh. Goes by ‘Cormac Finch’ now. Pathetic alias. Apparently took over a smugglers’ ring for cursed objects. Been building up again—quiet, but steady.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Hagrid threw him through a stone wall during the battle. Broke half his ribs and damaged his spine.”

“Yeah. Never healed right,” Harry said. “Walks with a bit of a limp now. But his magic’s still intact. Hasn’t been touched by the Ministry in years. Didn’t register after the war.”

Severus’s fingers drummed once against the table. “That would make him… stable. Anchored. The perfect conduit.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, a bit too pleased. “Heavy magic. Steady tether. He’s the last one you need, right?”

Severus nodded once. “With him, the ritual will hold.”

“Well then,” Harry said, brushing imaginary lint off Severus’s collar, “we’ll get him. Easy.”

Severus turned fully toward him, eyes flicking briefly to Harry’s glowing runes before trailing upward to meet his gaze.

“Whoever you find will be fine,” he said softly, hand sliding up Harry’s side. “But stop talking about Death Eaters when I am about to kiss you.”

Harry grinned. “Right. Awful timing. Sorry.”

Severus leaned in, catching his mouth again—this kiss deeper, more thorough. Like a promise.

And Harry—melting into it, fingers curling tighter at Severus’s waist—let him.

They already knew they would succeed.

Of course they would.

Macnair’s estate had once loomed with arrogant grandeur—thick stone, wrought iron, and enough wards to deter a Ministry task force.

Now it sulked.

The outer walls leaned in strange directions, like the manor itself had grown tired of standing. Ivy choked the roof. The gardens were wild with overgrowth. The windows stared out, hollow and empty, like the house had screamed itself hoarse years ago and never recovered.

Harry, beside Severus and cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm, didn’t bother hiding his disgust. “I know he’s a sad little war criminal, but this is still the ugliest house I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a ruin,” Severus replied mildly, eyes scanning the perimeter. “Fitting.”

They stepped through the crumbling gates, their footsteps soundless on cracked stone. There was no need for words between them—the plan had already been laid. Severus would anchor the siphoning ritual. Harry would handle everything else.

Unsurprisingly, Macnair didn’t make them wait.

The air shifted, sharp with the unmistakable pulse of magic, and Macnair burst from the shadows like a dying man still pretending he could win. His robes were scorched and tattered, one leg dragging slightly behind him. His wand hand trembled with strain. His eyes burned with the desperation of someone who knew this was the end—but refused to go quietly.

“You filthy—traitors!” he bellowed, launching a barrage of curses that crackled with spite more than strength.

Harry deflected them without blinking.

A flick of his wand sent one careening into the manor wall with a boom and a cloud of disintegrating brick. Another twisted midair, dissipating harmlessly as Severus raised a quiet shielding charm beside him.

"Charming welcome," Harry muttered.

“He’s trying,” Severus said drily, eyes never leaving Macnair. “Pathetic, but… admirable in a certain light.”

“Oh, I love when you’re generous.”

They moved as one—Harry advancing, relentless; Severus flanking, shielding, occasionally muttering sharp corrections when Harry’s technique drifted too close to chaos.

“Left—too high,” Severus warned once, and Harry adjusted instantly, wand slicing cleanly through the air.

Curses clashed in stuttering flashes of green and red. Macnair fought with the wild fury of a cornered predator—but his spells lacked discipline. His magic was still heavy, still formidable, but it had lost its edge in the years he spent festering instead of sharpening.

He’d expected weakness. He hadn’t expected them.

It ended quickly.

One well-placed Disarming Charm, a flick of Severus’s wand to entangle him in chains laced with anti-apparition runes, and Macnair hit the ground with a choked curse, panting, eyes wide and bloodshot.

Harry stood over him, wand still raised. He didn’t speak.

Macnair tried to spit at him. Missed by several feet. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he growled. “You think this is justice? You think it ends with me?”

“I think,” Harry said, calm and cool, “that you’re about to be very useful.”

Macnair struggled, thrashing against the cords that only tightened with every movement. Severus stepped closer, eyes narrowed in quiet appraisal.

"His core’s intact,” he murmured. “Angry. Dense. Perfect.”

Macnair let out a breathless laugh. “You think you’ll win, Snape? You think you deserve to—”

Severus crouched beside him, gaze cool. “Walden, you’ve been hiding in a condemned shack, wearing stolen robes and smuggling cursed goblets out of attic trunks. You’re not in a position to question anyone’s right to power.”

Macnair snarled. “And you’re a traitor.”

“Mm.” Severus tilted his head. “And yet here you are. Gagging on dust and chained like a dog.”

Harry stifled a laugh behind his wand. “You said you didn’t want me to kill him, but you didn’t say anything about the emotional damage.”

“I assumed it was implied,” Severus replied smoothly.

Macnair tried to say something else, but another flick of Severus’s wand rendered him conveniently silent.

The clearing quieted.

Severus rose, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes as he turned to Harry.

“One last time,” he said softly.

Harry reached for him, Disillusionment fading away as their hands met—fingers warm, steady, and certain.

“You ready?” Harry asked.

Severus glanced back once at the tangled form of Walden Macnair—broken pride, broken house, broken man—and gave the faintest smile.

“I’ve never been more ready.”

With a twist of magic, they vanished—chains and all—leaving nothing behind but scorched stone and the slow wind rustling through weeds.

The manor did not scream again.

It didn’t have to.

The ritual circle carved into the floor of the old Black library still shimmered faintly from the wards Harry had renewed earlier—pale gold, humming with layered protections. The candles flickering around them had all bent inward toward the center, flames drawn to the magic now coalescing in the air.

Harry stepped lightly over the etched runes, dragging Macnair’s limp body with far less care than he might’ve shown a less repugnant guest. He dropped him into the center of the ritual ring with a thud and, after checking the magical restraints were secure, began binding the man’s wrists with heavy iron chain—an anchor, not for the body, but for the magic that would soon be torn from it.

Severus didn’t comment. He was already occupied.

He stood just outside the innermost ring, fiddling with the potion on the small altar beside him—a final stabilizer, meant to shield his core from shattering under the weight of the incoming power. His fingers moved deftly, adding crushed thistle root and a single drop of infused phoenix ash. The concoction turned violet, then gold, its surface pulsing like a heartbeat.

Harry circled back to him.

"You look like a man preparing for a pleasant evening," Harry murmured.

Severus didn’t glance up. “I find ritual magic soothing by now.”

Harry snorted. “You find blood magic soothing.”

There was a flicker of a smirk. “Don’t you? You perform it far more often than I do.”

Once the potion was complete, Severus bottled it carefully. Then he shrugged off his outer robe, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and stepped fully into the circle.

Harry watched him, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but his magic was taut in the air—present, hovering, ready to ground the ritual if anything went sideways.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, voice lower now.

Severus met his gaze. “Yes.”

Harry nodded once. Then smirked. “Try not to be dramatic about it.”

Severus arched a brow. “Says the man who once fell off a roof to catch a Snitch.”

“Stylishly,” Harry countered.

But then the humor faded from his expression. His hand reached out, fingers brushing Severus’s wrist—steady, grounding. No more words.

Then Harry exhaled and murmured the words.

The cellar thrummed with immediate, vicious energy. The runes glowed blinding gold, and then—

It began.

Macnair's body arched violently as the siphoning started. Arcs of magic ripped upward, shooting toward Severus with pinpoint precision, cracking through the air like lightning made solid. They struck his chest, his arms, his hands. A cold, burning surge that made Severus stumble.

His breath hitched. Not pain, not yet. Just weight.

He felt the mark begin to burn.

The Dark Mark blistered against his skin, the ink rising and splitting, as if being carved open from the inside. Severus clenched his fists, refusing to flinch, teeth gritted against the pressure building in his chest.

Magic poured into him—wild, corrupted, ancient—and his core strained to accept it.

The golden runes flared over his forearm, swallowing the black, replacing the Mark with something older, something sacred. But as they sank in, as the corruption was overwritten, the venom in his veins stirred.

And it did not go quietly.

It twisted.

Coiled.

And fought.

Severus staggered, his knees hitting the ground hard. His breath came faster now, ragged, the magic lashing inside him like fire meeting oil. A choked sound escaped his throat, but he refused to cry out.

Not yet.

The room blurred.

He dug his fingers into the stone floor, anchoring himself, willing the ritual to finish. He could feel Macnair’s magic unraveling—frantic, dying. He could feel the end was near.

But his body was breaking.

Sweat gathered at his temple. His hands trembled. His magic flared outward without focus, pushing at the edges of the containment spells.

And then, with one final, violent surge—Macnair’s body jerked once.

And collapsed.

Still.

Empty.

The ritual snapped shut.

Severus gasped. For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then his body seized.

It started in his chest—heat, white and unbearable. Then his limbs. His stomach twisted as though acid licked through his veins.

He doubled over, arms wrapped around his torso, unable to breathe. His skin glowed faintly, veins lit with flickering gold and green.

"Harry—" His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

Harry was at his side in seconds.

"Severus." His hands caught him just as he slumped sideways. “Hey. Hey—stay with me.”

"Take me—" Severus hissed, barely coherent. “Hogwarts. Pomfrey.”

Harry didn’t hesitate.

His arms wrapped tightly around him, wand in hand.

“Hold on.”

They vanished in a rush of displaced air and golden magic, the candles behind them flickering once before extinguishing entirely.

The sudden shift of space left Severus momentarily dizzy, but it was nothing compared to the sharp intake of breath from the witch before them. Poppy Pomfrey had not seen Severus Snape in fifteen months.

She was furious.

"You should have come to me sooner," she snapped, guiding him to the nearest bed with brisk, practiced motions. Her wand was already in hand, diagnostic spells spilling from her lips before he was even fully settled. “This has been in your system for how long?”

Severus didn’t answer. His magic was still surging, disoriented and volatile, his body rejecting the venom in violent, heaving waves of nausea and heat.

Then Poppy stilled.

The diagnostic charm in her wand pulsed. Once. Then again—brighter. Stronger.

Her brows drew together sharply. “Why does he have his magic?”

She looked up—first at Severus, then to Harry.

There was a beat of silence. Severus’s breath hitched, shallow and labored, and Harry glanced at him before answering.

“Please,” Harry said softly. “Just treat him.”

Poppy’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Harry, I need to know how he got his magic back. I can’t just give him standard purgatives or nullifiers—it might destroy his core again if it's unstable.”

“I already have the potions,” Severus, despite the haze of pain, spoke to her. 

With a shuddering breath, he reached into his robes and withdrew three small vials—each sealed with careful wax, each marked in Severus’s exacting script.

He held them out wordlessly.

Poppy caught them mid-air with a flick of her wand, examining the labels—her eyes narrowed. Her mouth was tight. Her magic snapped around her like a second cloak.

And then she turned sharply to Harry.

“Harry Potter,” she snapped, voice like a crack of thunder. “The longer you stay quiet, the more dangerous this becomes. You mended his fractured core. That is not something I can guess around.”

Harry flinched. He opened his mouth to reply—

The doors slammed open.

Minerva swept in like a storm, her cloak billowing, eyes already scanning the room with rigid control. But she faltered the moment she saw the figure in the bed.

Behind her, Hermione and Ron skidded to a stop just inside the threshold. Hermione’s gasp was audible. Ron looked pale.

Severus looked worse.

He lay curled into the infirmary cot, his breath hitching in his chest, golden runes flickering across his arms like veins of light, his skin too pale against the dark blankets.

Harry sighed.

His shoulders slumped.

"...I used rituals,” he said quietly.

Poppy froze.

Minerva's mouth parted. “Wait—rituals? Plural?”

Harry nodded once. “Yes. His core fractured because Voldemort used the Dark Mark to siphon off his magic—bled it out of him until it collapsed entirely. So I... I gave it back. I took it from the Death Eaters. One by one.”

Minerva’s expression darkened—horror creeping into her features.

“The Death Eaters disappearing,” she whispered. “Their magic vanishing. A dozen... no, more than twenty. The reports—” She looked at them, voice tight. “You two. Are they alive?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Hermione stepped forward.

She looked at Severus—saw the shivering, the pain etched into every muscle—and then turned to Harry. Her jaw was set.

She stepped to his side and said clearly, “Severus is alive. He has his magic. That should matter more than anything else.”

Minerva inhaled sharply, tone dangerously low. “Miss Granger, they have likely killed about—”

“And all of them have likely killed for less,” Hermione said, not backing down. “It is done. They are dead. You can’t change that. What you can do is help the one man who actually deserves to live. Is his life not worth all the others? The man who won the war for us.”

Her voice caught. She turned slightly toward Ron. “If I were in Harry’s place, I would’ve killed anyone for him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Ron swallowed and reached for her hand.

Poppy exhaled slowly. Then looked back down at the vials. “Are the potions enough?”

Despite the agony rippling through him, Severus managed a faint smirk. “Are you doubting my skills, Madam Pomfrey?”

She huffed. “Not your skills. Just your timing.”

But her hands moved fast.

The first vial she opened was the stabilizer. With practiced precision, she began administering the mixture—layered with soft incantations, the kind of magic only a battlefield healer could summon without pause. She reinforced his core with Phoenix tears, sealed the inner magical threads, and set the Dittany where his skin had cracked from magical strain.

But the extraction wasn’t gentle.

Severus was aware of very little.

Only pain. And heat. And the sound of Harry’s voice somewhere near his ear, low and steady and full of a kind of desperation Severus didn’t have the strength to acknowledge.

His magic was wild—unbound. It surged through him like it no longer recognized him, like it had been waiting too long in chains and now refused to be tamed. Every breath felt like swallowing fire. Every nerve blazed, frayed and alight.

“Hold him!”

Pomfrey’s voice rang somewhere above the storm.

Hands—Harry’s—gripped his shoulders. Firm. Familiar. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” Harry whispered, as though that mattered. “You’re not doing this alone.”

The words broke through something.

Severus clung to them—not with his hands, which trembled violently, not with his mind, which was fogged and flickering—but with something deeper. Something that remembered Harry’s touch even when the rest of him couldn’t.

Then the venom began to burn.

It crawled from his chest like molten tar, searing paths down his ribs and spine, thick and cloying. He didn’t scream—he couldn’t. The air had been knocked from his lungs by the weight of it.

He felt it leaving.

Bit by bit.

Pomfrey’s magic worked fast—too fast. His core pulled taut beneath the pressure, like threads yanked past breaking. He couldn’t tell if he was coming apart or being stitched back together.

And then—

His left arm.

Something tore.

It wasn’t muscle, wasn’t skin—but deeper. Older. A brand that had never truly faded, never loosened its grip.

The Dark Mark flared once—hot and furious.

Severus gasped. The pain was sharp enough to split him open.

The lines scorched upward, blistering, crackling, and then—cracked.

It broke.

The tendrils of black ink that had clung to his skin for half his life burned away, curling back like paper catching fire. He watched—eyes glazed, vision double—as the gold came in behind it. Not replacing. Reclaiming.

Ancient runes, fine as spider silk, wove across the scorched remnants. They settled like an answer, bright and final. And in that moment—just that moment—he felt clean.

Whole.

His breath caught.

His chest, so long pressed under the weight of rot and tethered servitude, felt suddenly hollow. And then full.

He turned his head—just barely. Saw Harry’s hand still pressed to his shoulder. Still there.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

And then the world tilted.

The air went still. His magic, finally, stopped fighting.

And Severus let go.

Chapter Text

The first thing Severus felt when he returned to consciousness was warmth.

Not the heavy, suffocating kind that signaled fever or illness, but something lighter—an ember glowing at his center, steady and strong. The dull ache that had settled in his bones for months was gone. His limbs no longer felt leaden, his breath no longer labored.

The venom was gone.

Magic hummed beneath his skin, no longer fractured, no longer foreign. His core pulsed—whole, unwavering. He inhaled deeply, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, the act did not send pain lancing through him.

His fingers twitched against the sheets. The scent that met him was no longer only lavender, no longer the sterile remnants of healing potions clinging to his skin. Instead, something sweet lingered in the air—faint but unmistakable.

Peony. Resting against a sprig of lavender again.

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim glow of candlelight flickering against stone walls. The weight of blankets rested over him, warm and grounding. He turned his head slightly, and there, at the edge of the nightstand, sat a single, freshly cut peony.

He exhaled, slow and measured, reaching for it without thought. His fingers brushed the petals, soft and delicate beneath his touch. Real. Grounding.

Beside it, he noticed a calendar charm tacked against the nearby wall—one of Pomfrey’s, rotating through the dates in neat magical script.

A red circle marked today’s date.

October 31st.

It took a moment for the weight of it to settle.

October 31st.

The night Lily died.

The night everything changed.

Harry—

He pushed himself up to look for him . 

But before Severus could even turn his head fully, he was met with sudden, overwhelming, and entirely familiar warmth. 

Harry.

Harry’s arms wrapped around him, strong and unrelenting, pulling him into a hold that was more anchor than embrace. His face pressed into Severus’s shoulder, breath shallow, trembling with something he could no longer hide.

Severus didn’t pull away. He didn’t even pause.
He simply wrapped his arms around Harry just as tightly, fiercely certain, like he’d been waiting for this moment too.

Then he began to shake.

At first, it was subtle. A faint tremor running through his frame, easily dismissed as exhaustion. But then Severus felt it—a full-bodied shudder, Harry’s breath catching against his shoulder.

And then the first muffled sob.

Severus froze. Harry Potter did not cry.

Or at least Severus had never seen him cry. Not after battles, not after injuries, not even after all the death he had witnessed.

But now that Severus was awake, now that the worst had passed, Harry was falling apart in his arms.

His hands clenched into the fabric of Severus’s shirt, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast. The weight of it hit Severus all at once—the worry, the fear, the unbearable pressure Harry had been carrying alone for months.

And now, when he no longer had to hold it in—

He broke.

Severus had never been someone’s breaking point before.

"You—" Harry’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, failing. "You scared me."

Severus let out a slow breath and tightened his hold, one arm wrapped securely around Harry’s waist, the other rubbing his back gently.

"I did not mean to. I apologize."

But Harry shook his head against his shoulder, a choked sound escaping him—half a sob, half something else entirely.

"That doesn’t matter," he whispered, but his voice was strained, raw, like every word was tearing itself from him. "You did. Two weeks. They kept saying you were fine, but—" He gasped, breath hitching. "I— I don’t—I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you."

The confession shattered between them, fragile and painful all at once.

Severus felt something deep in his chest tighten.

Harry was crying against him, truly crying, his body shaking as he tried and failed to pull himself back together.

"Shhh," he murmured, pressing a reassuring hand against Harry’s back, rubbing slow, grounding circles. "I am fine. I am awake now, Harry. My magic is back. No venom. I am truly safe."

Harry let out a sharp, broken sob, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it.

Severus turned his head slightly and pressed a gentle kiss against Harry’s temple.

"Come on, darling," he whispered softly, his voice steady and grounding. "Don’t cry."

Harry let out another trembling breath, his fingers twisting into Severus’s shirt, gripping it like a lifeline.

Severus held him through it.

He kissed Harry’s temple again, then lowered a soft, fleeting press of lips against his damp cheek.

"You have carried too much," Severus murmured, his breath warm against Harry’s skin. "For too long."

Harry sucked in another trembling breath, his sobs quieter now, but still raw, still shattering.

Minutes passed long, quiet, and aching. And Severus never let go.

He held him through it, arms wrapped securely around him, offering what little comfort he could.

And slowly Harry’s breathing evened out.

The sobs softened into deep, unsteady breaths.

Severus felt the tension begin to fade, the weight of exhaustion pulling Harry into something quieter, something steadier.

Only then—when the storm had passed— did Severus shift.

Gently, carefully, he pulled back just enough to see Harry’s face.

Tear-streaked. Red-rimmed eyes. A rawness to his expression, but no longer breaking.

Severus lifted a hand, his thumb swiping over Harry’s cheek, wiping away the remnants of his tears.

"There you are," he murmured softly. "Breathe, darling. You’re alright."

Harry nodded as he exhaled a deep, shuddering breath.

His hands slowly loosened from Severus’s shirt, his fingers unfurling, as if suddenly aware of just how tightly he had been holding on.

But he did not move away.

Instead, he turned his face into Severus’s palm, pressing his lips to it.

It was not a kiss meant to take or to ask for anything.

It was desperation. A need to feel something real.

Severus’s fingers twitched, but he did not move them away.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed him—soft, deliberate, achingly gentle. A press of lips against lips, not demanding, not even asking. Just giving. Just there.

When he pulled back, Harry's breath stuttered, but his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, grounding himself in it.

Severus only cupped his cheek more firmly, his thumb tracing soothing circles into the flushed skin.

His gaze flickered once more to the peony on the nightstand—fresh, impossibly vibrant. A silent promise that someone had been waiting. Refusing to leave.

“Look at you,” Severus murmured, his voice a quiet tease as he tugged Harry close again, guiding them both back down beneath the blankets. “Grabbing a flower for me even while I was unconscious.”

Harry let out a breath that was almost a laugh, arms wrapping instinctively around him as Severus settled them together.

And this time, when Severus closed his eyes—

He was warm. He was whole.

And he was not alone.

After that, Severus watched Harry unravel for weeks.

It hadn’t been sudden. No, Harry was far too stubborn to break all at once.

It started subtly—shadows beneath his eyes that didn’t fade with sleep, cups of untouched tea cooling on the table, the way his magic crackled just a little too sharply when someone startled him. He still laughed, still kissed Severus good morning, and still argued about sugar in tea, but at night, his mask began to slip.

He was up early sometimes at hours he never would’ve been awake before, already drinking tea by the time Severus came downstairs. The beds were untouched when Severus peeked into the room, and his firecalls with the other two-thirds of the trio became longer, more hushed. The smiles afterward didn’t reach his eyes.

Then he started hovering again.

Severus hadn’t even realized how much Harry had eased up in recent months until he saw him begin to revert to old habits. Pacing. Fretting. Staying too close, like if he looked away, Severus might vanish again.

One night, something felt off.

Harry was stiff. His smiles didn’t reach his eyes. His kisses felt too light. His hold too tight.

Severus woke up around three in the morning, something gnawing at the edge of his mind, and slipped quietly from bed.

He padded downstairs barefoot, wand in hand out of habit more than worry.

And there, bathed in the soft orange flicker of the kitchen firelight, stood Harry.

He was pacing. Slowly. Almost mechanically. A mug of tea gripped in both hands, untouched despite the steam rising from it. He didn’t look up when Severus entered.

Severus said nothing at first. He watchedm, his eyes tracing the set of Harry’s shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, and the exhaustion written into the curve of his spine.

"You’ll wear a hole into the floor," he said quietly.

Harry startled.

He turned too fast, nearly sloshing tea over the edge of the mug.

"Sorry," he said automatically, eyes darting away. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

"You didn’t," Severus replied, stepping further into the room, closer to him. He looked down at Harry and reached out, massaging his shoulder gently. "I woke up. Noticed your room was empty."

Harry tensed for a second, then relaxed slowly under the touch.

"You haven’t been sleeping," Severus said, not a question.

Harry exhaled shakily. “I’m fine.”

Severus’s brow twitched. “You are, quite obviously, not.”

Harry let out a weak, humorless laugh. “You sound like Hermione.”

“Considering she’s usually right, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

That earned him a small, thin, fleeting smile.

Severus gently took the mug from Harry’s hands. He set it down on the counter, then looked back at him. “Harry,” he urged, softer now.

Harry’s fingers curled slightly, restless. His eyes remained on the floor.

"I keep seeing it," he admitted quietly. "The ritual. You collapsing. The way you looked before when you stopped breathing."

Severus stayed quiet.

“I thought you were gone,” Harry whispered. “And now you’re not, and I should be fine, but it keeps—”
He stopped, shoulders rising with a sharp breath.
“I keep waking up thinking you’ll be gone again.”

What could he say to that?

What could he say to the man who had carried his nearly lifeless body out of the ruins of Hogwarts, who had taken the world on his shoulders just to drag Severus back into it?

They stood there in silence for a long while, Harry staying still as Severus’s hand continued to rest at his shoulder, offering quiet, grounding pressure.

Severus let the silence hold for another beat before he spoke.

“I can’t sleep either,” he said softly.

Harry looked up so fast it nearly startled him.

His eyes were full of worry, open and unguarded, and it made something inside Severus twist. Not with guilt, not even with discomfort, but with a feeling he still didn’t have a name for.

This was his first time being so thoroughly… wanted. Cared for. Like his presence mattered this deeply to someone. And yet, he wished, he truly wished, that Harry could see himself that way too.

“I can’t sleep either,” Severus repeated gently, stepping closer now. “Alone.”

He lifted his hand and cupped Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“So come sleep with me.”

Harry blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. He blinked again.

“I—I—are you sure?” he asked, voice hushed and almost too fast.

Severus huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb along Harry’s cheekbone.
“Am I sure I want my boyfriend to come sleep with me so we can both rest easy? Yes, Harry, I’m sure.”

Harry blinked again, this time with a flicker of something lighter in his expression. His lips curved—soft, surprised. A faint flush colored his cheeks.

It wasn’t much.

But it was more life than Severus had seen in days.

Severus leaned in, pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead a gentle, grounding touch and turned just enough to set the mug aside on the counter. His fingers stayed loosely entwined with Harry’s.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging him lightly by the hand. “Before you overthink it and I change my mind.”

Harry snorted under his breath but let himself be pulled, his grip tightening slightly, as if he was still afraid to let go.

They padded back up the stairs in silence. Not urgent. Not burdened. Just… close.

When they reached the room, Severus stepped aside, letting Harry cross the threshold first. He didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the bed as though he’d belonged there the whole time.

Severus followed, casting a lazy ward with a flick of his fingers to douse the bedside candles.

The bed dipped with the weight of them both, the sheets cool at first but quickly warming between shared body heat.

Harry turned toward him immediately.

Not clingy, not urgent, just there. Close enough that his hand brushed Severus’s arm. Close enough that Severus could feel his breath ghost against his collarbone.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment.

Then Harry whispered, so quietly it might’ve been a dream, “Thank you.”

Severus reached for him in the dark, hand resting at the back of Harry’s neck, fingers threading into his hair. “Go to sleep, Harry.”

Harry shifted just slightly closer, tucking himself in, pressing a faint kiss to Severus’s shoulder.

Severus smiled and kissed his forehead in return and watched as Harry fell into a proper sleep .

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in lazy golden streaks, casting soft stripes across the bedding. The fire had long gone out, but the room was warm—quiet, still, safe.

Severus woke first.

Not from a dream, not from discomfort—just the gentle awareness of morning pressing at the edges of his mind. He shifted slightly, blinking up at the ceiling, registering the slow, even breathing against his chest.

Harry was sprawled across him, an arm tucked beneath Severus’s ribs, the other curled around his waist. His face was pressed into the hollow just below Severus’s collarbone, hair sticking up in several odd directions, lips parted in sleep.

Severus could feel the warmth of each breath, the slight weight of Harry’s leg tangled with his.

It should’ve been uncomfortable.

It wasn’t.

He let his fingers drift slowly through Harry’s hair, brushing back the wild fringe from his forehead. Harry murmured something in his sleep—nonsensical, mumbled—but shifted closer, his hand tightening slightly at Severus’s side like some subconscious instinct not to let go.

Severus exhaled, quietly amused.

And content.

He stayed like that until Harry finally stirred, brow furrowing in the way it always did when waking dragged him unwillingly from sleep.

“Morning,” Severus murmured.

Harry blinked blearily up at him, then groaned softly and buried his face deeper into Severus’s chest. “No,” he mumbled. “Too nice. I’m not waking up if it’s already this perfect.”

Severus chuckled under his breath. “You do realize you’re drooling on me.”

Harry cracked one eye open. “It’s called emotional bonding. You’re welcome.”

“Disgusting,” Severus said, but he didn’t push him away.

Harry lifted his head, finally, and squinted toward the window. “What time is it?”

“Late. Nearly ten.”

Harry sighed, collapsing back onto the pillow beside him. “You didn’t wake me?”

“You slept at three in the morning; you need to sleep more.”

Harry hummed, stretching lazily. “You’re not wrong. I feel... weirdly amazing.”

“Yes, well,” Severus said, his voice dry but soft. “Sleeping and resting properly tends to do that to a person. Perhaps if you had just asked before—”

He leaned in, pressing a light kiss to Harry’s forehead.

Harry smiled at the touch, slow and fond. “Well, I thought you’d be tired of me following you to bed, honestly. I already know how you get when it’s too much.”

Severus opened his mouth, then paused—something unreadable flickering across his face.

Before he could answer, Harry shifted, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Should we call Winky? I don’t think either of us wants to move yet.”

Severus blinked once, then nodded. He raised his wand and murmured the call.

A soft pop later, Winky appeared with a sleepy bow. “Master Severus, Master Harry—what is Winky bringing for breakfast?”

“Eggs. Toast. Fruit,” Severus said, after a beat. “And tea. Two pots.”

Winky nodded quickly and disappeared just as fast.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—but it wasn’t easy, either.

Harry was still smiling, but the edges were thinner now. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling, distant for a second too long.

Severus turned onto his side to face him. “Idiot,” he said, gently. “If I couldn’t stand you, I’d tell you. That is not the same as needing comfort. Come to me when you need to.”

Harry nodded once, without a word.

Severus watched him a moment longer. Something about the quiet in Harry’s gaze didn’t sit right. The shadows hadn’t lifted entirely. They’d just… settled for now.

Like a temporary bandage.

But Severus let it sit.

“For that matter,” he continued, his voice lightening just slightly, “you should move in.”

Harry blinked.

Severus shrugged one shoulder. “It’s stupid to have two rooms when we’ve already promised to get engaged.”

“Seriously...?” he said after a pause.

“Pott—”

“Harry,” the brat cut in.

Severus sighed. “Why would I offer otherwise, Harry? You don’t have to move anything yet. Just... stay.”

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Harry, and his hand found Severus’s beneath the sheets.

They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to.

But the silence that followed wasn’t the resolution Severus hoped for.

It was just rest.

For now.

Chapter Text

Month:  20 ( December, 1999) 

Severus had always known Harry’s morality was a fragile thing. He had seen it crack in the war, watched it chip away every time another person was buried.

He seemed to have only one goal in mind, uncaring for the world and even himself. Perhaps that was why he could not rest, even as Severus tried his best to coax him.

Unfortunately , The Ministry finally decided to  come for Severus .

It began with whispers, murmurs in the Prophet that the Ministry had “reopened inquiries” into all former Death Eaters. A broad sweep, they called it. A matter of public reassurance.

But the moment word leaked that Severus Snape was alive, the investigation took on a sharper edge. His name was whispered more often than any other, his history dissected with renewed venom, as though his survival itself were an affront.

Severus had almost laughed. He had spent a lifetime preparing for persecution. Of course they would single him out. Of course they would try to bury him again.

But they probably hadn’t known that they are poking their fingers into a hornet’s nest. 

The moment Harry became aware of the rumors, he grabbed all the filth he had pried from Death Eaters: secrets, memories, evidence, and parceled it out.

One damning file to a Wizengamot member who had accepted bribes, another to a clerk who had falsified records, a thicker dossier to Kingsley himself. Each bundle sent discreetly, each enchantment tagged to ensure the recipient knew Harry Potter had seen them, had their secrets in his hands.

By the time the week was out, half the chamber was looking over their shoulders. The other half was looking at Harry.

When the Ministry balked at the optics of a trial, Hermione pressed her advantage. She drew on archived memories and statements he had once offered privately,  publishing them now in carefully chosen editorials. Ron made sure the words spread fast, leaning on his war-hero name to make them stick.

The story was no longer about “a Death Eater unpunished.”
It was about “Dumbledore’s man.”

Severus was now the spy who had saved Harry Potter, the hidden weapon who had given them all victory.

The tide shifted slowly. Public opinion murmured admiration where there had once been only suspicion, and Ministry officials, who were now compromised and exposed,  had no ground left to stand on.

It wasn’t enough to erase the past, of course. They had not published lies, had not twisted history. But it was enough to drag the truth into the open.

Severus watched the terrorization of the ministry with fascination , and slight nerves.

The way Ministry officials flinched at his name.

The way his presence alone was enough to silence entire rooms.

“He’s not asking. He’s demanding.”
“He’s found out too much.”
“He won’t stop until he gets exactly what he wants.”

They were right.
Harry had learned too much.

Ron and Hermione had whispered about it in Grimmauld’s kitchen only a week before, voices hushed but sharp enough for Severus to catch in passing.
“He’s pulling too hard,” Hermione had said, her gaze lingering on the faint glow of runes beneath Harry’s sleeve.
Ron’s reply had been grimmer. “He doesn’t care. Not if it’s for Snape. He’ll burn himself out first.”

Severus had said nothing at the time. He hadn’t needed to.
Because he knew it was true.
Because he could see the edges of Harry’s restraint fraying, that perilous line between devotion and ruin already blurring.

By the time the Wizengamot was finally prepared to negotiate, Harry had pried the filth from every corner of the Ministry.
Every secret. Every bribe. Every betrayal buried under years of careful silence.

The "trial" was held at Grimmauld Place, both of them unwilling to let others dirty their home.

The Ministry had suggested a public event.

Harry had laughed.

And so, on a random evening, they arrived.

Severus had expected Kingsley. He hadn’t expected Minerva.

Hermione stood near the side of the room, arms crossed . Ron was on her side, looked less composed, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching near his wand hand as though itching to hex every single Ministry official that had ever stood in Severus’s way. Though Severus wasn’t sure why.

Severus’s eyes flickered to them, before they landed on Harry.

The same children he had once shielded in terror,  from the very first creature to haunt this memory, now stood tall as his shield against the world. It was surreal.

Harry seemed calm, composed, indifferent.

His posture was relaxed, his shoulders loose, his expression impassive as if he were utterly unaffected by any of this.

But Severus could see it.

The slight, near-imperceptible tension in his fingers where they rested at his side. The measured way his chest rose and fell too steady. The faint, familiar flex of his jaw before he spoke.

Harry was holding every ounce of his fury in check.

The room felt like a battlefield.

Kingsley led the officials, his expression held something weary as if he had spent far too much time cleaning up the messes Harry left in his wake. He probably was. 

Minerva followed closely behind him. She said nothing. She made no move to intervene, nor did she soften as she passed Harry. But her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze flickering over the gathered officials with clear disapproval.

Then came the others , Ministry officials, members of the Wizengamot , those who had spent months twisting the truth, desperate to shift their own sins onto Severus’s name. The same cowards who had fought his recognition tooth and nail, hoping to bury him beneath their failings, only to find themselves standing before him now, exposed and defeated. They were not offered any seats. 

Severus sat in the parlor, his hands folded neatly in his lap, watching the procession with open, unhidden smudgment, letting them feel the weight of his disdain. Harry stood beside him.

Kingsley was the first to speak.
"In light of evidence provided, and with testimony collected—"

"Not evidence," Harry interrupted, his voice cool, distant. Lethal. "You mean confessions. Confessions extracted from those who were more than willing to throw Severus to the wolves while protecting themselves."

Silence.

One of the older members of the Wizengamot, a thin man with sharp features, shifted uncomfortably. "Mr. Potter, this is merely a formality—"

"You call months of harassment a formality?"

Harry smiled.
It was a pleasant expression, mild and easy, as if he were merely exchanging pleasantries. But Severus knew that smile.

"You would have let him die nameless in exile if I hadn’t dug up your filth and laid it bare."

The air crackled.

Hermione let out a slow, measured breath, glancing at the officials with thinly veiled disdain. Ron, beside her, huffed out something close to a scoff. Their earlier work, planting sympathetic articles, drawing out Kingsley’s hand, hung over the chamber like a shadow. The officials knew it. Everyone did.

Severus said nothing.
He simply watched.

"Just say the words, Kingsley"

Minerva’s lips pressed together, but she gave a firm nod of approval, looking at Kingsley expectantly.

Kingsley met Harry’s gaze, then nodded once. Carefully.
"Severus Tobias Snape is hereby absolved of all charges. His name is cleared of all crimes associated with the Second Wizarding War."

A pause.
"He is awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, for his service, his sacrifice, and his unwavering dedication to the survival of our world."

A moment of silence.
"His name will be honored , as it should have been from the beginning."

The officials shifted uncomfortably, eager to leave, eager to escape the storm in Harry’s eyes.

Ron let out a quiet breath through his nose, a bitter smirk flickering across his face. Hermione merely closed her eyes for a fraction of a second—relief hidden behind practiced composure.

Minerva stepped forward, her gaze softening just slightly as she looked at Severus. She didn’t speak, but there was something in her expression ,something that Severus recognized.
Pride.

Severus, for his part, felt nothing.

The moment the doors closed behind the last of the Wizengamot officials, the tension eased.

Severus remained seated, his hands still folded neatly in his lap, watching as the space emptied.

Harry did not move.
He stood rigid, his back straight, his fists clenched at his sides. His magic still curled around him in invisible waves, pulsing, unsettled. Like he was waiting for another battle to begin.

Minerva exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “A bloody disgrace. That should have happened years ago.”

Severus found himself fighting bitterness at her self-righteousness. Coming from a woman who, despite all their years, had never once fought for him, yet now dared to condemn a decision she had no hand in.

Ron scoffed. “Bastards were shaking in their boots, though. That was fun to watch.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. She was watching Harry. Her eyes sharp and perceptive, as if she could see what Severus already knew.“Harry,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t react.

Severus moved without thinking. He rose smoothly to his feet, stepping toward him, closing the space between them.“Harry.”

Harry flinched. Not away, but inward. Like something inside him had cracked at the sound of his name.

Severus placed a hand on his arm, firm but careful, grounding him.“It’s done.”

And then, he pulled Harry into his arms.

Harry tensed for the briefest moment, then all but melted into him. His hands curled into the fabric of Severus’s robes, his breath shuddering against his chest, but he didn’t speak.
He just held on.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, something silent passing between them. “We’ll give you a moment,” Hermione murmured, ever perceptive.

Minerva nodded in quiet agreement, her hand squeezing Severus’s shoulder as she passed. “Take care of him. Kingsley sighed tiredly, rubbing his temple. “Try not to blackmail me again for at least a month, Potter.”

Harry let out a breath , not quite a laugh, but close.

And then they were alone.

Severus’s hands came up, one pressing against Harry’s back, the other threading through his hair, holding him steady. “Breathe,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

Harry shuddered in his arms, but did not let go.

For weeks, Severus had tried. Small things. Setting tea in front of Harry before he drowned in correspondence. Suggesting walks in the gardens when his shoulders hunched too tightly. Reaching for him in the middle of the night when Harry stared into the dark with eyes that did not see sleep.

But Harry always pulled away.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll rest later.”
“Just a bit more to finish.”

Severus had watched him fray at the edges, watched the cracks spread beneath the veneer of strength. He had known this moment was inevitable , Harry couldn’t hold the world up forever.

Now, when it was all over, he was breaking. So soon. Too soon.

Severus had not felt this particular brand of fear grip him since Lily’s untimely death.

"You should have let me take care of you before now," Severus muttered, his voice carrying a sharp edge, even as his fingers moved gently, soothingly. "Stubborn fool."

Harry let out something between a laugh and a sob, his fingers twisting into Severus’s robes. “You’re safe now. You’re safe… but it doesn’t feel real,” he choked out.

“You fought well, Harry,” Severus murmured, his voice quieter now, the frustration melting into something softer. His fingers moved to cup Harry’s face, tilting it up slightly, his thumb brushing gently along the hollow beneath his eye."My knight. Always protecting me."

Harry’s breath shook.

Severus leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his forehead.
"But you don’t have to fight alone anymore."

Harry closed his eyes, his grip tightening around Severus’s waist.
"I am here beside you."

A long silence stretched between them.Severus could feel the exhaustion settling deep in Harry’s frame.

Then, before Harry could protest, before he could pretend he was fine, Severus moved. One arm slid beneath Harry’s knees, the other steady at his back, lifting him effortlessly.

Harry made a startled noise, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t fight it. Instead, he let himself be carried.

Severus took Harry into his room, lowered him onto his bed, and drew the blankets over them both. Harry still trembled faintly, his hands fisted into Severus’s sleeve, but his eyes finally fluttered shut.

This time, when he whispered again, it was against Severus’s skin, not a pillow.“You’re safe.”

Severus’s arm tightened around him, steady, anchoring.“Yes. And so are you.”

Chapter Text

Month: 20 (Rest of December, 1999)

Severus woke up the next day to fevered skin against his own.

Harry barely stirred when he shifted, only let out a faint, heat-dazed sigh. His brow was damp, his breath uneven, and the crackle of magic that usually steadied a room now sparked erratically, static shimmering beneath his skin like fractured glass.

Severus sat up sharply, pressing a palm to his forehead. Too warm. Unacceptable.

“Harry.” He called out softly.

A faint sound, not quite a word, slipped past cracked lips. Green eyes opened blearily, fogged with exhaustion.

Severus exhaled sharply, already moving. A vial was summoned, a cloth cooled with a charm, the blanket adjusted twice over before he was satisfied. But it was not enough.

The fever lingered for days. Harry drifted between shallow sleep and hazy wakefulness, sometimes mumbling incoherent things under his breath, sometimes too quiet. His magic crackled faintly in the air, wild and unsettled , like static just before lightning strikes. When Severus brushed his fingers across his wrist, faint golden threads shimmered beneath the skin, racing in jagged patterns before fading again

It was wrong. It was dangerous. And severus couldn't undertand what was wrong. 

By the third night, Severus had not left his side. His hand was steady against Harry’s chest, measuring each shallow rise and fall, when green eyes blinked open . They were dazed, glassy, but aware enough.

“Sev,” Harry rasped, voice raw. “Don’t- don’t look at me like that.”

Severus’s expression tightened. “You are burning alive in my bed, Potter. How precisely would you have me look at you?”

A weak laugh escaped Harry, breaking into a cough. “Knew it’d… catch up eventually.”

Severus stilled. “What would?”

Harry’s gaze dropped, lashes heavy. He had the audacity to look guilty “ Well .. you know how you said .. i could have fractured my core ? when i was storing the magic in runes …?

Severus sat back, his hand still firm on Harry’s wrist where the golden shimmer pulsed faintly beneath the skin. He had a sudden want to hold on tighter lest he strangle his man in front of him for what he knew he was about to hear. 

“Well… I might have known there was about an eighty percent chance of at least some destabilizing,” Harry admitted, voice rough with fever. His eyes slid away, guilt flickering in them. “I thought- I thought if it was just me, it didn’t matter. Not if it kept you safe.”

Severus drew in a slow, deliberate breath, the kind that stretched thin his ribs and did nothing to loosen the coil of rage and fear in his chest.

Harry, damn him, pressed on quickly, as though rushing to cut the explosion short. “I already know how to fix it,” he rasped, trying for reassurance, though his voice cracked with fever. “It’s not permanent. Just… a stabilizing draught, taken regularly. It’ll mend the fracture.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought to keep this from me? To gamble with your own life ,your magic ,while I lay ignorant in the same bed?”

Harry’s lips pulled into a tired frown. “You know why.”

The silence between them was sharp as a blade. Severus’s hand trembled faintly against Harry’s wrist, though his voice came out steady, too steady.
“You are reckless enough when it comes to the world, Potter. Must you be reckless with yourself as well?”

Harry’s gaze lifted, hazy but unflinching. “Because you’re my priority.”

The words struck harder than any curse. Severus’s jaw locked, fury barely disguising the fear beneath. “You should be your own priority. Your safety, your strength—”

Harry shook his head, faint but stubborn, his grip tightening where his hand had slid over Severus’s. “But You aren’t yours either Severus. You never have been.” His breath came uneven, but his voice softened, unguarded in a way that left no defense. “And you’d have done the same, Severus. You have burned yourself hollow without hesitation for a world that had never appreciated you.”

Severus stilled.

Harry’s thumb brushed weakly against his knuckles, a fragile touch meant to anchor. “So we’ll be each other’s priorities, yeah? .Take care of each other, Stop each other from working to ealr grave.”

For a moment, Severus said nothing. The lines of his face were carved sharp with exhaustion and fury, but the hand Harry held did not pull away.

“Forgive me?” Harry whispered, his voice raw but certain. His eyes flickered with something pleading. Pleading not for pardon, but for acceptance of what was already done.

Severus’s breath left him in a long, harsh exhale. His glare softened only slightly, but his grip tightened, grounding Harry’s fevered hand in his own.

“Fool,” he muttered, low and unwilling. Yet his thumb brushed once, steady, over the back of Harry’s hand.

And though the word was sharp, Harry smiled faintly ,and let his eyes flutter shut again, held steady in Severus’s care.

The next week was spent with Severus hovering over Harry’s bed.

In the mornings, he usually brewed. The small cauldron lived at the foot of the bed now, flames warded so low they barely stirred the air. He worked with the same precision he had once tried to instill in hundreds of inept students. Except this time, failure was not an option. Stabilizing draughts, fever reducers, nutrient restoratives , he rotated them with meticulous care, lining the vials in neat rows on the bedside table.

He fed Harry with relentless patience. Broth spooned carefully past parted lips. A few sips of water between potions. Sometimes Harry resisted, muttering hoarsely “enough”, attempting to turn away. Severus ignored him. A gentle hand on his jaw, a firm murmur “Drink.” 

Harry always yielded, even in fevered haze.

In the evening, he cooled cloths before they could go lukewarm. He rubbed circles against Harry’s temples when headaches made him thrash weakly. He adjusted pillows, tucking Harry against his chest when tremors shook him. At night, when Harry shivered despite layers of blankets, Severus curled around him, arms steady, his own magic pressed against fevered skin like a silent shield: You are not alone.

The days blurred together in this rhythm. Wake, brew, feed, soothe, watch.

And in the still hours, Severus read Harry’s care journals of him. From early research notes to the smallest observations on his own symptoms in recovery. From foods he could tolerate, to potions, to natural remedies . They were all written in hurried, sprawling scrawl, added obsessively, endlessly. He had known, of course; he had seen Harry work. But reading it now was… different.

Fool. Loyal, stubborn, infuriating fool. Severus thought as he set the journal aside each time, as though the neat stack could contain his rage. Yet when Harry stirred, his voice softened without thought, coaxing him back into sleep with quiet reassurances.

When Harry managed to wake for more than a few minutes, he often blinked up at Severus with bleary confusion, as if he didn’t quite believe he was still there.

“You fuss too much,” he rasped one evening, voice barely more than a whisper.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “You give me reason to.”

By the time the fever finally broke, and the magic at last calmed, Severus often sat at the edge of the bed, reading, watching as Harry stirred.

One day, bleary green eyes opened, blinking up at him.
“You stayed.”
Severus huffed. “Obviously.”

Harry’s fingers curled weakly into the sleeve of his robe, tugging faintly.
“You should rest too,” he murmured, still hoarse.
“And leave you unsupervised? Absolutely not.”

Harry let out a weak, breathy laugh. “I’m okay now. I can feel it.”

Severus allowed himself the faintest exhale of relief, relenting to the tug as he slid into the bed beside him.
“I know. I have been monitoring.”

Harry smiled, reached for a kiss. Severus pulled him close, answering it without hesitation.

At last, Harry slept soundly. And Severus let him rest.

Even once Harry had sufficiently recovered, Severus found it… difficult to stop watching him. Not that he could.

By the end of December, Harry was mostly himself again. He was up and walking, prowling the halls as if determined to prove there was no lingering weakness. Which he did by trailing Severus at all hours of the day as usual. And Severus, of course, indulged him. 

They spent the mornings in the kitchen, coaxing brunch out of mismatched pans, with Harry pressed close at his back, chin hooked over his shoulder as if the simple act of stirring a pot required two sets of hands. Afternoons drifted away in the library, Harry curled against him with a book he rarely read, content instead to use Severus’s shoulder as a pillow. Evenings were for cooking dinner, Harry bumping hips with him at the counter, stealing kisses and tastes in equal measure until Severus pretended to scowl. Nights ended before the fire, their laughter softened to murmurs, Harry’s hand warm against his own until they retired, tangled against each other.

It was a pocket of time that was maddening. Decadent. Perfect.

They had reached this before, but never without the looming question of whether they could beat the circumstances or not. Those days had felt stolen. This… felt settled.

The days blurred, and before they even knew it, Christmas week was here. As expected, it came with multiple invitation cards. Severus had no wish to entertain the world yet though, so he told Harry to go alone. To which, of course, Harry responded with whines of having to separate from Severus.

“Do I have to go?” Harry asked, tugging at the cuffs of the new shirt Severus had insisted he wear, his pout deepening when Severus refused to answer, instead layering him with a warm jacket.

Harry crossed his arms, stubborn as ever. “ Why aren’t you coming with me , Sev?”

Severus gave him a long, measured look. “They are your family. And you should reconnect with them on your own terms after such a long absence.” His voice softened almost imperceptibly. “They miss you, and are most likely worried sick.”

Harry’s scowl faltered.

“They’d welcome you,” Harry muttered. “They don’t see you the way the rest of the wizarding world does. Not anymore.”

A faint, wry smile tugged at Severus’s mouth. “I know. As proven by the mountain of letters I have received. But I have no desire for that tonight. And you, Potter, need to remember you are not defined solely by me.”

Harry huffed, pacing the rug like a restless teenager. “You make it sound like I can’t choose both.”

“You can,” Severus said evenly. “But sometimes one choice must come before the other. Go. Catch up with them.”

Harry stopped pacing at that, blinking at him. His pout was still there, but softened by something almost boyish, almost vulnerable. “You’re really not coming?.”

Severus shook his head. “No.” Then, more quietly: “But I’ll be here when you return.”

Harry stepped closer, crowding into his space, his hand curling into the fabric of Severus’s sleeve. “You’d better be. Because I’m not done kissing you senseless yet.”

Severus arched a brow, but didn’t move when Harry leaned in, quick and insistent, his pout turning into a grin against Severus’s lips.

When Harry finally pulled back, he muttered, “They’d be happy if you came.”

“I am sure they would” Severus agreed, smoothing Harry’s collar with precise fingers.

And Severus truly did believe that. He didn’t choose not to go because he thought the Weasleys would have thought less of him now. Rather, it was because he wanted their first Christmas to be something special. And for that, he needed his puppy out of the house for once.

Harry left reluctantly, with one last kiss pressed to Severus’s lips, muttering threats about hurrying back. The sound of the Floo faded, and at last, the house fell into silence.

Severus exhaled, long and slow. Then he set to work.

By wand and hand, he filled the rooms with quiet magic. Evergreen garlands wove themselves along the banisters, charmed candles drifting overhead with soft golden light. The hearth flared higher than usual, its embers sparking into tiny bursts of snow that vanished before they touched the floor. Ribbons threaded themselves across doorframes, and glass ornaments , mostly transfigured out of potion vials and spare jars , gleamed in jewel tones wherever they caught the light. A handful even shimmered faintly with protective runes carved so small they appeared only when the candlelight caught them at the right angle.

He did not stop there. A small table was set in the sitting room, dressed with a modest spread. Light baked dishes that he knew Harry preferred: rosemary bread still steaming from its crust, delicate puff-pastry tarts filled with soft cheese and charmed to stay warm, roasted root vegetables glazed with honey and thyme. Beside them, mulled cider steaming gently in a wide-bellied jug, a plate of sugared biscuits dusted with cinnamon, spiced nuts that sent warmth curling into the air, and a dish of candied fruit charmed to sparkle faintly with sugar light. In the center sat a treacle tart cut into perfect slices, its surface glossy and rich, surrounded by enchanted spoons that stirred the cream on their own.

He had even procured a gramophone and a stack of vinyl, setting it up to let gentle music unfurl through the rooms. A string of fairy lights, charmed to glow in slow pulses of gold and silver, wove themselves with the garlands and ribbons until the house itself seemed to breathe with warmth.

Finally, with deliberate care, Severus conjured the finishing touch. The giant fir he had chosen earlier settled into the parlor, its branches strong and reaching, its needles glistening with a frost charm so fine they refracted the candlelight like prisms. A table was placed before it, piled high with boxes of decorations he had quietly acquired: crystal baubles that chimed faintly like bells when touched, enchanted icicles that glowed a faint blue and never melted, stars that spun lazily until pinned to a branch, and ribbons of velvet charmed to curl themselves like trailing comets. 

At the very top of the box lay a single ornament unlike the rest. A crystal star, cut so fine it looked spun from frost, its edges traced with runes that glowed faintly in gold. 

And, because he had apparently gone mad, Severus had gone further still. He had dressed himself in a tailored suit of deep burgundy velvet, its lines sharp and elegant, overlaid with a cloak of the same shade, its edges brushed with soft white fur. A band of black silk cinched the waist, understated but precise, while faint embroidery along the sleeves and hem shimmered subtly in the candlelight as he moved.

He had almost sent it back at once. Nearly sneered at himself for the sheer absurdity of it. But then he had remembered the way Harry had spoken, voice light but threaded with something raw. How he had admitted he’d never had Christmases full of warmth and laughter, no glittering tree or firelit evenings that felt safe. How he had said, almost shyly, that sometimes he still wished he’d had even one night like that.

So Severus, who had never cared for sentiment, left the velvet waiting in the wardrobe.

When he finally stepped back, the room was transformed. Warmth glowed from every corner. Magic hummed softly through the walls. It was indulgent, decadent even, but there was no denying the faint curl at the corner of his mouth as he looked at it all.

This was their first Christmas. And it would be perfect.

Harry got home only a few minutes after the midnight chime. The hearth embers had burned low, and the house was dark save for a faint, charmed glow that traced a path from the Floo to the front hall.

Severus stood waiting at the door, still as a shadow. His glamour held, concealing the velvet and shimmer beneath, leaving only the familiar fall of his usual black robes. It was almost comical, the lengths he’d gone to for the sake of surprise, but Severus had never done anything halfway, and he certainly would not start with Harry.

The latch clicked, and Harry stepped through, shoulders dropping with visible relief as his eyes found Severus waiting for him.

“You’re still awake,” Harry murmured, hands already open, reaching for him.

“Obviously,” Severus replied, smooth as ever, though his arms wrapped Harry at once, pulling him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Come here, I have something for you.” His tone softened as he guided Harry toward the sitting room.

The whole room was dark, aside from a faintly lit table where a single potion gleamed, its surface catching what little glow remained. Harry blinked in confusion but, without protest, lifted it and drank obediently. Severus watched the faint flush return to his cheeks as the restorative settled, a small, quiet smile tugging at his mouth.

Harry gasped, eyes wide, his breath catching as he looked from the tree to Severus.

“Come on,” Severus said, his lips quirking in the faintest smirk. “You’ve been whining about the tree all week.”

Harry turned back to him, still blinking as if he couldn’t quite process it, then broke into a grin so bright it nearly undid Severus on the spot. “I thought you wouldn't want one?”

“I have no preferences ,” Severus drawled, though his voice had softened in spite of himself. “But i know you are fond of it. ”

Harry laughed, the sound bubbling out of him as he grabbed Severus’s hand and tugged him toward the boxes. 

Severus allowed himself to be pulled anyway, settling on the rug as Harry began rifling through the decorations like a child set loose in a sweet shop.

For the next hour, the world narrowed to the two of them and the tree. Harry insisted on placing the first ornament together. His hand wrapped over Severus’s as they set a gleaming silver charm . He hummed Christmas tunes off-key, bumping Severus with his shoulder as he moved, stealing kisses when he thought Severus wasn’t paying attention. Severus pretended to sigh at the interruptions, though his lips betrayed him every time Harry pressed in close.

Bit by bit, the tree transformed , gold and crimson glass, soft ribbons twining the branches, candles charmed to flicker with safe light. Harry stepped back to admire their work, his cheeks flushed with warmth and wine, his smile utterly unguarded.

When he turned again, Severus watched him. Not the tree, Not the room. Just him. 

Harry’s grin softened, grew almost shy, though he still leaned in, curling his arms around Severus’s waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Severus huffed, pressing his lips briefly to his hair. “You haven’t even seen the best aprt “ 

“Oh?” Harry asked, tilting his head.

Severus lifted his wand and snapped it once.

The star at the foot of the boxes flared to life, its golden light swelling until Harry gasped, snatching it up with both hands. He looked at Severus with eyes too bright for words. “Together,” he whispered, already reaching, already tugging Severus forward.

So they did. Side by side, reaching high, hands brushing as they settled the star at the crown of the tree. The instant it touched the branch, light blazed outward in a brilliant rush, a cascade that swept the room like a wave of magic breaking open.

The house transformed.

Evergreen garlands unfurled along the ceiling beams, dripping with enchanted berries that glowed like rubies. Ribbons threaded themselves through the bannisters and walls, silver and deep red, twisting in elegant knots that shimmered faintly as though dusted with frost. From above, enchanted snowflakes drifted in a slow, graceful fall, vanishing just before they touched the floor, leaving only the crisp scent of winter air in their wake.

Flowers blooms opened along the windowsills and mantelpiece, bright against the deep green of the garlands. Peonies, lilies, even stubborn roses coaxed into midwinter blossom, every one of them charmed from the seeds and cuttings Harry had pressed into Severus’s hands over the months. A living memory of Harry’s persistence, his tenderness , was now woven into the house itself, blooming in impossible, radiant color.

Dozens of candles floated high overhead, each flame charmed to pulse like a heartbeat, filling the sitting room with a soft golden glow that touched every surface. The hearth roared to life, spilling warmth across the rug where the feast Severus had prepared waited in quiet perfection.

Harry stood rooted in the center of the wonderland, wide-eyed, lips parted, his breath catching audibly. For once, he didn’t try to speak. He only looked, overwhelmed by the cascade of magic, by the impossible beauty of the room.

Then his gaze shifted. Away from the tree, the flowers, the feast , onto Severus.

And in that instant, the glamour faltered and fell away.

Severus stilled, color rising faintly to his cheeks, as though he’d been caught at something indecent. He almost moved to speak, to explain, but Harry only stared.

Not at the robes, not at the shimmer, but at him.

Something fierce and boyish lit in Harry’s eyes, a stunned wonder that left Severus more undone than any words could. His breath caught audibly, half a laugh, half a gasp . Then came that grin, irrepressible and dazzling.

At that precise moment, the phonograph stirred to life with a soft crackle. Strings swelled, gentle and sure, carrying through the wonder-lit room. The carol rose warm and rich, threading around them, filling every shadow with music.

Harry opened his mouth ,ready to speak, to tease, to say something reckless.

But Severus, still faintly flushed, cut him off before a single word could fall. His hand lifted, elegant, deliberate, extended in invitation.

“May I have this dance?,” he said.

Before he could finish, Severus flicked his wrist. A shimmer of gold rippled through the air, sweeping Harry from boots to collar. His travel-worn clothes melted away, replaced by deep emerald silk, perfectly cut, perfectly fitted. The waistcoat glimmered faintly where the light touched it, the hue so vivid it made Harry’s eyes blaze brighter by contrast.

Harry looked down at himself, startled, then back at Severus. He let out a laugh, half delighted, half disbelieving. “You—Merlin, you’re ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Severus said evenly, though his ears had gone the faintest shade of pink. His hand remained extended, unwavering. “But indulge me.”

Harry didn’t hesitate again. He stepped forward, placing his hand into Severus’s, the grin never leaving his face.

And with the music curling around them, they began to move.

“You’re lighter on your feet than I expected,” Harry teased after a moment, green eyes glinting.

“Years of avoiding dunderheaded children with cauldrons full of boiling acid,” Severus replied dryly, though his lips twitched at the corner.

Harry huffed a laugh, pulling him closer until their chests brushed. “Merlin, I love you.”

They danced through the song, and another, and another, as Harry giggled and leaned into him, utterly unrepentant about clinging. Finally, Severus drew him toward the table and pressed him down into a chair with a small, satisfied smile.

The table obeyed with a flick of his wand, dishes sliding closer in neat rows. Harry laughed, low and delighted, as Severus set a plate before him as though he were incapable of feeding himself.

“Bossy,” Harry teased, tearing off a piece of rosemary bread and popping it into his mouth.

Severus rolled his eyes as he finally decided to let the velvet robe fall open, warmer than he had expected, reaching instead for a slice of tart and a few pastries.

Harry hummed, chewing contentedly, though his gaze lingered. Not just staring. His eyes roamed over Severus shamelessly, and when Severus finally glanced up, he was met with that green-eyed intensity that always managed to undo him. 

“You know,” Harry drawled, sly, leaning back in his chair as he tugged at his own jacket, “the coat is a bit warm, don’t you think?

Severus arched a brow. “Is it ?.”

Harry grinned, shrugging the emerald jacket off his shoulders, letting it slide down with deliberate ease. “I think it is.”

“Perhaps,” Severus said smoothly, though his voice betrayed him by lowering a fraction too much.

Harry laughed, soft and delighted, and leaned across the table, stealing another kiss. It was quick at first, then lingering, his hand curling into the fur trim of Severus’s robe as if testing its softness.

Severus tried for severity, but the sigh that escaped against Harry’s mouth was more surrender than reprimand.

Harry pulled back just far enough to smirk, lips flushed, eyes bright with mischief. “You look… ridiculously good like this. I can’t decide if I want to unwrap you like a present or make you keep it on.”

Severus gave a low hum, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost along Harry’s ear. “Careful, Potter. Presents can be taken away when they misbehave.”

Harry flushed, but his grin only widened. “Threats on Christmas? You really do know how to romance a man.”

Severus smirked, letting the robe slip looser at his shoulders as he picked up a sugared biscuit, holding it just shy of Harry’s mouth. “Eat. Before you starve to death in my lap.”

Harry blinked. “In your lap?”

With deliberate patience, Severus hooked an arm around his waist and drew him across the small gap, until Harry was straddling him comfortably, breath caught in surprise. “Yes. It seems the only way to keep you from wandering is to trap you.”

Harry laughed, bright and helpless, before taking the biscuit straight from Severus’s fingers, brushing his lips deliberately over them in the process. 

“So spoiled,” Severus murmured, though his hand was already stroking idly along Harry’s hip.

They fell into a rhythm that felt both absurd and perfect. A piece of tart pressed to Harry’s lips, a sip of cider tipped to Severus’s. Harry fed him a sugared nut, only to steal a kiss in between, giggling when Severus pretended to scowl but kissed him back with more hunger than irritation.

It wasn’t hurried. it wasn’t about any need. Just the luxury of having time. Of Harry perched on his lap, coat shrugged carelessly aside, Severus’s velvet loosened, mouths finding each other between laughter and bites of food.

Harry finally pulled back, breathless, resting his forehead against Severus’s. “Best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had. And we haven’t even touched half the food.”

Severus allowed himself the smallest, rarest smile. “Then we canl take our time.” His voice was low, warm, almost indulgent. “One bite. One kiss. All night, if that’s what you want.”

Harry’s answering grin was dazzling. “Oh, it’s exactly what I want.”

And so Harry stayed on Severus’s lap all night, as hours blurred with food, laughter, kisses. At some point the shirt and trousers turned into soft robes, loose and warm. Severus’s hands and lips wandered over Harry’s body, teasing him, testing him, while Harry’s lingered over the scar, biting and leaving marks as if he wished to cover it up.

They never rushed, lingering over every touch, every brush of lips, until the candles had burned low and the snow-charms above them began to dim with the first hint of dawn.

By morning light, pale and soft through the frost-rimmed windows, they finally stirred. Harry stretched, sprawling across Severus’s chest where they’d collapsed before the fire, his voice still rough with sleep. “We stayed up all night.”

Severus’s hand slid idly through his hair, a hum of assent low in his throat. “An excellent use of time.”

Harry tilted his head, grinning. “So now what, Sev? Straight to bed in daylight? Bit scandalous.”

“Scandal is inevitable with you,” Severus replied dryly, standing with a fluid motion that swept Harry into his arms before he could protest.

Harry laughed, looping his arms around his neck, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “You’re ridiculous.”

Severus carried him into their bedroom and set him gently onto the bed before sliding in beside him.

“So what made you do all this?” Harry asked with a smile, going right back to curling into him.

Severus hummed. “You said you always wanted Christmas like this with your family. And since we are together now… I thought our first Christmas should be special.”

Harry leaned back just enough to look at him properly, eyes shining in the candlelight. He swallowed, his smile faltering into something softer.

Severus shook his head and kissed his forehead and eyes. “Do not get teary. It is the bare minimum you should expect from a partner.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, though his gaze blurred, suspiciously damp. “It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Severus’s lips twitched faintly. “Careful, Potter. If you keep declaring things with that much intent while wrapped in my arms, the magic will bind us before we’ve even had the dignity of planning it.”

Harry blinked, then broke into startled laughter, burying his face against Severus’s chest."Severus, love, I think if we were going to accidentally get married, it would’ve happened months ago. Merlin knows you’ve been glaring at me like a husband since day one."

Severus groaned. "Romance really is wasted on you."

Harry grinned up at him, mischievous even through the lingering shine in his eyes. “Well, if we did… I can’t say I’d mind.”

Severus exhaled, brushing his thumb along Harry’s cheek, his voice low and certain. “Nor would I.”