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James Potter thought he wasn’t normal.
He had seen Severus Snape cry. Not the kind of loud, dramatic crying, but the quiet, desperate kind. He stood there, just outside the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, his shoulders trembling, his fingers clutching the fabric of his robes so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The flickering firelight in the hallway cast shadows across his face, accentuating the silent tears trailing down and soaking into the loose neckline of his robes.
James didn’t know how long Severus had been standing there. But he knew why he was crying.
Lily Evans had refused to forgive him.
James had overheard it in a brief conversation between her and Mary Macdonald. Lily had said their friendship had ended the moment Severus uttered the words "Mudblood." She didn’t need an apology. She didn’t need remorse. She didn’t need anything from him anymore.
James didn’t care about Lily’s reasons for rejecting Severus. Right now, he cared only about the sight before him: Severus trembling in the dimly lit corridor, one hand clutching his robe, the other covering his mouth as if trying to stifle the sobs breaking from his chest. James couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew they were swollen, red, and wet.
His dry throat convulsed as he swallowed, his gaze fixed on those falling tears—the way they clung to the corner of Severus’s lips, the way he swallowed his sobs, the way the liquid disappeared down his throat without leaving a trace. Every tiny movement Severus made pulled taut the nerves in James’s body, keeping him rooted to the spot, unable to look away, unable to stop his mind from wandering further.
He wanted to know.
What did Severus’s tears taste like?
Would they be salty, like the sweat beading on his forehead whenever he leaned over a boiling cauldron? Or would they be bitter, like the sharp words he always flung at James? Perhaps they would be acrid, steeped in years of abuse and pain he had swallowed whole? If James ran his tongue along Severus’s skin, tracing the path of those tears, would he taste anything other than raw suffering?
And he didn’t stop there.
Oh, the bodily fluids of Severus. Tears, sweat, saliva, mucus, even…
James bit down on his lower lip, a strange heat crawling down his spine. This thought shouldn’t exist. But it had already wormed its way into his mind, clinging to him like a leech to its host. He imagined the thrill of running his tongue over Severus’s pale skin, following the dried tracks of his tears. He imagined the moment he would lean in, pressing his lips against Severus’s neck, tasting the salt left behind by the heat of his body. He wanted to know which part of Severus’s body would hold the most flavor, which part would tremble the most under his touch.
If he could touch him—if he could press Severus beneath him, pin his wrists down, and explore every inch of his skin—would he be able to uncover every distinct taste that belonged to him? Would Severus’s sweat feel different when he was held down compared to when he furrowed his brow in anxiety? Would his tears be sweeter when laced with pain or fear?
James stepped forward. Just a little closer.
He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. But he still couldn’t leave.
Severus suddenly looked up, his tear-filled eyes meeting his.
But when James expected to see pain in them, he saw only revulsion.
Severus looked at him as if he were something filthy. Something vile.
James felt that gaze like a blade slicing through his chest. But he didn’t hurt. Not one bit.
He liked it.
After all, it was an expression Severus reserved only for him.
Severus swallowed hard, his lips pressing into a thin line as if holding back a wave of nausea. He turned abruptly, his shoulders still trembling—but not from crying anymore.
James felt each hurried step Severus took, each ragged breath as he tried to suppress his emotions. He stood there, listening to the sound of hurried footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor, and then silence as Severus disappeared from view. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
He only needed to know that Severus was thinking about him.
Not with weakness. Not with tears. But with loathing—hatred so profound it would turn into an obsession.
And that was exactly what James wanted.
James closed his eyes, a faint smile curling his lips. Perhaps guilt had flickered inside him once, but it had long since faded like a wisp of mist. He had gotten what he wanted.
A part of Severus would belong to him forever, even if it was the darkest part.
James Potter thought he wasn’t normal.
But he couldn’t stop.
And he didn’t want to.