Chapter Text
Severus Snape never expected to see fifty. He certainly never expected to be in love.
And he absolutely never expected that love to be Harry James Potter.
But here he was—alive, in his chambers at Hogwarts, sipping tea brewed by gentle hands that had once wielded a wand in battle, now only to heat water and tuck the corners of their shared bed.
It had been three months since Harry had leapt into his lap in the middle of the Great Hall, red roses spilling across the stone floor. Three months since the courtship had begun in earnest.
Severus had never courted anyone in his life. Not properly. Not like this.
But Harry—Harry was ridiculous, sentimental, stubborn. He deserved the grandest version of everything. And Severus? Severus would give it to him.
No matter how foolish he felt doing it.
The fire crackled low in their quarters, casting long shadows against stone. A quiet warmth. The kind Severus had once believed he would never have. That he did not deserve.
And yet—here he was. And here was Harry.
Curled beside him on the couch, barefoot, still wearing Severus’s too-large shirt, sleeves rolled sloppily up to his elbows. His head rested against Severus’s shoulder, humming tunelessly under his breath as he turned the pages of some dog-eared mystery novel.
Severus stared at the fire.
Tonight was the second step. He was nervous . just slightly.
A gift of vulnerability. Of something you would never share with another. A moment that could never be replicated.
Severus had considered a thousand things.
An heirloom. A vow. A letter.
But nothing would be enough. Nothing except—
A memory.
He shifted slightly, reaching into the pocket of his robes. When his fingers closed around the small crystal vial, his breath hitched—just slightly.
“Harry.”
Harry blinked, lifting his head. “Mhm?”
“I have something for you.”
Harry sat up, curious. “Is this part of the courting thing?”
Severus allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Yes.”
He held out the vial.
Harry’s brow furrowed as he took it. It shimmered in the light—silver, wispy, weightless. Memory.
His lips parted. “You want me to…?”
Severus gave a small nod, and with his wand, summoned the shallow Pensieve from the bookshelf. He poured the memory in silently.
When Harry leaned over and touched it, Severus didn’t breathe.
Harry was laughing.
They stood together in the courtyard—but not really. This was the Pensieve, and the snow-crisped world around them shimmered slightly at the edges, as if painted in memory.
Severus stood beside him in silence, his arms loosely folded, his breath a quiet fog in the winter air.
Across the courtyard, the scene unfolded: a younger Harry, trudging through the snow with Neville at his side. They were laughing—arguing about something, Severus couldn’t remember what. But he remembered the sound of Harry’s laughter, even before it echoed in the memory now.
Harry had no scarf. No gloves. His cheeks were flushed bright with cold, his eyes glowing with mischief. He was dressed in his Auror uniform—robes tossed carelessly on a nearby bench—sleeves rolled up, collar undone. He stooped to pack a snowball and lobbed it at Neville, missed entirely, and laughed so hard he nearly lost his balance.
The memory-Harry was radiant.
Severus watched himself emerge from the shadows of an archway, half-concealed in the stone. In the memory, he held a stack of papers. He looked like he was merely passing through.
But then, a particularly loud shout came from the courtyard, and Severus turned, stopping to face the duo.
Present-Severus tensed, but beside him, Harry stepped closer—silent, watching.
In the memory, Severus’s posture shifted. He leaned against the side wall, watching Harry quietly. And as Harry laughed—flat on the ground, moving his hands and feet in wide arcs to make what was surely a snow angel—Severus smiled.
Gently. So gently.
Harry inhaled sharply beside him.
Severus didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
Because he hadn’t realized, not then, how visible the moment had been. How plainly his affection had bloomed across his face.
How unguarded he had been.
“He was beautiful,” Severus said quietly, watching the younger Harry sit up, shaking snow from his hair with a laugh. His voice dropped even lower, almost reverent. “You still are.”
“You looked at me like that,” His angel whispered behind him. “And you never told me.”
“I didn’t know how,” Severus admitted.
They stood together in the quiet snowfall of memory—watching the moment everything had shifted.
The moment Severus had fallen in love.
When Harry pulled out of the Pensieve, he didn’t speak.
Severus didn’t either.
The silver strands of memory still curled lazily in the basin between them, casting pale flickers of light across the quiet of his office. The room felt warmer now—strange, considering the windows were rimmed with frost. But Severus suspected the warmth had nothing to do with fire.
Harry turned slowly.
His expression was unreadable—eyes wide, mouth parted as if he hadn’t quite remembered how to breathe. There was something fragile about him in that moment, something raw.
“That…” Harry’s voice caught. “That was years ago.”
There was a long pause. The kind that stretched and breathed and shifted the ground between them.
Then, softly—so softly Severus almost didn’t hear it—
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He met Harry’s gaze. Steady. Unflinching. But not guarded—not this time.
“Because I thought I didn’t deserve to,” Severus murmured. “Because I spent too many years believing love was not something meant for men like me.”
He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
But now that it was out there, he didn’t regret it.
Harry said nothing at first. His fingers were trembling, still curled around the empty vial the memory had been stored in.
And then—
He reached for him.
Severus startled—not outwardly, but something in his chest shifted, caught. Harry’s hand was warm, certain, his fingers wrapping around Severus’s as if anchoring him to this moment.
“You do,” Harry said. “You always did.”
Severus’s eyes closed for just a second.
Not to hide. Just to hold it—this impossible, aching tenderness.
When Harry leaned in and kissed him—slow, reverent, steady—Severus let him.
Severus had fought dragons. Metaphorically.
He had stood face to face with Dark Lords, challenged decades of political corruption, and taught hormonal brats how not to blow themselves up with improperly brewed Elixirs.
And yet—this?
This nearly defeated him.
The wool itched. The pattern was far too complex. His fingers, nimble as they were with potions and knives, felt too clumsy for this kind of delicate work. And every time he dropped a stitch, he swore enough to make the walls flinch.
But he finished it somehow.
After three weeks, four failed attempts, two ruined skeins of yarn, and one humiliating conversation with Minerva (in which he had to admit, out loud, that he was attempting to knit something for Harry and had no idea how to make it… wearable), he finished it.
A sweater.
Not just any sweater.
Severus had carefully modeled it after one of his own favorite sweaters—Harry’s favorite too, apparently, as he had taken to “borrowing” it with alarming frequency. This one was resized to fit Harry perfectly. The material was thick, charmed to warm and cool depending on the weather, and dyed a deep burgundy red that made Harry’s eyes look more vivid than ever.
He had also tried his hand at embroidery—just a small, hidden message, stitched in fine silver thread into the inner hem, where only Harry would ever find it:
“For my Angel. So you’re never without me.”
Severus stared at it now, folded neatly and wrapped in tissue, sitting on his bedside table like it might explode. He wasn’t nervous, not really—he just wasn’t used to giving things. Not things like this. He nearly didn’t give it to him. Nearly.
But then it was Saturday evening, and Harry arrived in their quarters—windblown and flushed from flying, cheeks pink, his hair a windswept disaster of curls and early spring petals. A smear of dirt clung to his cheek, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"Severus! I’m back!" he announced, kicking the door shut behind him with a thud.
Severus stood quickly from the armchair, hastily stepping toward the bedroom, the wrapped package hidden awkwardly behind his back.
Too late.
Harry was already crossing the room, grinning, arms outstretched like he had every intention of tackling Severus on sight.
Severus tried to sidestep him—unsuccessfully.
Harry’s arms wrapped around his middle, hugging him tight from behind as he buried his cold nose in the crook of Severus’s neck.
"You’re warm," Harry mumbled with delight. "You always are."
"And you," Severus muttered, trying not to sound too fond, "are filthy."
Harry snorted, shameless. "Victory dirt. We won."
"I assume your flying shirt is also covered in petals?" Severus asked, deadpan.
Harry leaned back with a grin, still clinging to him. "I flew under a blooming tree. What was I supposed to do, not be dramatic?"
Severus rolled his eyes, then turned slowly, still holding the package awkwardly behind his back.
Harry’s brows furrowed.
"You’re hiding something," he said instantly.
"I am not," Severus lied, unconvincingly.
Harry leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of Severus’s mouth. “You’re nervous.”
Severus tried to scoff, but it came out softer than intended.
“What is it?” Harry looked up at him.
Severus sighed. He stepped back just far enough to bring the package forward and—after one last moment of quiet hesitation—offered it in both hands.
Harry blinked, then took it gently.
“Open it,” Severus said, voice low.
And Harry did.
He blinked. “What is this?
“Your next courtship ritual,” Severus muttered. “Open it.”
Harry did. Slowly. With that stupid, careful reverence he always had when Severus gave him anything—like he understood how rare it was.
And when he saw what was inside—
His mouth parted. His breath caught.
“Oh.”
He lifted it gently, fingers running over the fabric. “Did… you made this?”
Severus cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Harry didn’t move.
Severus tried to explain, though the words felt like gravel in his throat. “It’s based on my green one. The one you constantly steal. I thought—perhaps—you’d prefer your own version.”
Harry still didn’t speak.
“Harry?”
Then Harry surged forward.
Severus barely had time to catch the sweater before Harry wrapped his arms around him, tight. His breath was warm against Severus’s neck, his voice wobbly and too full.
“You made me a sweater.”
“Yes.”
“You knitted me a sweater.”
“I just said—”
“Severus, you absolute romantic.”
And then—before Severus could stop him—Harry pushed him to sit down on armchair behind him.
“Harry—what—”
Harry kneeled before him and caught his hands, tugging them gently free from the gloves Severus had stubbornly worn for the past week. He turned them over, revealing the tender, reddened skin—scratches, little pricks, places where the wool had bitten too tight or the needles had slipped.
Severus opened his mouth to protest, to redirect, to say something—anything—but then Harry kissed him.
Not on the lips. On his hands.
On each finger. Each calloused palm. Each injury.
Harry pressed a soft kiss to the heel of his left hand, then the ridge of skin just below the thumb. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Only worshipped each spot with reverence.
Severus froze.
His breath caught—painfully, sharply—in his throat.
He could not possibly survive this man.
“You hurt yourself,” Harry whispered, brushing his lips to the inside of Severus’s wrist. “For me.”
“They’re scratches,” Severus said faintly.
“They’re yours,” Harry replied, as if that explained everything.
And somehow—it did.
Harry leaned up, still kneeling, and pressed his forehead to Severus’s chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Severus sighed, his voice rough with something unspoken. “ It wouldn’t be a surprise if I did, Angel.”
Harry looked up, confused and a little wounded. “You know I love you, right? You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Severus’s gaze softened. He cupped Harry’s face with both hands, letting him see every inch of honesty he had.
“You’re wrong,” he murmured. “I’m not proving anything. I’m showing you. I’m letting you know how much I value you.”
Harry nearly teared up.
His lashes fluttered, breath hitching, and he curled his fingers around Severus’s wrists as if anchoring himself. There was no teasing now. No games.
Only this—
The quiet, overwhelming truth of what they were to each other.
And Severus—
Severus leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, his thumb brushing just beneath Harry’s eye.
“No one’s ever meant this much to me,” he whispered. “So let me show you.”
And Harry, in a voice barely louder than a breath, said, “Okay.”