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Chapter Text

The crack that followed after his fist made full contact with the opponent’s jaw always felt like a goddamn orgasm. He could smell it—the moment he’d won.
The fight drained out of the muscular man across from him, and Severus tasted blood.

His senses were flooded.
Sweat. Adrenaline. Testosterone. Piss. Spit. Blood.
And his favorite—fear.
The moment his opponent realized they had no power against him.
That his lean frame was built for war, that every inch of him was trained, dangerous—
Even if he glamoured the scars.

No need to give the thugs in this cage more reason to fear him. He liked it better when they realized too late.

The man staggered to his feet, trying one last pathetic trap.
Severus pivoted on his heel and kicked him in the chest—hard.
He flew into the cage wall like a rag doll.

The crowd roared.

Money changed hands. Phones beeped. Bitcoin shifted across encrypted apps.

And he stood there—
Arms crossed over his bare chest, legs wide, hair sticking to the back of his neck with sweat.

> “Winner—our Serpentine!”

He let the ring judge lift his arm.
He rarely did these fights anymore.
But tonight, the fire inside him had burned too loud, and speed wasn’t enough to silence it.

Severus Snape stepped out of the cage as muggles reached for him like worshippers at the altar of a god.

He didn’t care.
He’d grab his money.
He’d get on his bike.

Women smiled at him, pushing their breasts higher, scenting opportunity.
He kept his head low, hair veiling his face.
The louder the crowd, the more distant the screaming in his own head became. He welcomed it.

Inside the changing room, he leaned against the wall, fingers tapping on his cracked old phone.

> I regret to tell you that Professor McGonagall passed away last night in her sleep.
—H.G.

Minerva was the only one who knew.

The only one who knew that the reason no one found his body wasn’t because the Death Eaters took it.

It was because he was still alive.

And now she was gone.

He thought his secret would die with her.
But apparently, she’d felt the need to tell Granger.

He exhaled hard through his nose, a quiet huff of betrayal.
Minerva had no right.
Even if they were close—after the war, the two women had grown too close—Minerva never asked to share his secret.

And she had.
He wasn’t angry. Not really.
He just felt... cracked open again.

He stepped in front of the filthy, cracked mirror in the abandoned gym and looked at himself.

Still Severus. But not.

The glamour softened his chin, thinned his nose just enough.
His hair was still black, longer now, tied back in a ponytail.
He looked like someone else. Close enough to pass unnoticed.

He glanced at his cut knuckles.
He could heal them in an instant—but there was something grounding about the sting.
Pain moved through his veins like proof he was still alive.

One look at the mold-caked shower stall had him mutter a fast cleaning charm. He’d rather bleed than step into that germ-infested pit.

Severus left through the back door.

This part of London didn’t show up on Google Maps or TripAdvisor. It showed up in police reports.
Exactly how he liked it.

Lighting a cigarette, he tilted his head back to look at the cold, starless sky.

There was no answer up there.
Maybe he’d asked the wrong question.

But it still hurt.
Minerva was gone. And somehow that left him more afloat than he’d felt in years.

He tied his hair back, fingers shaking only slightly.

> “Good fight, mate.”

Gobs—one of Dayan’s security thugs—flashed him a gold-toothed grin.

> “Did you bet?” Severus asked, fist-bumping the man out of habit.

> “Serpentine’s always a lucky bet,” Gobs chuckled, stepping aside to let him pass.

They respected him here.
They didn’t know who he was.
Only who he chose to be.

His black Yamaha was untouched—parked in a place where nothing stayed safe.
They all knew better than to touch his bike.

> “Take care, mate,” Gobs called as Severus swung a leg over the machine.

The engine purred to life beneath him, low and violent.
The rumble climbed his spine like a lover’s hands.

And for a moment, the world quieted.
🖤🖤🖤

The sound of his phone was like a drill boring into his skull.

Harry groaned, pried his eyes open, and looked around.
Right. He was in bed with that guy.

Tray? Jay?
Could’ve been Ray. Didn’t matter.

All he could see was dark hair fanned across a pillow.
Tray-or-Jay-or-Ray snored. And no—there was nothing cute about it.

He leaned down, digging around the floor to find his jeans, eventually fishing the goddamn phone from the pocket.

> "Shut that, mate," the lump beside him mumbled into the pillow.

The light coming through the curtains was weak. Barely dawn.
Late November had a way of compressing the world into a few anemic hours of sunlight—hardly enough reason to get up on a weekend.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor.
He pressed the answer button. If he didn’t, the next step would be Hermione Apparating into the room and he really didn’t want that.

> “Minerva died,” she whispered—between hiccups, between barely-suppressed tears.

Harry closed his eyes.

> “Fuck, Herm,” he muttered, padding toward what he hoped was the bathroom.

This wasn’t his place. It was some Muggle flat.
So was the guy—some bloke Harry’d picked up at that club near Soho.
He'd downed another bottle of scotch, felt lonely, and needed something warm to fuck.

> “She passed in her sleep. A few hours ago.”

He found the bathroom and locked the door behind him, sliding down until he was sitting on cracked, cold blue tiles.
Minerva had been like a mother—especially after the war.
She never minded that he gave up Auror training.
But she was disappointed. Not in his job. In his lack of direction.

And she was right.

As he stared up at the ceiling, he saw dark eyes again—those same eyes he’d never really forgotten, even as they faded in that shack.
How was he supposed to have a direction when he wasn’t even sure he was alive?

> “We’re putting her to rest tonight. At the lake. Like she wanted,” Hermione said quietly.

She was one of the last people from the wizarding world who still bothered with him.
The Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived—what a fucking joke.

> “I’ll be there,” he whispered, certain she heard.

> “Harry?”

> “Yeah, Mione?”

> “I need to tell the others,” she said, clearing her throat again.

> “Sure. See you tonight.”

He ended the call and let the phone slip from his hand with a dull crack as it hit the tile.
He sat there.
Waiting.

He wanted to feel something—pain, grief, anything.
But ever since he watched Severus die, all he felt was nothing.
A cold void. A darkness that devoured every flicker of light.

Hermione had warned him she’d contact Ron.

Harry hadn’t spoken to him since the incident.
Since he broke up with Ginny.

Maybe sucking off a random guy at her birthday party wasn’t the most delicate way to come out—but he’d been drunk, stoned, and spiraling.

Ron couldn’t forgive him.
Not for breaking Ginny’s heart.
Not for being gay.
Not for being lost, numb, and completely broken.

Hermione buried herself in Hogwarts like it was a shield.
Ron climbed the Ministry ladder—now one of the youngest high-ranking officials.

And Harry?
Harry drifted.

A knock at the bathroom door jolted him upright.

> “Uh, hey… I made coffee,” said the voice of last night’s shag. Tray? Ray?

The voice was deep. A little gravelly.
And if Harry closed his eyes—just for a second—he could almost, almost pretend—

No.
Severus Snape was dead.

> “Yeah. Cool.”

He splashed water on his face, left the bathroom, and started pulling his clothes back on.

> “Hey, do you like eggs?” the guy asked.

The smell of breakfast turned Harry’s stomach.
He couldn’t remember the last time he ate.
Even chewing felt like effort these days.

He wandered into the kitchen.
Now, under the harsh neon lights, it was clear: no resemblance to Snape whatsoever.
Maybe the hair. Maybe the height.

The guy handed him a mug of coffee, smiling like it meant something.

> “If you give me your phone, I can put my number in?”

Oh, fuck no.
Harry didn’t do second times, or calls, or texts.
If he took someone’s number, they expected something. It was awkward.

> “Uh, Ray—I don’t do the texting thing,” Harry muttered, leaning awkwardly against the wall and sipping the too-hot coffee.

> “It’s Albert,” the guy replied, voice a little flat. “And maybe you should go, then.”

Albert. Right.

Harry nodded, downed the coffee, and left.
He had no idea what part of London he was in.

Oh well.

He Apparated home to Grimmauld Place.

Silence greeted him.
Silence, peeling wallpaper, and the cold memory of how terribly he’d treated Severus Snape while he was alive.

And that familiar, hollow punch in the stomach.
The one no drink, no warm body, no one-night stand could fix.

🖤🖤

The area around the Dark Lake was silent as Severus leaned against a tree, watching the funeral from a distance.

Shrouded in a glamour spell, he blended effortlessly into the shadows.
Everyone believed him dead. He had no reason to change that.

Wearing his dark cloak, arms crossed, he stood still beneath the steady November drizzle.

Earlier that evening, he’d slipped into the castle and kissed Minerva’s hand for the last time.
She’d looked peaceful—like she’d finally found the kind of rest that would always be out of reach for someone like him.

He turned toward the castle.
He didn’t miss it.
Everything tied to that place reeked of old misery.

He rubbed his forehead and looked back toward the crowd.

Granger stood near the younger Weasley girl—Ginny—who appeared pregnant.
Potter’s? he huffed, allowing himself a fleeting memory of the boy’s eyes.

But then he saw another man—someone unfamiliar—wrap an arm around her with tender familiarity.

Interesting, he muttered.

Ron Weasley passed nearby, hand in hand with a woman Severus assumed was his wife.
Classic pureblood—blonde, elegant, beautiful. A trophy, really.

Things change, Severus thought, his eyes drifting back to Granger.

She looked poised now. Almost like Minerva.
Her message had included an open invitation to tea.

But what could he possibly say to her?

And then—
The air left his lungs.

His fingers clawed at his own sleeve as his eyes locked on him.

Potter.

Why did he look like that?

The young man—no, not young anymore—seemed barely able to walk in a straight line.
Granger moved toward him, offering her hand. He shoved it away.

Ron stepped in, grabbing him by the collar, speaking sharply.
Severus blinked.

Weren’t they best friends?

He pushed his hair back, ignoring the rain.

Potter was drunk. He could smell it from here.
He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Or showered.

Severus’s jaw clenched.

What happened to you?
You were supposed to be the golden boy. The savior.
Not this.
Not drunk, stumbling, and friendless.

He watched until they all left—everyone but Potter.

The boy—man—remained.
Sitting in the rain, unmoving, soaked.

Even Granger eventually said something and walked away, leaving him behind.

Severus moved.

He didn’t know why—he just… did.
There was a pull. A need. For what, he couldn’t say.

He crept forward silently until he was close enough to hear Potter’s uneven breaths.

He was crying.

Hiccups. Shallow sobs.

Severus expected him to be at Minerva’s grave.

But he wasn’t.

He stood before a simple, dark headstone:

> Severus Snape
The Hero No One Knew

Severus froze.

He had a grave?

And Potter was crying at it?

A twig snapped beneath his foot.
Too loud. Too close.

Potter turned.

Green eyes met black.

And Severus’s breath caught—not because he saw Lily’s eyes.

But because they were his.

The most beautiful, tear-streaked eyes he had ever seen.

He inhaled sharply.

And Apparated away.

---

Harry drank.

The bottle was still in his pocket. He always brought it with him.
There were only a few hours each day he could function without it—and the black-market potions he’d grown to depend on.

> “Professor…”

The word died on his lips.

Then, louder:

> “Severus!”

Because he saw him.
Severus Snape had been standing there—behind him.
Watching. Arms crossed.

That wasn’t a ghost.
Or a hallucination.

Harry knew hallucinations.

He’d paid obscene galleons for a potion that conjured Severus.
Let him see him. Talk to him.
Fuck him.

It destroyed him.

Because that was the moment Harry realized his feelings were far more than admiration or guilt.

They were obsession.

He’d watched every memory he had of Severus over and over until the rest of the world disappeared.

Until every man he picked up looked like him.

So he stood there, staring at the place where he could still feel him.
Trying to convince himself he wasn’t mad.

---

Later, at the castle, Harry kept his promise.

He didn’t Apparate drunk.

He stayed with Hermione.

She cast a drying charm over him the moment he arrived, and his hair puffed up like a wet bush.
He slumped onto her brown leather sofa, still damp, and peeled off his glasses.

The place was so Hermione—books floor to ceiling, parchment tucked into every corner, and a fire crackling in the hearth.

She placed a plate of biscuits beside him.

> “At least eat one,” she muttered, sipping tea from her porcelain cup.

Harry didn’t move.

> “Hermione… I saw him. I saw…”
He swallowed.
“Severus.”

She took a slow sip, eyes downcast.

> “You’re obsessed with him.”

She’d listened to every theory.
Every possible explanation of how he could’ve faked his death.

She’d dismantled them all, one by one.

But now…

Her brow furrowed.

> “You can sleep in the guest bedroom,” she said softly.

> “Hermione…” His voice broke. “Why aren’t you telling me I’m crazy? That he’s dead? That it’s impossible?”

She rolled her eyes and popped a biscuit into her mouth.

> “It’s late. You’re grieving. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Rain pelted the windows like gunfire.
Lightning flashed.
Hermione wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Just like the time she and Ron had started sleeping together and thought he wouldn’t notice.

Harry stood abruptly. His hands gripped her shoulders.

> “Hermione—I know you. You're lying. Why are you lying to me?”

She sighed.

> “And what if… what if he was alive, Harry? Then what?”
“What do you want from him?”
“What do you think he’d say, after going to such lengths to be left alone?”

Harry bit his lip, blinking too fast.

> “You knew,” he whispered. “You knew and let me fall apart.”

> “I only found out last week,” she replied, voice tight. “Only Minerva knew.”

> “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

> “No, Harry! Don’t go looking for him. He’s nothing to you.”

Harry stepped back, fists clenched.

She was right.

Severus was nothing to him.

And yet—he wanted to scream.

> “Where is he?”

> “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “All I have is a number. And no—I can’t give it to you.”
“I already broke one promise. I’m not breaking another.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He left without a word.

---

Back at Grimmauld Place, the whiskey wasn’t strong enough.

Severus was alive.
And had let him believe he was dead.

Why?

Because to Severus Snape…
Harry was nothing.

He fell asleep clutching his bottle.
Tears burned down his face.

Crying for a man he never really knew.

Chapter Text

Severus apparated to the spot where his bike waited, leaning against a rain-slicked brownstone.
He leaned against the wall too, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes—trying to fend off both the drizzle and the tears burning behind his lids.

Severus Snape doesn’t cry, he told himself.

But hot tears slid down his face anyway, and he wasn’t even sure why he was crying. Minerva had been a friend—a dear friend—but she’d lived a long life. A full one.

Still, there was a knot in his throat. And those eyes...

Potter's eyes.
Damn it.

The boy—no, the man—had looked straight at him. Through the glamour. Through everything. That shouldn’t have been possible.

Severus took off his cloak, folding it carefully and tucking it into his backpack. He wore Muggle clothes now: black jeans, biker boots, leather jacket, and a matte black helmet—clean, elegant, forgettable.

"Severus Snape is dead," he muttered to the night.
"Nick Jones is alive."
And Nick Jones needed a drink. Or two.

He swung onto the bike, exhaling as he leaned into the throttle. The speed, the hum of the engine, the blur of wet road—it soothed something feral in him. But even as he rode, the image of Harry Potter refused to leave him alone.

Those eyes again.

He was no longer a skinny boy in glasses. The coat he wore did nothing to hide the muscles underneath, or the way his shirt stretched just enough to hint at strength.

Damn it. Merlin’s beard.
He wasn’t going to think about Potter.

He pushed harder, faster. Let the wind slap sense into him. Let the trees blur into one long creature clawing at him from the sides of the road.

He needed a drink. And maybe a good lay.

Mike came to mind. Sweet, uncomplicated, eager. A beautiful blonde bartender who never asked questions and always knew where to meet him.

Severus smirked.

He'd always known he was gay. But he only allowed himself to enjoy it after… everything. After Hogwarts. After the war. After all the lies.

Lily had known.
They were soulmates, in a way. She kept his secrets, loved him anyway. She once offered to tell James the truth, but Severus had forbidden it. And she’d taken that secret to her grave.

And now?

Was he seriously…?

No.

He couldn’t even entertain the idea of Harry. Not truly. Not without unraveling.

He rode until the London skyline swallowed him. His flat sat above a modest bike repair shop. He’d discovered—almost by accident—that he was good with his hands. Whether it was fixing bikes or breaking bones in underground fights, it didn’t matter.

He unlocked the door with a clean click, then texted Mike:
"I'm restless. Stop by."

He hadn’t even made it to the kitchen before his phone buzzed.
"15 min."

Reliable. Hot. Hard. Uncomplicated.

Mike loved how Severus topped him. That was enough.

Severus set his helmet on the counter, kicked off his boots, and poured himself a drink. Outside, the rain continued to fall, soft and steady. A perfect soundtrack for spiraling. He didn’t want to see Mike. Didn’t want to talk. He wasn’t in the mood for praise or sex or the distraction of someone else's warmth. But he hadn’t stopped the invitation either. Because the only thing worse than being touched by the wrong man… was being haunted by the one who would never touch him at all. Those damn eyes. Green. Swollen from tears. Looking right through him. It made no sense. No one should have seen through that glamour—especially not him. Especially not Potter. Severus downed the drink and poured another, jaw tight, throat burning. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need him. And he sure as hell didn’t need whatever was currently pounding against the inside of his ribs like it wanted to claw its way out. He sat down on the couch, drink in hand, and waited for Mike to knock. But his thoughts stayed at that funeral. With the rain. With the grief. With the one man he never touched, and never would. 🖤🖤🖤

Mike arrived.

His lips tasted like gin. His blue eyes—eyes Severus usually liked seeing on him—felt wrong tonight. Too bright. Too empty.

"Hi, stranger," Mike giggled, wrapping his arms around the taller man.

Nick Jones had a reputation. He could pick and choose who he took to bed. And tonight, he’d chosen Mike.

"No talk," Severus muttered.

He shoved Mike face-first against the wall, palming the bulge in his jeans while grinding his own erection against him.

"Fuck, Nick—"

"I said no talking."

He enunciated every word, voice low and lethal, each syllable laced with a threat. His fingers twisted into Mike’s hair, yanking his head back. He licked along his neck, the way he knew Mike liked.

"Pants off."

Mike unbuckled with trembling fingers, jeans dropping to the floor as he widened his stance. Severus pressed him harder against the charcoal-colored wall. Abstract art hung around them—disconnected, meaningless.

His mind drifted.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He wasn’t seeing Mike anymore. Not really. Not with his body, not with his mind.
He was imagining someone else. Someone with dark hair and green eyes.
Potter.

As his hand gripped Mike’s cock, his own twitched.
He fucked him. Hard. Fast. Emotionless.

He tried not to think of Potter.

Potter wasn’t gay.
Potter dated women. Just because Miss Weasley had moved on didn’t mean—

But as Severus came, a sharp grunt tearing from his throat, it wasn’t Mike he saw.

It was two green eyes, wet with unshed tears.
Looking at him like he was the only one who could make it stop hurting.

---

Mike left right after. Severus didn’t do sleepovers.
Sex was fine. Sex was easy.
Love… that was another matter entirely.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.

Sometimes, in moments like this, he thought—maybe I’m broken.

He’d only ever loved Lily. And even with her—during those clumsy teenage attempts at intimacy—he could never get properly hard.
Something was missing. Something buried too deep.

After the war, after Hogwarts, after losing everything, he had tried.
He’d lived as Nick Jones.
He dated men. Slept around. Went through bodies like bottles of cheap whiskey.
But love?

No. That never came.
Desire? Sure. Attraction? Often.
But love had a flavor, and he hadn’t tasted it in decades.

---

The light of dawn found him in the kitchen, hands braced on the granite counter. He traced the silver-grey veins in the stone, jaw clenched.

"Damn you, Potter."

He would forget.
It was nothing.
He was fine.

And yet…
His chest ached.
In a way that felt strange.
And heartbreakingly familiar.

Then his phone buzzed.

A message from Granger.

> Harry saw you. He’s not well. He’s been struggling since the war. I didn’t give him your number, but I couldn’t lie to him either. I just thought you should know.

Severus slammed his fist into the countertop, knuckles blooming red against the granite.

"Damn know-it-all," he hissed.

Still—he couldn’t understand how it was possible.
His glamour spell was strong. He was careful. Potter had never been particularly gifted—not with this kind of magic. Not even on his best day.

And yet…

He saw me.
Through everything.
Only him...Harry

🖤🖤🖤

Harry

He’d drunk too much the night before, and his mouth tasted like he’d licked a carpet.

Lying on his back on the cold bedroom floor at Grimmauld Place, he watched the play of streetlights through the curtains and tried to make sense of it.

Severus Snape is alive.

All these years, Harry had known. Not logically. Not magically.
Just—known.
And now it was real.

He shivered, recalling the way Severus once spat those very words—“You just know, do you?”
The memory hit like a cold shower down his spine.

Maybe Hermione was right to ask what he even wanted from Snape.

What indeed?

“Oh, hey, Professor. I’ve been obsessed with the fact that I bloody let you die, and now I’m really fucking happy you’re alive?”
Yeah. That sounded stable.

Harry rubbed his temples. His head throbbed too much to think.

Seeing Ginny yesterday hadn’t helped. She’d forgiven him years ago—hell, he’d forgiven himself.
It wasn’t her fault he preferred blokes.

Still. The guilt lingered.

And then his mind drifted…
To the same damn fantasy.

He was alone with Severus. That stare—icy and cutting—but Harry wasn’t afraid. He was hard for it.

He could picture Severus’s mouth. The way his lips curled. His cock pulsed at the thought, aching with that familiar, pathetic need.

Two months ago, he’d promised himself he’d stop jerking off to Severus. It was wrong. He’d been mourning a dead man.

But Severus wasn’t dead.

And that made everything worse.

A fresh wave of pain hit him full in the chest.

If Severus was alive…
If Minerva had known…
If he had any ties to the wizarding world…
Then he had chosen not to tell Harry.

He didn’t care.

Hot tears rolled down Harry’s stubbled cheeks. He tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. His skin was itchy with sweat, grief, and shame. He needed a fucking shave.

And still—his cock throbbed.
Not from a fantasy.
Just Severus. Just his face. His voice. His rejection.

Harry wanted to kneel. To beg.
To take whatever punishment Severus would give—
as long as he stayed.
As long as he looked at him.

He pushed himself to his elbows and staggered into the shower. Cold water pounded over his head as he stared at the ancient green tiles with fading gold flowers. He’d meant to renovate Grimmauld Place years ago.

But like everything else, he’d just… let it rot.

He needed something. Anything.

Maybe Hermione was right. Maybe he needed to let it go.
This obsession. This man. This fucking ache.

But as his hand wrapped around himself and he squeezed out tear-streaked pleasure, he whispered his name.

“Severus…”

And for a moment, he imagined lips on him. Cold, clever lips.
And the burn of shame turned into something Harry couldn’t name.

Chapter Text

Chapter: Static

Hermione kept staring at her phone. It buzzed again.
The twelfth text from Harry.
All of them asked the same thing: Snape’s number.
A number she couldn’t give.

She sighed and started typing, her gaze drifting out the window toward the lake.

“I’ll ask him if I can give you his number—or if he wants yours. Harry, this is all I can do.”

She watched the dots dance across the screen, waiting for a reply.

Everything had changed. Ron changed. She changed. But Harry—Harry had it worse.

Hermione had always enjoyed the idea of working in education, especially with Muggle-borns like herself—kids who needed a bit more guidance to navigate a world they never expected. Ron had settled into his life, making the most of his celebrity status. But Harry, her golden boy, had spiraled.

And it wasn’t even because he was gay. She’d always sort of known. She would’ve stood by his side without question.

No, it was the obsession with Severus Snape.

After the Battle of Hogwarts—after Voldemort’s death—Harry broke. He locked himself away in the Potions Master's quarters for days, took Snape’s journals, taught himself brewing. Some of the things he made were… questionable. Dangerous.

At first, she and Ron thought it was guilt. That Harry needed to atone somehow, to make peace with everything he’d misunderstood. But it got worse. He dropped out of Auror training.
And then Ginny.

Hermione still remembered the scandal. The engagement party. Ginny walking into the coat room and finding Harry on his knees for another man.
The way Ron’s fist shattered against Harry’s jaw.
They hadn’t spoken since.
Ginny had moved on—happily, with someone new. But Ron was still done with Harry. Done.

Hermione rubbed her temples.

"Fine."
Came Harry’s eventual reply.

She stared at the name on her phone—S.
And texted.

"Harry is desperate to see you, sir. You can’t imagine the impact your death had on him. Please consider it. I won’t give him your number without your consent, but… maybe you could text him instead. This is his number."

She attached Harry’s contact.

Hermione had never been close to Snape. She didn’t like him. But she respected him.

"I texted S," she messaged Harry, levitating a cup of tea to her desk.

"What is he saying?"

"Nothing. Harry, I don’t even know if this number is active. It might be a burner he only checks occasionally. You should stop."

Harry paced across his living room. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the drifting dust motes—oddly comforting.
"I should stop what, exactly?"

Hermione exhaled through her nose. Her tone snapped, sharper than she intended.

"This, Harry. Whatever this is. I’m sure that Snape can’t—and won’t—give you what you’re looking for. He was never exactly your biggest fan."

But Harry knew that. Of course he knew.

His fingers trembled around the phone. His skin looked papery, blue veins stark under pale flesh. He hadn’t taken his potions. He was in withdrawal.

"I just want to see him."

"And what will you say, huh?"
Hermione wanted to shake him. Slap him. Wake him up.

Then, something cold clicked into place.
Oh Merlin.

She called him.

Harry stared at the ringing phone in his hand. It buzzed four times before he answered. The sound echoed in the empty room.

"Harry… I need you to be honest with me."
Her voice was tight, almost gentle.
"Are you in love with him?"

Silence.

"Harry… did something happen between you two? Was he—were you—?"

He didn’t answer. Just a hitched breath.

Then nothing.

The phone left his hand, flying toward the wall—only to freeze midair. Suspended.
Like everything else in his life.
Frozen. Broken. Hanging in place.

He closed his eyes and began to count down, softly.

Then came the pop.
Hermione apparated into the room, crouched beside him without a word. Her palm cupped his cheek.

"Harry… I’ve been your friend since day one. Talk to me."

He leaned into her, tears streaming freely now, soaking into her shoulder.

Her hand on his back. Steady. Solid. Hermione.

"No. There was never anything between us."
His voice cracked.
"But I think—maybe—I feel something. I don’t know. I just need to see him. Talk to him. Herm, I can’t explain it. I just… I need it."

He broke. Fully.
Crying now. Shaking.

And Hermione held him.

"I don’t know how to find him, Harry. If he doesn’t want to be found, you won’t. He’s too smart. There are potions, glamours, gods—he could change his face, his voice, his scent. He could be anyone."

Harry gave a broken laugh.

"I just… I keep thinking… if I could sit across from him—just once—maybe the noise in my head would finally go quiet."

She nodded. She understood.
But just then, her phone buzzed.

She looked down at the screen.

"No. Stop bothering me."

She froze.

Harry snatched the phone from her hands, desperate, and hit call.

No ringing.
The line didn’t exist anymore.
Disconnected.

The phone slid from his fingers, landing silently on the rug.

"He doesn’t want to talk to me."
He whispered it...

🖤🖤🖤
Severus Snape

Severus paced his apartment.

It was midday, and two bikes waited in his shop—machines his clients swore only his magic touch could fix. He scoffed at the phrase. He rarely used magic. The principles of Muggle mechanics were too fascinating. You followed the rules, applied the right pressure, used the proper tool—and something worked.

Like brewing. Calming. Predictable.

He refused to think about the message from Granger.

What was he supposed to do? Go to Potter and hug him?

The very image made him snort.

Or worse—press his mouth to those flushed lips that—

No.

Severus slapped his own forehead, hard.

No.

He could have any man he wanted. There were plenty. Willing, anonymous, uncomplicated.

Not this one.

But ever since the funeral, ever since that evening in the rain and stone and silence, he couldn’t stop thinking of Harry. The way that shirt clung to his chest. The stubble on his square jaw. The flash of green under the weight of grief.

Merlin.

With a flick of his wrist, a cup of espresso floated to his hand. He drank it too fast.

No.

He couldn’t lust after Lily’s boy. What would she say?

He found himself having an imaginary conversation with her, the way he used to when things felt heavier than he could carry. Her language was usually colorful.

Too bad she wasn’t here to slap sense into him.

Disconnected the number Granger had. Burned the bridge before temptation could cross it.

The boy was spoiled. Used to getting what he wanted. Now that he wasn’t, he was throwing a tantrum.

Brat.

Severus pushed his hair back, pulled the black band from his wrist, and tied it into a sharp ponytail.

Good.

Work would help.

Espresso in hand, he descended into the shop. The scent of oil and rubber grounded him, tools laid out like a familiar ritual. A cherry-red Ducati sat gleaming under the overhead lamp, waiting.

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Usually this kind of focus could get him into a fugue state—body as a tool, mind a mechanism. But today, no matter how deep he dove, his thoughts kept drifting.

To Potter.

Damn him.

Why was Potter affected?

He wasn’t with Miss Weasley anymore. People break up all the time. It meant nothing.

Severus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, grit under his fingernails. He tried to focus on the piston housing in front of him, but every time the engine growled, all he could think of was Harry. Those hands. That mouth. That look he gave Severus in the cemetery, as if he’d seen a ghost and didn’t want it to leave.

Potter was grown. Twenty-four? Twenty-five?
He wasn’t a boy. And he was no longer Severus’s charge.

And yet…

A dark part of Severus—the part that still whispered commands in his own voice—wanted him to be. Wanted to be in charge. Of Harry.

He exhaled sharply, set the tools down, and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands.

Enough.

He needed the distraction. Not sex. Not potions.

Speed.

He picked up his phone.

> Need in on tonight’s race. The risqué one. No questions.

A reply buzzed back immediately.

> You’re in. 10 p.m. East Dockyard.

Good. Exactly what he needed.
Let the wind and danger burn this fog away.

The race was exactly what Severus expected—fast, brutal, and just dangerous enough to blur the edges of the world.

They tore through the dockyards at midnight, tires screaming against concrete, wind howling in their ears. The blackness swallowed them whole, but when he pushed hard enough—faster, sharper—even the dark began to sparkle.

Severus bit his lip beneath his helmet.

Even as he passed another rider, the engine vibrating through his entire body, all he could think about was—

Damn Potter.

When the race ended, he didn’t follow the others to the club.
He didn’t want drinks.
Alcohol wasn’t strong enough to wash away this restless heat under his skin.

Instead, he found himself—glamoured and silent—floating in front of Grimmauld Place.

The house still stood like a wound, carved deep into London stone.
And with it came memories.
Memories he had worked very hard to forget.

Pain.
Fear.
The constant knowledge that no matter what he did, they would always see him as the villain.

Even when he gave everything.
Even when it nearly killed him.

Damn them all.

He hovered outside the first-floor window.

Potter was inside, sprawled on the sofa, a bottle of gin clenched between his fingers. He wasn’t even drinking—just holding it. Staring into nothing.

“The boy drinks too much,” Severus muttered into the night air.

Not my problem.
The boy. The wizarding world. None of it is my problem anymore.

He rubbed his face, exhaled through his nose, and kept watching.

Damn it, Potter.

With a sharp crack, Severus Apparated back to his flat.

He turned on Netflix, sat on his own worn sofa, and wrapped his fingers around a mug of hot tea like it could anchor him to this life.

He tried not to look at the phone.
Tried not to think about that window.
That bottle.
That look in Harry’s eyes.

But his fingers moved before his mind caught up.

He picked up the phone, slid in the SIM card, and typed.

> What is it that you want, Potter?

He hit send.

The reply came fast. Too fast.

> I want to see you. Tell you I’m sorry.

His heart—an organ he wasn’t even sure he still possessed—gave a strange, traitorous jump.

He typed back, slower this time.

> Consider yourself forgiven. You were a child.

And it was true. He’d never blamed Harry, not really.
Like himself, the boy had been pulled into something massive, monstrous, long before he had the chance to grow into anything else.

Another message pinged:

> Please, sir. Can we meet?

Severus stared at the words.

And gods help him—he suddenly pictured Harry on his knees saying it.

Please, sir. Can we meet?

The image hit him like a blow to the gut.

He should have shut it down. Blocked the number. Gone to bed.

Instead:

> One meeting. You tell no one. After that, you leave me be.

The reply was instant.

> Yes, sir.

Severus dragged his long fingers through his hair, already regretting everything.

Why did it feel like he’d just made a colossal mistake?

Why was every instinct screaming at him to pull away?

But instead of retreating, he found himself typing again.

> What if I told you that meeting me has a price?

He stared at the screen, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

Merlin, he was such an arsehole.

The reply came almost instantly.

> Anything, sir.

Severus's breath hitched.

> One fight. I’ll send you the details. If you get through a single match—I’ll find you. If not…

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He wished he could see Potter’s face as he read it.
But the reply came almost immediately:

> I’ll accept anything you need me to. As long as I can see you.

His heart thudded against his ribs.

He could feel the danger in this.

Feel the pull.

> Very well. You’ll get instructions.

He tossed the phone across the couch.

But it buzzed again.

> Good night, Professor.

And his stupid, traitorous heart jumped again.
🖤🖤🖤

Setting up a fight for Potter wasn’t difficult. Severus knew this world—he was part of it. He slipped through the crowd unnoticed, wrapped in a glamour, and positioned himself on the upper balcony of the warehouse. From here, he had a clear view of the cage and the entrance. He chose this spot on purpose.

He needed distance.

He needed control.

Dragan and Milan brought Potter in through the side gate.

But he wasn’t a boy anymore.

Harry wore only a pair of loose trainers and boxing shorts—no shirt—and the sight nearly made Severus forget to breathe. He gripped the cold railing with both hands, the peeling paint scraping his skin, and didn’t give a damn. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

He wore a glamour, yes—but when Potter looked up, just for a second, Severus could’ve sworn the boy looked right into his soul.

Dragan had set the fight against a brute named Pit Bull.

The moment Severus saw the man, something feral rose in his chest. He had the sudden urge to vault over the railing and put himself between those fists and Harry.

No.

This was Potter’s choice.

This was his condition.

It wasn’t a death match—they rarely held those anymore—but it was brutal, unsanctioned, real.

Potter stepped into the ring.

No glasses. Muscled frame. Scars Severus had never seen before.

When did he get so strong?

Severus inhaled deeply, trying to suppress the tight dread crawling up his chest.

It’s fine. He’ll manage. He wanted this.

If Potter wanted to see him, he would pay the price of pain.

Pit Bull lunged—but to Severus’s surprise, Potter ducked cleanly to the side and struck hard, landing a blow to the ribs.

Good.

Severus found himself cheering with the rest of the crowd before he could stop himself.

Potter held his own.

Dodged another blow, danced back, landed a solid punch to Pit Bull’s jaw. The crowd roared.

Severus gritted his teeth. His heart was beating too fast.

But experience won in the end.

Pit Bull caught Harry across the face with a brutal left hook, then another to the stomach that left him gasping. Potter staggered, tried to get up, then went down hard on one knee.

Still—he didn’t stop. He fought.

By the end, he could barely stand. But he had lasted the full match.

Dragan pulled him from the cage like a bloodied prize.

Pit Bull was declared the winner—but Potter had earned every cheer.

Severus stood in the shadow of the upper level, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying—and failing—not to feel it.

Pride.

---

The locker room smelled of sweat and mildew. Peeling wall paint. Rusty pipes dripping steadily.

Severus waited until the next fight had begun before slipping inside.

He didn’t knock.

He bit his cheek and pushed the door open in silence, casting Muffliato on entry.

Potter was slumped on a narrow bench, head tilted back, a thick stream of blood running from his nose, down his mouth and chin. He was trying—and failing—to stop it.

Severus approached quietly.

“Don’t be a fool. Use magic,” he said flatly, sarcasm sharp in every syllable.

No reply. Just a stunned, wide-eyed Potter blinking up at him, dazed.

His face was swollen. His lips split. His eyes—Merlin, those eyes—still managed to sparkle through the haze of pain.

“I—Professor…” he mumbled, pinching his nose.

“ Siste Sanguinem” Severus said calmly, raising a hand.
His fingers hovered near Harry’s face—still deft, still capable. A flick of wandless magic and the bleeding slowed, then stopped.

“You’re alive,” Harry whispered, voice cracking as he stood up too fast.

But the moment he locked eyes with Severus, the world tilted.

His knees buckled.

And he collapsed forward.

Severus caught him.

Harry’s head landed hard against his chest as Severus lowered them both onto the bench. He muttered a diagnostic spell, then a few rapid healing incantations. His fingers worked automatically, precise, practiced.

If anything had happened to the boy—man—it would’ve been his fault.

His ego. His pride. His fucked-up conditions.

He laid Harry down gently on the bench, hovering over him, his large hands pressing lightly to his shoulders.

“Potter? Potter, wake up. Harry?”

Harry stirred, eyes fluttering open, a stupid, loopy smile blooming on his face.

Severus fixed the split in his lip with a touch.

“Hey… look at me,” he ordered sharply.
“What’s your name?”

“Harry Potter, sir,” he whispered, dreamy.
“You live… and you’re gorgeous.”

Severus blinked.

Of course he’d say something like that.

“Potter, are you well enough to hold on if we drive?”

Harry reached up, took his hand, and rubbed his thumb across Severus’s skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“This is a good potion,” he murmured.
“Wow… I could never feel you before.”

Severus narrowed his eyes.

“Damn you, Potter. This is not some potion-induced dream. Look at me.”

He guided Harry upright, cupped his face in both hands, eyes close enough to see every detail.

“You took a bit of a beating. I fixed most of it.”

His hand moved through Harry’s hair—slow, involuntary. He wasn’t sure why he did it.

Harry blinked again. This time, clarity came back into his eyes. Panic. Realization.

“Merlin,” he breathed.
“It’s really you.”

But Severus had already pulled away.

“Can you get home, Potter?”

Harry stood—and immediately collapsed into Severus again.

Without thinking, Severus caught him.

Held him.

Held him close.

“Hold on,” he ordered, and Apparated them both into the night.

Chapter Text

Severus leaned against the wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Bloody hell. The boy had finally passed out after Severus gave him a sleepless-dream potion. He had run a few diagnostic spells—Harry appeared more or less unharmed. The bruises and swelling, Severus had healed. He should have left them, as a lesson. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

When did I become so bloody soft? he scolded himself, watching the boy.

No. Not a boy. Not anymore.

Harry bloody Potter now lay on his new sofa, snug beneath his favorite soft blanket, snoring lightly. And Severus—Merlin help him—felt something pull under his ribs. A strange, foreign ache. A need to stand between Harry and the world.

His hair was longer now, falling messily around his face. His jaw was strong, shadowed in stubble. And his lips—

Full. Kissable.

Damn him.

Severus tried to put distance between them. He would kick him out once he woke. That had been the plan. He only wanted to make sure the idiot was fine.

But instead of moving away, he stepped closer. His hand hovered, inches from Harry’s face.

Wanting to touch.

He could feel Harry’s warmth radiating toward his always-cold fingertips, and gods, he wanted to stroke his cheek. Just once. Just a brush of skin to skin.

Are you a bloody fool? Severus growled inwardly, jerking his hand back.

He turned on his heel, stalked to the kitchen, and flipped on his espresso machine. If there was one thing that could fix this mess, it was coffee.

As soon as the machine delivered its bitter miracle, he took the cup and returned to his favorite chair—close enough to keep an eye on Potter. Just until he woke.

What in Merlin’s name does this boy want from me?
Why is he so damn obsessed with finding me?
To say what? There’s nothing left to say.

The espresso slid down his throat, dark and bitter as his mood.

But still, his mind went back to the cemetery. To the way Potter had looked at him, like he knew, despite the glamour.

Stupid boy, Severus hissed under his breath, draining the last of his coffee.

And still, he sat there. Watching him sleep. Watching the potion knit his bruises back together.

When Harry stirred, Severus felt a shiver crawl through his chest. He gritted his teeth.

Bloody hell.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

This was Potter. A bloody moron. Just like his father. He was nothing.

Severus inhaled deeply, pressing his spine into the chair. He was calm. Composed.

And then—

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry whispered, blinking at him.

He sat up too fast and immediately pressed a hand to his forehead, groaning.

Severus was at his side in an instant, a steady palm on his back.

“Slow,” he murmured, voice like smoke and velvet. “You had a concussion.”

Harry’s heart stuttered. Was this real?
Was he actually here—in Severus’s flat?

And was that large, steady hand on his back?

“Professor Snape…” he began, hesitating. The words felt old. Maybe wrong.

The hand stayed just long enough to steady him. Then a steaming mug of tea was pressed into his hands.

“Drink,” came the command.

Harry obeyed instantly.

The tea was warm and fragrant, grounding him. As Severus pulled away, Harry mourned the loss of touch—already missing the weight of that hand.

“So,” Severus said, settling back into his chair. “What is it that you want from me, Potter?”

The voice was the same. Sharp. Dry. Familiar.

But the man…

He wore black jeans and a black t-shirt, and the shirt clung to his lean, powerful frame. His collarbone peeked from the neckline. His shoulders were strong. His forearms—gods—Harry wanted to lick them.

And the tattoos. Ink snaked along pale skin like secrets.

Harry felt dizzy all over again.

“Did you lose the ability to speak?” Severus asked coolly, pushing his too-long hair back into a ponytail without thinking.

You’re gorgeous.
I missed you so much.

Instead, Harry cleared his throat. “I—I had to know.”

“Oh. You just had to. And now that you know? What do you plan to do with this information? Run to the Ministry? The Prophet?”

Harry shook his head, violently.

“No. No—I just… I needed to know that you were alive. That you’re okay.”

“I’m alive. What of it?” Severus huffed, tired of this game. Part of him wanted to Obliviate the boy and be done with it.

Harry’s thoughts tumbled, but the words drowned between mind and mouth. All he could do was look at him.

There was a glint beneath the shirt.

Was that a nipple piercing?

“I want to apologize,” Harry blurted. “For how I acted. For what I said. For leaving you on that floor to die. I’m—” his voice broke “—so deeply sorry.”

The memories stabbed at him. The guilt. The pain. He had wanted to carve the regret out of himself with a knife. He had been a wizard—he should have done something.

Anything.

He started to shiver. Still holding the tea with both hands. Still unable to get warm.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Tears welled and spilled, trailing down his cheeks.

“Severus…”

The name left his lips before he could stop it.

And Severus stilled.

The words he’d been about to say froze in the space between them.

Severus…

🖤🖤🖤

Severus froze.

His name echoed in the space between them, heavy and wrong.

Harry seemed to realize it too late. His mouth hung open, lips trembling as if trying to recall how to form the proper title—Professor, maybe. Or Snape. But it was out there now, and neither of them could take it back.

“You don’t get to say that,” Severus said quietly, but there was a rawness to it that scraped like broken glass.

Harry looked down at the cup in his hands.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Severus snapped. “You never do.”

The silence pressed in.

Harry looked at him again, face still pale, eyes rimmed red from the tears he hadn’t managed to swallow back. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“You came here uninvited,” Severus said, voice hardening like a wall snapping back into place. “And I let you in. I healed you. I gave you tea. But I’m not interested in rehashing some adolescent guilt fantasy where you confess your sins and I pat your head like a good little Gryffindor.”

Harry flinched. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Try therapy,” Severus muttered.

Harry stood up too fast and nearly dropped the cup. His hands were shaking again, and he didn’t know if it was from the concussion or the way Severus was looking at him—like he was both a trespasser and a disappointment.

“I saw you at the cemetery,” Harry said. “I thought I was losing my mind. Then I got your number from Hermione. I didn’t even know why I needed to find you, but I did.”

“You needed,” Severus echoed. “Always about what you need, isn’t it?”

Harry bristled, stung. “You think I wanted to see you like this? Hiding in some Muggle flat like a ghost? You think it made me happy to know you let the whole bloody world think you were dead?”

“That was the point, Potter.”

They glared at each other. Two men with too many shadows between them.

Harry’s voice dropped. “I didn’t come to fight.”

“Then leave.”

But Harry didn’t move.

His eyes dropped to the mug again. “I meant it. I’m sorry. That day… I should’ve done more. You were bleeding and I just—I left. I thought you were dead. And I hated myself for it.”

Severus said nothing.

His face was carved from stone.

But his hands were shaking at his sides.

Harry exhaled, trying not to crumble under the weight of the silence. “I don’t expect anything. I just needed to know you were alive. That’s all.”

Severus looked away.

His voice, when it came, was distant. Almost bored.

“Well. Now you know.”

Harry nodded, defeated. “Yeah.”

He put the mug down on the table. Looked at the door. Then back at Severus.

“Thank you. For the tea.”

Severus didn’t reply.

And Harry turned to leave, hand on the doorknob when—

“You’ve grown your hair out,” Severus said, not quite looking at him.

Harry blinked, startled.

“Yeah,” he said. “So have you.”

Severus didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

The door clicked shut behind Harry a second later.

And Severus stood there in the stillness, fists clenched, heart pounding too loud in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.
🖤🖤🖤

Grimmauld Place was too big when it was empty.

Harry sat on the edge of the kitchen table, a half-drunk bottle of Firewhisky at his elbow and his wand forgotten on the counter.

The words kept replaying in his head.
“You don’t get to say that.”
“Always about what you need, isn’t it?”
“Now you know.”

Harry groaned and let his head fall into his hands.

He hadn’t expected forgiveness. He wasn’t that naïve. But he’d thought—maybe—there’d be something. A flicker of recognition. A moment that meant all that guilt hadn’t been for nothing.

Instead, Snape—Severus—had looked at him like he was an annoyance. A ghost from a past he didn’t want. A reminder of everything he’d survived and wanted to forget.

I was stupid to go. So fucking stupid.

He hadn’t slept. Not properly. Not in days.

The moment he’d seen Severus at the cemetery, something had broken open inside him. Some wound he didn’t know was still there. It hadn’t even been about love, or attraction—though now that image of him in that goddamn t-shirt was burned behind his eyelids, haunting him every time he tried to close his eyes.

No. It was about something else.

Regret.
Shame.
Loss that had never really been grieved.

He had walked away from that man’s body on the floor, seventeen and terrified, and he had never forgiven himself. Not really.

He poured himself another drink.

“Idiot,” he muttered to the room. “He told you to leave. You should’ve left.”

But he hadn’t really. Not in his mind. Not in his gut. A part of him was still standing there, in that cramped Muggle flat, blinking back tears and wanting so fucking badly to say something that would make Severus look at him like a person, not a burden.

The drink burned going down. Good.

That’s what he deserved.

He tried to go to bed, but ended up sitting on the bathroom floor instead, head against the tub, knees pulled to his chest. The silence of the house closed in on him, and even Kreacher didn’t dare interrupt.

At some point he found his phone—something Hermione had forced him to keep—and stared at it.

No messages.

No calls.

No Severus.

Not that he’d expected any. But…

He opened the notes app. His fingers hovered.

Then, slowly, he typed:

> You don’t know what you meant to me.
You probably never will.
I just wanted to see you still breathing.
That was all.
I think.
Maybe.

He didn’t send it. He wasn’t that pathetic.

But he left it there, saved between a grocery list and an unfinished rant about the Ministry.

🖤🖤🖤

The mug sat untouched on the table.

Still half-full of tea. Still warm from Potter’s hands.

Severus stared at it as if it had committed a crime.

He should have vanished it. Or shattered it against the wall. Or thrown it in the bin with the rest of the sentimental rot that sometimes crept into his life like mildew.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat in the kitchen with his espresso—black, bitter, perfect—and watched the steam rise from the mug Potter had left behind.

The flat was silent again.

And he should’ve been relieved.

He is gone.
You told him to go. You handled it.
Everything is exactly as it was.

Severus closed his eyes.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a faint echo now, lingering in the corners of the flat. The sound of Potter’s voice—lower than it used to be. Hoarse. Uncertain. Still just as infuriating. But something else too.

And then that damn name.

Severus.

Soft. Like a plea. Like it meant something.

He curled his fingers into a fist.

No. He refused to dwell. He had survived too much to let one golden boy with regret in his eyes unravel the silence he’d built so carefully.

Severus rose, moved briskly to the window, and cracked it open. The cold morning air rushed in. Sharp, clean. Brutal.

He welcomed it.

He reached for his wand—then stopped. His fingers hovered just above it. Old habits. Old instincts.

He didn’t need it anymore. That was the whole point.

He dressed with mechanical precision: black jeans, black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. Tattoos just visible beneath the fabric. Everything in its place.

But his hands lingered, for one second too long, over a single faded scar on his neck.

The one left by Nagini.

The one Potter had seen.

Severus shook his head and grabbed his coat. He needed air. He needed distraction. There was a bookshop down the street. Or the alleyway café with the burnt espresso and terrible music—perfect for being ignored.

As he passed the table, he paused.

The mug was still there.

He picked it up.

Not gently.

And washed it under scalding water.

Scrubbed it until the memory of Potter’s fingers was gone.

Until it was just a cup.

Just porcelain.

Nothing more.