InsaneJournal

“A toast.”

“And to what occasion?”

“My return to Hogwarts?”

“A toast marks something noteworthy, Potter, not something already predicted by, let me think on this, half the Wizarding World.”

“Sod off. Fine, you pick something.”

“To my unyielding restraint after that abysmal first day.”

“Restraint? You put three sixth year—sixth years, mind you— Ravenclaws in tears, a Gryffindor firstie in the hospital wing after a near panic attack and don’t let me forget that Hufflepuff who spilled rat entrails all down his front today after you told him he was blinking too much!”

“As I said, Potter, restraint.”

“You’re an absolute bastard.”

“Now that is something worth toasting.”

With a heavy sigh, Harry raised his glass and clinked it (forcefully) against Severus’. What had begun as a simple meander to Hogsmeade after his first day back at Hogwarts as their newly appointed Charms professor (Defense Against the Dark Arts was simply too difficult to touch anymore these days), had suddenly become a drink (or four, he’d lost count) at Hog’s Head with the sourest of company if Harry had to say so himself. Yet when he had entered the damp, shuttered building, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders, his eyes immediately went to the darkest corner, lips falling downwards in dismay as he instantly recognized the hunched shoulders and hard-bitten face of one Severus Snape.

The scene looked out of place in his head, as so many did over the last five years of his dealings with the man. In all his years at Hogwarts, he had never seen the man in Hogsmeade. At the time Hogsmeade had been, like for many others, an untroubled break from coursework, deadlines and of course, growling professors like the said man in the corner.

After the Battle of Hogwarts and the hundreds of ensuing court hearings Harry had been, unfortunately, privy to, he had vouched with the evidence provided by Snape’s memories and his own to release the man from any charges set against him.

Two years fighting for his freedom until the bloody Ministry got itself together and released him. Two years, he thought bitterly, staring into his glass, the brown liquid rippling sluggishly against the sides. Butterbeer reminded him too much of before so he had amended his tastes to smoldering brews that blistered his throat and dimmed his memory somewhat. Not everything but always just….just enough.

Two tiring years that had left him more at odds with the Ministry than in the years during Voldemort. He blamed it on the fact that he had simply been too tired to fight anymore. Voldemort was dead, why did the fighting continue?

“Am I witnessing something truly remarkable as Harry Potter attempting to put thoughts together?”

Harry rolled his eyes, wondering why the fuck he even bothered with the man sometimes. He had half a mind to turn and bolt the moment he saw Snape sitting at the table in the Great Hall earlier that evening, fear thrilling through his brain. Yet…no, he was a Gryffindor and he’d be damned if he let Sever—Snape, he amended, Snape— dictate his career. The opportunity was too important and whatever history they shared, well it had to be put away for now didn’t it? They were professionals. Equals. Normal.

“The only people witnessing here will be the other customers watching as I hex you into next week if you don’t stuff it.”

Sharing a drink in a dingy tavern with the man he had once…Harry shook his head. Not normal.

“Careful, Potter, that almost stung.”

“What a shame.” He polished off his drink, signaling for another round.

* * * * *
They were losing.

All the horcruxes were gone; the ring, the diary, the snake, on and on and Harry himself. They were equals; Voldemort was mortal—well as mortal as he could possibly be—once more and they were still losing.

“We have to move the body.” A hand pressed on his shoulder, warm. Harry shook his head, tears continuing to spill over his cheeks and land on the white face clutched in his lap. “Please, Harry.”

Dennis Creevy. Gone like his brother. Quicker though. Just the Killing Curse. It was best if it was quick wasn’t it? Harry thought helplessly. That’s what it came down to these days anyways. They all went into a fight expecting to die. The method or means was different, sometimes too bastardly creative but in the end, everyone woke up these days expecting it would be their last. Harry could barely meet anyone’s gaze, seeing that admission darkening their eyes.

“Okay,” he rasped and stood quickly, scrubbing a rough hand over his face. Ron moved in, carefully folding the rigid limbs into his arms and tucking the head under his chin. Behind Harry, Hermione was closing the eyes of Terry Boot, half his face torn off. “Go find McGonagall,” he said to her, ignoring the dead weight as he heaved Terry’s body in his arms. “Tell her it was a trap, we lost two and I’ll meet her with Snape as fast as I can.”

Hermione nodded wordlessly and waved her wand before Disapparating. A spell of her own making allowed them to silence the noise of Apparition. It didn’t work when they arrived at a location but it was practical for a silent getaway. For all they knew, the Death Eaters were still in the area.

“You alright, Harry?” Ron was looking at the smoldering ruins that had once been the door to one of their last safehouses. Stupid word, Harry thought. Stupid, misleading word. They knew better than to expect safety anywhere.

“Fine,” he said wearily and clutched Terry closer to his chest, willing himself not to look down. “C’mon. We gotta go before Hermione’s charm wears off.”

“I’m going to kill them. Fucking bastards. I’m going to kill them y’hear?”

“I know.”

They were losing. Friends, family, the war, themselves.

* * * * *
Funny thing about drunkenness, Harry thought while already well pissed, it wasn’t too pretty on the outside but it felt brilliant on the inside. Everything was just this fuzzy, blissful, wondrous thing. Severus told him he was a loud, weepy drunk but what did he know? It wasn’t like he was a prize himself; being more of the tired, sullen drunk variety. They did share one trait however: they were both a bit more uninhibited. Or unhinged. With Severus, the words were practically synonymous.

“Why did you leave?” Harry leaned forward in his chair, the wood squeaking loudly as he stared across the table. They had been quiet for some time, finishing off their second round and Harry making his steady way through a third. Probably his last.

“Why did you stay?”

“You know why.”

“Then you have answered your own question. Well done.”

Harry glared at him, a heat burning a hole in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. But the man’s eyes were dark and uncompromising as ever. Only the slight clench in his jaw disclosed his true feelings on the subject: Harry’s question had bothered him.

“That’s no answer,” Harry said lowly, his knuckles white around his glass. “You knew how much I—we were counting on you. If you had only waited—!”

Snape slammed a hand against the table, shaking it on its hinges. A few of the other customers threw looks their way, some more annoyed than others. But Harry didn’t pay half a mind to them. He was too busy meeting Snape’s steady, furious glare.

“Enough,” Snape hissed. “Is this is why you have come? Searching for answers, digging for truths, unearthing the makings of your own failures? Closure, perhaps?” He dropped his voice so low, Harry could barely hear. “Or perhaps you do not understand the meaning of ‘no’.”

That, Harry understood. All too well. The lesson of course, courtesy of the incensed man across the table. A part of him knew he could leave right now. Go back to the castle, to his room and put the final touches on his first lesson for tomorrow. He could, quite easily, spend the rest of the year avoiding the man. He’d had enough practice in that department to know he could. If they came across each other in the hall or in the Village or at the staff meetings then so be it. Neither Snape nor Harry had to linger.

Yet.

Yet. Harry had done that already. Two years they fought together after the Battle of Hogwarts in the war. Two years more for his trial. And another year apart until now. That latter year being when Harry taught himself to stop talking and stop giving a damn. The year when Harry relearned how to live by himself. The year he thought he’d be consumed by everything that had happened to him. Ron, Hermione, anyone left from the war had gone on to their own jobs or paths while he was fighting against the last remnants of the fear-crazed Ministry. Once Severus—for that is who he had been to Harry at the time—was a free man they had spent those few months completely on their own.

Until the letters started to come, worse than Howlers, from all the naysayers of Severus’ innocence. At first Harry had been able to brush them off. After two years, it had been something of a joke for them. But they both became too lax, Harry thought in hindsight. Too fucking careless.

* * * * *
“…and I’m just sorry.”

“Very convincing, Potter. I hope you were sure to say exactly that when their families came asking what had become of their poor, sweet sons.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I am also certain they didn’t blame you, did they? It’s not your fault, Harry, they said. You did your very best.”

“Don’t.”

“You would not tell them that they could have been spared. That you had had warning and their deaths were completely unnecessary. You would not have mentioned that you did not do everything in your power to save them. That instead, you allowed them to die.”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP YOU—!”

Harry flew against the wall, head thudding with a sickeningly jolt. Snape stood in front of him, wand so close to his face that Harry went cross-eyed trying to look. Snape’s face however was calm. So unbearably calm. And he hated him. God, help him he hated him so fucking much.

“I will say this once.” The wand did not move. “The next time I give you explicit instructions—do not interrupt me! The next time you are handed information I suggest you use it to its absolute potential. I will not be Albus for you, boy, and coddle you in the right direction. These deaths are on your head tonight, Potter. I suggest you take note.”

Without warning, Harry felt the invisible bonds give way and he crashed to the floor.

“Bastar—.”

“Take. Note.” With that, Snape pivoted and walked out of the room, slamming the door. Harry leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold floor, trying to swallow his shame.

* * * * *
His head was too heavy for this conversation right now, even with his anger roiling in his stomach. Of course that wasn’t why he had come back, Harry thought staring right back at Snape, not giving an inch. The last year had been hell, trying to clamber his way back into his own life. Not even Ron and Hermione, who had been there every step of the way for the past, Merlin, was it already over a decade already? But not even they had been able to pull him through this. There had been a lull in his life that lasted until he received a letter from McGonagall notifying him that they were looking for a replacement Charms professor. Harry had balked at the idea, writing his (polite) refusal right away and tying it around her owl’s leg.

In the end, there had been no one reason why Snape had left, Harry mused, staring down at the man’s pale knotted hands. Yes, part of it had been that Harry wanted to continue fighting and rebuilding the Ministry long after Severus had been freed. Maybe it had been Hermione’s fervor for change rubbing off on him, but Harry could not stand the willful ignorance the general Wizarding World held when it came to accepting former Death Eaters back into the society. There had not been many, but after countless attempts on Snape’s life, Harry had not spent a decade of his life destroying Voldemort only to have his own chance at a pretty damn good life torn away from him.

So Harry had gone back to fight, again and Snape didn’t want to. Not anymore, not again. In the end it had come down to a standoff of sorts, both of them fuming after yelling themselves hoarse until Harry made the first move and walked out of the room, then out of their flat to Ron and Hermione’s. When he had returned, Snape was gone.

It was that memory that made him untie the parchment and rewrite the letter to McGonagall.

“No,” Harry said quietly, mind focused on the present to meet Snape’s eyes. “That’s not why I came back.”

* * * * *
He saw everyone looking at him, waiting for him to do something. Time was chipping away at whatever youth any of them had left. The war was wringing everyone dry and Harry hated seeing the deadness in all their eyes. Hated feeling like he was the one who had killed, who had caused that amount of barely concealed loathing echoing in all their voices.

But he just couldn’t do it. Every fight, every raid, the words caught in his throat—C-c-cruci—Ava—avada—until he gave up and just disarmed and hexed. Others were willing to let their conscience pay. Others, like Severus, had already paid.

There came a point when it just had to happen. The choice--and it always came down to that bloody word--was that the death of someone like Bellatrix or Greyback meant that Neville or Luna or Hermione saw another day. How many times had everyone urged him on? How many times had Severus scoffed at his insistence that their side was nothing like Voldemort’s? They took prisoners, not victims if it could helped, Harry argued. It was not the way he wanted to do it.

It would mean part of Voldemort will have already won.

That mentality lasted until the night Nott murdered Neville.

* * * * *
“But you’re right,” Harry continued, carefully setting down his glass. The Hog's Head had filled up once more with the drawl of murmured conversation pocketed with some laughter. “I didn’t come here to rehash things out with you. This was my mistake and I’m sorry. Things are…well you’ve made it pretty clear how you’ve felt. I.. I just won’t bother you again.”

He rose from his chair as quickly as possible without drawing any more attention to themselves. Not bothering to give Snape another glance, Harry walked out the door and onto the streets, vaguely proud that he didn’t trip over his own feet.

* * * * *
Their first had been too fast for either of them. They were in Rothbury—or Whitby, Merlin, Harry didn’t fucking care. Cold, blustery on the coast, shacked up in some scummy inn with rain coming down in sheets. The innkeeper barely looked at them as Harry booked a room, hands still shaking badly from the fight that had just left four Death Eaters dead. Two by Harry’s wand.

The room was damp and too small but it had a bed which Harry immediately proceeded to cover with his whole body, burying his face in the threadbare pillow, trying to drown out the memories of someone choking on blood. He heard Snape shut the door, snapping the curtains closed and warding the room before he finally shoved Harry’s feet aside at the edge of the bed to sit.

“Git,” he muttered and shifted around, ignoring the protest of his muscles. Neither of them were hurt besides a few cuts and a black eye Harry had a feeling would show tomorrow.

Rain banged against the windows, so furiously he could barely see the ocean outside. Maybe he could sleep here for a few days. Or weeks. Maybe he would wake up and suddenly feel like he wasn’t drowning.

“Over.” Snape poked his shoulder with a sharp finger. Harry groaned but obeyed, shifting onto his back and giving Snape a few inches of space to lie down on. It’d become something of a routine. For the Order’s safety, it was better to hide out after stopping a Death Eater raid. Shake any followers off their tail by hopping around the country a few times before holing up somewhere for a night. Or two weeks as had happened one time. Then heading back to one of the safe houses. It usually worked.

“I’m so tired,” he murmured.

“Sleep.”

“Can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

A year ago Harry would have been horrified at what both of them had just done; killing was one thing but hiding the bodies—four no less—for not even a stray family member to find…it was revolting. But Neville was gone. Seamus was killed last month. And Luna—beautiful, brave Luna was fighting for her life at St. Mungos.

“Do you think what we’re doing is any better?” His skin felt too tight, like it couldn’t hide anything anymore. He wondered if that was why Snape used to wear those overbearing robes in school. It was easier to feel hidden. To not itch so much maybe.

“I think it unwise to ask what I think. Be silent now.”

Harry heard the words, but there was no bite to them. It was how he knew Snape was especially exhausted. Somewhere along the way he had figured out these things. Little inane things you would only see if you spent almost every minute of every day with someone. Snape hated coffee but tolerated it with two sugars. Or he’d mouth the words of a book when he was concentrating and had forgotten Harry was in the room. Things like he popped his neck first thing after waking up or he picked under his nails when he was especially agitated.

And then there were the other things only Harry knew: Snape bit his lip in his sleep and snored like Ron. Or the way his hair smelled like damp dirt and smoke after a fight. Or the way he’d sometimes close his eyes and rub his arm where the Mark sat when he thought Harry was sleeping. Or even the way his hand felt, fingers snaked around Harry’s when he’d been hit by a Cruciatus and screamed.

“They killed Dean you know--that lot. Did you know?” Harry turned onto his side, folding his arms across his chest. Snape shut his eyes and nodded once. “I know you probably don’t care but Seamus…well, they were together. I don’t think he ever got past it and part of me kind of hopes he’s okay now--even though he’s gone.” He waited for Snape to say something, tell him he was being an inarticulate dunderhead or something equally biting but nothing came. Given how slowly his chest rose and dipped, he appeared asleep. “And a bigger part of me is glad he’s gone because it means he'll never spend the rest of his life hating those men. I’m….I’m glad I could have helped him in some way because if he was alive now he would have hated me just as much for killing them before he could.”

Harry paused, reaching out inside his head to try to touch the grief he had felt when Dennis died six months ago but he couldn’t find it. It was like he’d come to this point where sadness just was. He couldn’t feel it, taste it the way he once had before. It just sat like a stone in his chest, impeding his breath only once in a while.

A sliver of cool air cut across his skin from the window, turning his arms to goose flesh. He shifted closer to Snape, too tired to cast a warming spell or care if Snape pushed him away. Warmth was warmth in war. Just the same way dead was dead or food was food no matter how overrun with mould. Sometimes even sex was sex which Harry had found out the hard way with Ginny months ago. That one stung worse than the rest even though it had been his fault to initiate something he didn’t feel the same way for again. Or at least, he didn’t feel the same way about her again, especially not after bloody Seamus had kissed him while they were both sloshed and Harry found out he didn’t mind.

It wasn't until his forehead was almost brushing Snape’s shoulder that Snape spoke. “I do.”

Harry’s lips twisted into a frown. “What?”

“…Care.”

“Oh.” A brave part of him spoke up so he added, “It’s okay to, y’know.”

“Do not patronize me, Potter.”

“Sorry.” Snape sighed, eyes finally sliding open to reveal a glare. There were more lines under his eyes.

“Do desist from apologizing for everything as well. As much as you may think it, not everything is about you or within your control. You would do well to, as your Weasley would perhaps put it, get on with it.” He closed his eyes again, wetting his lips as he often did after lecturing (another thing Harry had noticed). “You can continue this tirade tomorrow. Sleep.”

Madness. It must have been the only thing to make him do what he did next. Sheer, stupid, bloody madness. Because it was one thing—one thing entirely different to kiss someone like Seamus who’d chuckle about it the next day. Or to fight himself inside his head as he fought every day on the outside with Voldemort, wondering if maybe something had gone wrong and he had missed all the signs that showed he was interested in boys just as strongly as girls. It was one thing to tell Hermione and Ron—stutter more like it—and wait for the words ‘Poof’ or ‘Shirt Lifter’ to come his way, only to have them pat his hand and tell him they knew—they knew all along!

And it was one thing completely different to realize your feelings of intense animosity for someone had shifted to begrudging respect to finally an intense feeling of something else entirely. Deep down, Harry knew that if Severus were to leave—whether by death or his own choice—a part of Harry would never be right again. No, not just a part— his whole self.

So, Harry kissed him.

Only after Snape pushed him away, yelled at him, walked across the room, Harry stopping behind him, Snape turning around, grabbing him by the shoulders and yanking him forwards did Snape kiss him back. Hard, harsh, unforgiving until Harry’s legs hit the side of the bed and they fell.

* * * * *
The walk back to the castle was a cold, empty one. Harry tucked his chin into the folds of his coat, staring resolutely at the ground in front of him and trying to think of nothing at all.

* * * * *
Harry felt like he had to know where he was at all times. Keep himself in check or else someone else would take him by the ear and lead him wherever they thought it was best. But with Severus…he didn’t mind being so lost with him. In some ways, the comfort was in the uncertainty. Not because he could easily slip in and out if things got too difficult. It was more the feeling that he trusted Severus enough to get lost.

Perhaps, in the end, it would be his ruin and Voldemort would see fit to expose that but for now, Harry couldn't bring himself to care. One more day, he'd bargain with the darkness while he lie in bed at night. What was one more moment of a little bit of happiness?

* * * * *
He returned to his chambers at half midnight. There was enough moonlight spilling through the open window to revoke the need for a Lumos. Feet walking as if with their own mind, Harry found himself standing at the window, pressing his heated forehead to the cold sheen of glass. His breath clouded the glass, white fingers stretching outwards until they stopped and rolled back like a wave. He raised a finger, painting a single clear line through the haze and paused to consider that maybe this had been a really terrible idea.

“Stupid,” he whispered. “Stupid.” Well there was nothing for it now, he was here and there was nowhere else to go at this point. He had half a mind to walk out the gates and Apparate somewhere, but with his body full of whatever stiff brew that had been, he didn’t want to risk splinching himself. “Stupid,” he repeated.

His whole life felt like this big misstep; skipping over a real childhood to adulthood and somehow trying to climb his way back down before something shoved himself back up. Even gazing up that first time at Hogwarts, all those years ago, bobbing in the boat beside newly-made friends, he had felt a little sad. Not that he'd really known at the time because he’d never been able to place thoughts into good words. But there had been some undercurrent, just ghosting his thoughts.

He wouldn’t sleep. There had been a period in his life when he would have swallowed a vial of Dreamless Sleep without batting an eye but he knew, too well, that addiction. Walking tired him out but pacing had always been Severus’ exercise of choice. Preferring to prowl and mutter when something bothered him.

Flying, he thought, pulling his head back from the glass. He needed to fly.

All but running to his unpacked trunk, he flung open the lid and yanked on the polished handle of his broom. Running to his door, he threw himself out of it and, unknowingly, into a startled Severus Snape.

“What the—!” Harry bounced back, broom clattering to the floor as he caught himself against the door frame, the air gone from his lungs. Snape grunted, glowering. “The hell are you doing here?” Harry barked, furious and wheezing.

“Speak any louder, Potter, and you’ll wake the dead.”

“Yeah? Well lucky me then, I’ve been wanting to have a word with the Bloody Baron for a while now. Thanks.” Stupid git. “Now unless you were here for some particular reason, I’m going out and don’t really fancy talking to you. If that wasn’t already bloody clear.” Arse, he thought even though a tiny part of his mind was murmuring something else. For his part, Snape finally looked a little uncomfortable, lines forming between his brows. He folded his hands together, making an faint movement to start digging under his nails before he seemed to catch himself.

“I may have been—.” He stopped, casting a furtive glance down each end of the hall. “May we speak in private?”

The fight, budding and building inside him, seemed to leave him at once without any real rhyme or reason. If it had to come down to talking, Harry was just no good. Not when Severus could undo him with a single sentence. Perhaps that was it really. Or he was just so tired: of the fight, of fighting, of feeling like he needed to fight just to get a scrap or something decent. And hell, he knew Severus. Far better than Severus would ever care to give him credit for.

Tomorrow, Harry told himself, throwing the broom behind him in the room and wrapping his fingers around Severus’ wrist. Tomorrow they could talk but for tonight, he fucking needed this.

* * * * *
It ended bloody and where it all started: Godric’s Hollow.

If it had been Halloween, Harry probably would have laughed but it was the middle of December, snow paving the streets and capping the houses everywhere except in front of his old ruined house.

The house where Voldemort and Harry had both lost something. And the place where one of their lives were going to end—hopefully again.

Here the ground had been torn asunder, smatterings of blood and dirt scorching the snow until it became an unrecognizable stain. Hermione was on the ground, lips bloodless and unmoving, Ron cradling her head and screaming words at Harry – “Finish him, Harry! Kill him!”

Harry’s bloodied hands shook, raising his wand but Voldemort was quicker.

“Accio wand!” To Harry’s horror, his wand slipped from his fingers and flew into the pale ones, the Elder Wand still trained on Harry. Shit! Cockwanking shit! Harry felt the curses slip out of his mouth but he couldn’t hear them. He could hear nothing but the dull roar filling his ears as he cast a frantic glance around, looking for a wand—any wand. But Ron and Hermione were too far behind him and the rest of the DA were down in the streets, the crackling echoes of their spells and screams splintering the air.

“You’ve lost, boy.” Voldemort’s skin was almost translucent now; blackened blue veins twisting around his face and neck, the red eyes as livid as ever. A part of Harry knew he was dying, the loss of his soul draining whatever little self he had left. But not quickly enough. “How very fitting. The place where all the Potters met their ends. Yes,” he said, almost to himself, lips curling into an ugly sneer. “Fitting.”

Words rose in Harry’s throat and stuck there, and he stared at the tip of the wand, heart rattling in his chest as he tried to figure out something and then there!—behind Voldemort, ghosting the snow was Severus, his own black wand leveled at the Dark Lord’s head.

Something must have shown on his face that made Voldemort twist around, Harry was never really sure because the moment he saw Voldemort’s face turn away from his, he ran. Hard.

His feet slipped on the dirtied slush but he didn’t feel it. He had seconds—half a second—no time at all before Voldemort saw him moving out of the corner of his eye. Somehow Harry leaped, pushing against the ground with all his might until he hit solid body and they were falling— crashing in a tangle of limbs. As they fell, Voldemort raked his fingers down Harry’s face, his glasses flying somewhere out of reach as blood blossomed, and Harry yelled. They were both yelling and Harry, damn it, he couldn’t see a thing.

Someone grabbed his wrist hard and he tried to pull away before he felt something warm and thin smack into his palm. A warm breath brushed past his ear and he heard, low and clear and familiar: Severus. “Kill him, you bloody idiot.”

Harry flexed his fingers around the wand, shouting the curse over the screams, until the Dark Lord finally surrendered to silence.

* * * * *
The moment Harry kicked the door shut, Severus was on him; hot, wet, dizzying heat clamping onto his lips so hard he moaned from shock and pain. His body responded automatically as he brought his hands up to grasp Severus’ shoulders, old memories directing the exact way he should tilt his head and open his mouth until they fit. Harry snaked his hands between their bodies, clutching at the collar of Severus’ shirt and pulling him forward even further.

This was nothing like it had been. Absolutely nothing like it. Harry needed to breathe, needed to pull away and maybe think but he couldn’t. Not when fingers weaved themselves through his hair and tugged them lightly. God, Severus remembered how much Harry liked that. Harry was so startled he drew back, staring wide eyed.

“Sev-.” But Severus started sliding his lips downwards, nipping at the soft skin of his throat, biting, bruising. Harry threw his head back, allowing his eyes to slide shut and letting himself just feel. It had been so very long and nobody— not the two or three men Harry found himself fucking the last year were anything—anything like this. He brought his head down, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood and cedar and, lingering beneath, something that was only Severus.

“I need you,” he whispered into the ear, nipping hard. Severus jerked below him. “I don’t know why we—.”

“Stop talking.” Severus’ breath was hot against his cheek.

Harry replied by pulling his face and kissing him again, harder, letting Severus bite his lip until he felt it bruise. They were moving; feet skidding and sliding against the ground, hips pressed tightly against the whole until Severus detached and pushed Harry hard onto the bed, following him down.

For a moment, Harry let him lay there, feeling Severus’ familiar weight settle against his body; hipbones that bit a little painfully into his own, the warm chest breathing hard with his and downwards to his legs, one tucked firmly between Harry’s own. Severus slowly rolled his hips, drawing a long, low gasp from Harry. “Again,” he muttered, bringing his arms to wrap around Severus’ shoulders and pull him down. “Again.”

Severus snatched up his lips and compiled, grinding his hips slowly as he breached Harry’s lips with his tongue. Harry hooked his free leg around Severus’ and jerked him closer, feeling more than hearing the man’s startled gasp.

And then they stopped, panting and gasping and Harry felt like he’d burst if something more didn’t happen. It reminded him of that first time, back in the shit inn when they stopped after Harry came, not a scrap of clothing off either of them. A part of him wanted it like that, maybe. Quick, get it out of the way and leave. But he didn’t. Instead he kissed Severus again, slowly, almost chaste and gave him a measured look.

“Now but…” he bit his lip. “Slowly.”

“Quite a lot of demands tonight, Potter.”

“Oh, sod off! It’s Harry or nothing at all.” He could feel the smirk pressing down on his lips as he combed his hands through Severus’ hair.

“Alright?”

Severus just hummed, silencing him with a very firm, very long kiss and for once, Harry didn’t really mind.