Severus awoke abruptly, bathed in cold sweat. He dreamt Harry died in his arms after the final battle. The sheet beside him was cold; Severus panicked as reality and dream blended. Severus stumbled out of bed, feeling his breath hitch painfully.
The flickering fire, illuminating the shirt thrown over the couch, and a teacup on the table, lighted the sitting room. The usually irritating clutter in his once immaculate rooms sent calming wave through him.
Harry stood, holding Sevvy, as Severus sank to the couch, pulling both into his lap.
“Thank you for being here, with me.”
Harry’s face hurt from smiling, his mere presence an endorsement of Minister Weasley’s policies. He’d spent the afternoon signing autographs and fending off propositions, but Arthur needed his support. The twins helped, acting as bodyguards.
Eternally thankful that the elder Weasley spearheaded the campaign to clear Severus while Harry lay unconscious after the final battle, enduring a public appearance was small repayment. Despite his husband’s gratitude, Harry despaired that Severus would ever appear in public.
George nudged him. Harry’s breath hitched in his chest as he saw his Severus in dress robes walk towards him, their son in his arms.