InsaneJournal

~* 1 *~
2005

On Loving Harry

He hadn’t loved Harry Potter when Harry was eighteen years old.

He had loved Lily. Always, always Lily.

He had followed Harry’s exploits that year, from the almost-sanctuary of Hogwarts, with Albus’ portrait as his tour guide of sorts, and Phineas Nigellus their ace in the hole.

He marveled that Potter escaped Malfoy Manor. That he broke into the Ministry. That he flew off on a fucking dragon. He admired Granger’s bollocks for Polyjuicing into Bellatrix Lestrange. Potter’s sheer tenacity (stupidity) at returning to Hogwarts.

He could hardly recall that last night, when he was bleeding out in the Shrieking Shack, when Harry Potter’s face appeared over his, when he could only think that the job was left undone and the lunatic was not yet dead.

He spent a great deal of time recovering. More still imprisoned in Azkaban, waiting for his trial.

He was reinstated as headmaster a full year after his acquittal.

As it was, he hadn’t had any reason to love Harry Potter until the seven-year anniversary celebration.

He appreciated him before that. He appreciated his testimony, and that he interceded while he was still in hospital to make conditions at Azkaban humane (he would not say more humane, as they were hardly humane to begin with), and that he got on with his life and managed to stay largely out of the public eye and Severus’ way. He lived at Hogwarts while he studied for his N.E.W.T.s, then went off to Muggle Uni, shaking his head politely at the gold-plated invitation to join the Aurors. He left Hogwarts a year before Severus returned as headmaster.

At twenty-two, with a Uni degree in his pocket, Harry Potter went to Ukraine to study with a noted Defense Master.

Severus saw him the next May, at the fifth anniversary commemoration. Instead of purchasing a hundred gold bricks inscribed with his name for the memorial plaza, Harry Potter set up the Headmaster’s Scholarship Trust. Each year, the trust would send a student from each house, selected by the four heads of house and the headmaster, to post-Hogwarts studies, Muggle or Magical.

Severus Snape shook Harry Potter’s hand, looked at him, one adult survivor of Voldemort’s terror to another, and thanked him. Later, he would recall it being the first time he had looked Harry Potter in the eye and not seen Lily. Later yet, he would think of it as the day he met Harry.

On May 2, 2005, the Ministry of Magic held a remembrance ceremony. It was the seventh anniversary, and seven was an important number as magic goes.

The event began with a formal dinner, held in the Ministry’s finest ballroom.

And somehow, somehow, it ended at a Muggle pub. Just Harry and Severus, this time, sharing their first-ever pint. Discussing Medorov’s defensive shielding theories and the continuing debate on de-aging potions and spells.

They shook hands before they parted. Harry’s hand in his, warm and strong and firm, lingering a second or two longer than necessary: they promised they’d see each other soon.

He didn’t go from ambivalence to interest to something more in a heartbeat. Falling in love, for Severus, was not stepping off a cliff into a sudden freefall of realization, hitting him like a brick when he struck bottom. It did not happen the first time Harry kissed him when they lingered in the street in front of another pub several weeks later. Nor did it happen in June when they Apparated together to Grimmauld Place to see the restoration. Harry had left the old kitchen table exactly as it had been, though the kitchen around it was cleaned up and modernized. Severus saw Albus there, at the head of the table, white head bent over diagrams and documents spread out before him. He banished the memory by pushing Harry back against the table, lifting his hips until Harry was sitting on it with Severus tight against him, in the vee of his legs, tasting the mouth that could be nothing like Lily’s, falling forward as Harry tipped back, reaching down for Harry’s belt, groaning as Harry gripped his arse.

No, for Severus, loving Harry came in a dream. Waking with Harry the first thing on his mind. Thinking of him as he prepared his tea. Wondering what he was having for breakfast.

Realizing, when sorting through the applications for the open Defense position, that the job should be Harry’s.

That he wanted Harry at Hogwarts.

When he sat across from Harry, at the Indian restaurant they favored, prepared to offer him the position at Hogwarts, he was also prepared for Harry to say no.

No, Severus. Thank you, really. But I’ve decided to go to Malaysia to study with….

Severus, don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer, because I do. But….

I’d love to take it, Severus, really. But Hogwarts…it’s just too soon….

And he wasn’t prepared to give up his own job, and go with Harry wherever he was headed, but only because he didn’t know if Harry would want that.

But knowing he would do it, in a heartbeat, if he were asked, made him realize he was lost.

Fortunately, Harry’s face broke out in a relieved smile, and he said yes.

~* 2 *~
2008

Holding Vigil

Severus is sleeping, and Harry Potter is holding vigil.

Three days had passed since he has been released from St. Mungo’s, weak still, but healing. The attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, that Harry had not even thought to go after the attacker as Severus collapsed at his feet in Diagon Alley, blood staining his shirt from the cutting hexes that sliced open his chest.

He had been hit too, but hadn’t felt the wound, not with the worry over Severus. Not with Severus’ life – Harry’s life – bleeding out at his feet.

It is a warm evening, and Severus is wearing only a pair of black pajama pants. His chest is bare. He sleeps on top of the covers, on his back. He has been understandably irritable, and restless. Even now, his right hand clenches and unclenches, making a fist, releasing it, as he sleeps.

There is room for Harry beside him on the bed, but Harry sits on the bedside chair, book on his lap for show only, and watches Severus sleep. Watches the slow rise and fall of the thin chest, counting the breaths, the space between exhale and inhale. Severus has refused the pain potion tonight. Harry thinks the refusal is for want of control, not for lack of pain, and he watches Severus’ face closely, watches the way his mouth twitches from time to time, face contorting slightly, then relaxing again with the long exhalations.

He wants to cover Severus, to pull the sheet up, at least, and drape it around the bony shoulders. He wants to cocoon Severus in warmth, to wrap him in security, but Severus refused the covers when he offered them and, truth be told, is not shivering now. His skin is a warmer shade of pale than it had been in St. Mungo’s, approaching the everyday pale of earlier this summer.

Harry gazes at Severus’ shoulder. The deepest gash is there, from clavicle to shoulder, but is nothing but a thin pink line now, no longer angry red and weeping. The bones protrude as they always have. While Harry has filled out in these post-war years of relative peace and prosperity, Severus continues as he always has. Thin but not unhealthy. Wary but not abjectly worried. Serious but not depressed.

Severus’ head is turned to the side, just slightly, and Harry’s gaze moves from the hollow of this throat to his chin and jaw. He let Harry shave him this morning, not with the adequate but impersonal shaving charm, but with razor and soap. The soap was in the old shaving mug that had belonged to Severus’ father, but the brush was new. As Severus relaxed against the pillows and closed his eyes, allowing Harry to do this thing for him, this intimate thing, Harry dipped the brush in the lather and spread it on jaw and neck and lip. He remembers the scrape of razor on skin and stubble, remembers the harsh lines of Severus’ face relaxing under his ministration.

Severus trusts him.

His eyes travel down to the hand splayed across Severus' belly, little finger just touching the waistband of the pajama bottoms. Another pink line cuts across the hand, where Severus had lifted it to shield himself. Strength is returning to it, and he can make a loose fist now, but this worries him more than any of the other injuries, more than the damage to his stomach, to his liver. Reparable, he said. Mere organs. Not my hands. Not my livelihood.

He looks down at his own hands, at his new deformity. He hadn’t felt the cut, hadn’t noticed it until they were at St. Mungo’s and they had taken Severus away and he was sitting there, covered in Severus’ blood, and Ron and Hermione had run in, panting. Hermione had dropped to her knees in front of him, had taken his hand….

He could only imagine how Severus would react, when he found out.

It was such a small thing, really. But it would be an ever-present reminder. Constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance.

And suddenly, Harry wants to be in bed with Severus. Wants to be spooned up against him, his back to Severus’ chest. Wants to feel the rise and fall of the chest and not just watch it from this bedside chair. Wants to feel the raspy chin against the side of his face. Wants the long-fingered hands splayed out on his belly instead of Severus’.

He pulls off his boots, standing them side by side next to the bed. He stands and slips out of his robes, letting them fall onto the chair behind him, then walks around the bed and slips in on the far side.

Severus stirs as he snuggles against him. Harry is on his side, left knee bent and resting on Severus’ thigh. He lays his head against Severus’ shoulder, scoots in as close as he can. As he takes Severus’ injured hand in his own, Severus grumbles then rolls to his side, giving Harry room to spoon up properly behind him.

“Your hands are cold,” he grumbles, but he is soon asleep again.

Harry looks down over Severus’ shoulder at his hand atop Severus’ hand. The tip of his little finger is gone, nail and all. A small thing to lose, really, considering what he didn’t lose, what is in his bed with him now.

He kisses the back of Severus’ shoulder and slowly falls into sleep.

~* 3 *~
2009

Butterflies

Teddy Lupin was coming to Hogwarts.

Literally. He was out there now, in one of the little boats, being pelted by the cold Highland rain, while the upper years were climbing out of carriages, dashing into the castle, gathering in the Great Hall at house tables and making the sort of commotion that Headmaster Snape tolerated only once a year.

In the room off the Great Hall behind the faculty table, Neville Longbottom handed Harry a cup of tea. The headmaster had just pressed it into his hand and had ordered him to give it to Harry and to be sure Harry drank it.

“Drink this. You need to calm down. Teddy is absolutely fine. No one’s ever drowned during the boat ride over, Harry.”

“You don’t know my godson, do you?” said Harry. He sipped the tea and sighed. “He’s a walking trip to St. Mungo’s.”

Neville urged Harry to drink more tea.

The headmaster’s voice rose, beginning the short meeting.

“We have fifty-four first-years this year, including three sets of identical twins. There are thirteen Muggle-borns.” He looked up and grimaced. “This will be the last year with such a manageable enrollment. Next year, the first of the post-war babies will be entering Hogwarts.”

“How many?” asked Septima Vector. Severus knew she was considering retirement.

“Seventy-four letters will go out. And eighty-three the following year.”

There was a collective wince from the gathered staff members.

“In next year’s class, there will be nine boys named Harry.”

Harry spat out a mouthful of tea. Neville jumped back, laughing.

“What? You’re joking, right? Severus?”

He stared at Severus, wide-eyed.

“Severus?”

Severus shook his head slowly. “My information is from my deputy headmistress. Minerva?”

“I’m afraid he’s correct, Harry. I’ve just reviewed the Magical Registry.”

Harry looked around the room, from one amused staff member to another.

“But….”

“I think we can leave that worry for a later date,” said Severus. He bowed his head toward Minerva. “Now, if you would please go. Rescue the first years. And do be sure Mr. Lupin hasn’t been lost in the lake.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless.

Minerva stopped beside him as the faculty prepared to enter the Great Hall.

“If it’s any consolation, there are also three Nevilles,” she said, raising her own mug in a mock toast.

Harry grinned while Neville sputtered.

“Oh, that helps,” said Harry. He grinned at Neville and Minerva, downed the rest of his drugged tea, and handed Neville his mug.

“Give that back to Severus,” he said, “and thank him for the calming draught.”

“Well, I’m off,” said Minerva. “I have fifty-four eleven-year-olds to get sorted.”

“Minerva –”

Minerva turned at the door and looked back at Harry.

“Tell him – tell Teddy – tell him that if it comes down to it, the Sorting Hat will take his choice into account.”

Minerva smiled. “So, is that how I got you in Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shrugged.

“He will be fine.” Severus hand rested on his shoulder. A comforting touch, unusual in this public arena. “Come, we have a sorting to watch.”

Harry followed Severus into the Great Hall, butterflies still winging in his stomach.

Teddy Lupin was coming to Hogwarts.

~* 4 *~
2010

On Milestone Birthdays

It is Lily’s birthday, and they have gone together to visit the cemetery at Godric’s Hollow where she is buried.

It is January 30, and there is snow on the ground.

“Fifty. My mum would have been fifty today,” says Harry. His breath comes out in puffs of white, words frozen in the winter air.

Severus knows this. Severus turned fifty himself exactly three weeks ago. He is still becoming accustomed to the idea of not being in his forties. It is disconcerting. Off-putting. He prefers to not dwell on it.

Severus watches as Harry kneels down in the snow before the tombstone and pushes the snow away, clearing a space for the bouquet of lilies he has brought with them. He lays them down, almost reverently, and stands again, brushing snow off his trousers. He slips his hand into Severus’ arm and they stand there together, thinking very different thoughts.

“Where’s your mum buried, Severus?”

Harry’s question breaks the silence. He is leaning against Severus, and his voice catches slightly.

“St. Clement’s. In Manchester. Beside my father.”

“Oh.” Harry seems to consider this. “A Muggle churchyard, then?”

Severus is not annoyed even though the answer is obvious. “Yes.”

They stand there together a few minutes longer, then Harry surprises him. He bends and presses a kiss to the top of the marble monument, melting the snow with his warm breath.

“Happy birthday, Mum,” he says.

Then he takes Severus’ hand and they trudge back through the snow toward the gate.

~*~
He sits on a bench outside the stone walls, ignoring the hopeful pigeons pecking around his feet. A bus trundles by, spewing out diesel fumes. It is anything but peaceful here in Manchester, at the old churchyard nearly swallowed by the city around it. It is May and there is no snow to brighten the old dirty sidewalks and bare earthen paths.

Harry has gone inside but he has begged off, telling him only that as far as he recalls, the graves are in the northwest corner, near the wall. He has no desire to see his father’s final resting place. He hasn’t been here since the funeral. Nineteen eighty-three, a year after his mum died. He doesn’t like to think of his father suffocating in his own vomit, left alone in the house at Spinner’s End after his mother died, with no one to frown at him, or water down his whiskey, or make sure he ate something healthy from time to time, and gets up off his arse to stretch his legs.

He isn’t sorry about it. There was never much love between Severus and his father, not once he was old enough to understand his mother’s hurt. His thoughts seldom took him back to his childhood days. They were too petty and miserable, all in all, to occupy much of his energy now that his life is so full.

He doesn’t like being here. Time spent in Manchester these last years was largely spent indoors at Spinner’s End, with quick trips to the market for bread and tea. The air smells stale and dirty. It is the smell of the childhood he has hidden behind the clean, crisp Scottish air of Hogwarts.

It was Harry who wanted to come here, not Severus. Harry who wanted to honor his mother with flowers on her birthday. He considered a moment – his mother was born in 1933. Today she would have been seventy-seven years old.

Seventy-seven. Double sevens. The most magical of magical ages.

He had agreed only to bring Harry. He had not agreed to go in and had told Harry as much when he broached the idea several days ago. Harry had shrugged. “Just take me there, then,” he’d said. “I’ll visit her without you.”

He leans his head back against the ancient churchyard wall. The sun is shining. He hates sunny days in Manchester. He wishes it would rain. Rain fits the mood of the city and mutes the edges of grime and decay. He wishes Harry would hurry. He’s been in there too long already. What more was there to do save lay the flowers in front of the stone?

Inside the churchyard, Harry Potter kneels in front of a headstone, clearing leaves and twining vines away. He places a bouquet of cherry blossoms, cut from a tree on the castle grounds, in the cleared spot and rests back on his heels. He reaches forward and traces once more the inscription below the names of Tobias and Eileen Snape.

"When beggars die there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of Princes."
William Shakespeare in Julius Caesar

He doesn’t know the quote, but he understands it.

And understands why Severus has chosen it. And why he has capitalized the “P.”

He stands and makes one final gesture, bending to press his lips against the marble.

“Happy birthday, Mum,” he says. “Maybe Severus will come next year.”

~* 5 *~
2012

On Spectacles

The downturn started slowly, as these things always do. He noticed it first with his Potions journals, the quarterly edition printed on fine vellum, laid out in a standard two-column format. They had changed the typeface, he surmised, using a serif font now. Reading it gave him a headache, and he resolved to write a letter of complaint to the editors.

When he confused the identical bottles in the bath – one holding his shampoo for fine, straight hair and one Harry’s formula for unruly mops—he concluded that the steam was eroding the permanent ink markings on the bottles. He must have been sent a bottle of inferior-quality ink.

He could not argue that the centuries-old Hogwarts expense ledgers had changed in any way. He was using the same ink Albus had used, sitting at the same desk, reading the same print on the same pages. But it was a rainy day in early May and the light in the office was inadequate. He blinked, then squinted at the ledgers. That helped. The numbers came into focus but he turned up the flames on the oil lamps with a wave of his wand just the same.

Several days of squinting took their toll. Severus was left with a headache. Moving his chair back, or the book forward, helped somewhat. But it was not a permanent solution.

He hated this. Hated the telltale signs of aging. Hated that caffeine kept him awake at night now, and that spicy foods gave him intestinal distress and that his bones creaked when he got out of bed in the morning.

He was fifty-one years old, far from old in Wizarding years, but these changes rattled him.

It would be different, perhaps, if his partner wasn’t young, and strong, and fit. Harry had a bottomless supply of energy. He looked and felt better at thirty-one than he had at twenty-one. The gradual erosion of Severus’ youth, this slow but sure slide into his mature years—would it have been easier with a man of his own age at his side? Someone whose own temples were graying? Whose eyesight was failing? Whose stamina was somewhat less than it had once been?

Someone to slowly slide down with him?

No. Two would slide down more quickly than one, both losing footing on the slippery slope of middle age.

For now…for now, he would make do.

Making do started with a pair of Muggle reading glasses, purchased in London after a Board of Governors meeting at the Ministry one Wednesday evening. He had worn his more modern robes, open save a short row of buttons, over dark trousers, shirt and his traditional waistcoat. He removed the robes as he stepped onto the busy London street and draped them over his arm. In the shop, he stood before the display for twenty minutes, trying on one pair after another until he found one that suited both his nose and the failing strength of his eyes. He bought a second pair, identical to the first, and a third pair in the same style, but slightly stronger.

And life, almost immediately, got better.

No one could slip into his office without announcing themselves first, not even Harry, so he wore the spectacles without worry while he was at his desk, poring over ledgers and paperwork and journals. In their shared quarters, he kept the second pair in the back of the second drawer of his bedside table, tucked behind a stack of handkerchiefs. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him wearing them.

Not because of what it did for his appearance. If anything, he thought, it improved it. The spectacles seemed to de-emphasize his nose instead of calling more attention to it.

He often wished that there was a magical treatment to correct eyesight. A potion, or a spell. Wizards could regrow bones, after all, but eyes were tricky things, changing over time, and no one seemed willing to step forward to offer up their eyes to experimentation. Spectacles worked wonders, and most people simply accepted them and moved on.

He thought about that one Sunday evening as he lay in bed with a week’s stack of newspapers – Wizarding and Muggle alike – and fished his reading glasses out of the drawer. Harry was off at the Burrow for the monthly familyfest, an all-day-long fete of food and Quidditch and visiting and admiring progeny new and old. Severus did not enjoy these gatherings and did not pretend to. He attended precisely two each year – one in July or August when Harry’s birthday was celebrated, and again on Christmas Eve. Both occasions offered the mildly numbing effects of alcohol and the opportunity for a challenging game of chess with the Weasley of the day.

Today had been one of those days. He did not want to be the one to tell Harry that his godson had been admitted to the hospital wing—again. The child was a walking accident, much as his mother had been. He had struggled so much after sinking into a trick stair that he’d managed to break his fibula. On top of that disaster, the house-elves had staged a mini revolt after receiving the new nutritional guidelines for student meals from the Ministry. Their appointed representatives, such as they were, had taken two hours of Severus’ time today, alternately wringing their hands, sobbing and arguing that the students…the poor children…would starve to death if vegetables servings were increased while breads were cut back.

Then the financial committee of the Board of Governors had visited. Their chairwizard was Lucius Malfoy and he ceremoniously deposited a bank draft from Gringotts on Severus’ desk for a new Potions laboratory. Severus should have known it was too good to be true – Malfoy insisted on a dedication ceremony and an official name – the Scorpius Malfoy Institute for Excellence in Potions Research.

Scorpius Malfoy was two years old. Severus thought he’d have a hospital wing named for him before he was six and a planet by the time he hit puberty.

It was no wonder that he fell asleep, reading the Sunday Times, with the Daily Prophet spread out over his thighs and the evening News untouched on the bed to his left.

And the reading glasses perched low on his prominent nose.

He woke to the sound of rustling newspapers, then the weight of a warm body settling on his thighs. He stirred as the glasses were carefully removed from his face, folded, and set on the bedside table. Lips, soft and warm, pressed against his temple then moved to his mouth. A hand worked itself into his hair below his ear, cradling his head as he was kissed awake.

“I don’t know why you’ve been hiding your glasses from me.” Harry spoke into his ear then kissed Severus’ jaw line. “They’ve already worn a mark in your nose. I noticed it weeks ago.”

“I have not been hiding them.” Severus’ voice was low, tired. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him in even closer. “I simply have not had occasion to wear them in your presence.”

“Liar.” Harry raised his head and looked down into Severus’ eyes through his own spectacles. “Severus, you’re older than me. And smarter. And taller. And a helluva lot more interesting.” He lowered his face until he was nose to nose with Severus. “And more devious.”

“More interesting?” Severus smiled and moved his head as if to shake it but Harry moved with him, keeping their noses together.

“Interesting enough that I’m going to watch your every move these next twenty years and learn everything there is to know about aging gracefully.”

“My every move?” Severus raised one eyebrow and as the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Every one,” said Harry. “You’re my role model.”

“How utterly unromantic,” said Severus.

“You want romantic?” Harry rolled off Severus and reached over to pluck the reading glasses off the table.

“I do not wish to be your role model. That sounds remarkably…paternal.”

Harry laughed. “Speaking of paternal, thanks for taking care of Teddy today.”

“You’ve been to see him already?” Severus took the glasses from Harry’s hands. “Careful with those.” He folded them again and slid them back on the table.

“I ran into Minerva in the Entry Hall. She filled me in.”

“That child is a walking disaster,” muttered Severus.

“He takes after his mother,” said Harry fondly. “You know, Remus was quite a bit older than Tonks.”

Severus rolled on top of Harry, then propped himself up on his elbows and stared down intently at him, an odd look on his face. “He was, wasn’t he?” he confirmed.

He supposed that put it all in perspective. For Remus Lupin, dead at thirty-eight, was frozen in time along with his young bride. Neither had had the chance to grow old, not gracefully, not kicking and screaming. They were dead and gone: light, luster and sparkle absent from their eyes long before they could dim and blur with age.

Do not go gentle into that good night....

“Severus?”

Severus blinked.

“I will attempt to set a good example,” he said. And he lowered his head, capturing Harry’s mouth with his own, kissing Harry, claiming him.

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light...

~* 6 *~
2022

On Leading

“You are, for all intents and purposes, the father of the groom,” said Severus. “There will be dancing at the wedding reception. You will be expected to dance with various female members of the wedding party. You must learn to lead. Ted has specifically requested that you dance with his grandmother for the parents’ dance….”

“Teddy,” corrected Harry distractedly.

“His friends began calling him Ted during his fourth year,” said Severus. “He began asking the faculty to call him Ted at the beginning of his fifth year. He introduces himself as Ted Lupin.”

“He’ll always be Teddy to me,” said Harry. He sighed and pointed his wand at the old Victrola. Strauss’ Blue Danube began to play – once again. “I’m going to look like a fool out there with Bill and Fleur.”

“Only if you don’t practice,” said Severus. He placed one hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

“I don’t like to lead,” complained Harry after guiding Severus awkwardly around the floor of the headmaster’s office and starting around again.

“Ridiculous,” said Severus. “You are a natural-born leader. However, if you move at this pace with Andromeda, you will give her whiplash. This is ballroom dancing, Harry, not a Quidditch match.”

“You’re too tall.”

“Weak excuse. My height has nothing to do with your ineptitude.”

Harry’s arm brushed against the stone wall and he overcorrected, bumped into a table and upset it.

“There went the wedding cake,” sighed Severus as tried to get back in step.

“What am I doing wrong?” asked Harry. He tightened his grip on Severus’ hand.

“You are guiding your partner as you would an untrained dog on a leash,” said Severus. “You are over-thinking this.” He pulled out of Harry’s hold and dropped into a chair. “That is it, precisely,” he said upon further reflection. “You are thinking about your next step instead of feeling the music, letting the music guide you.”

“I’m tired of this music. Can’t we try a different waltz?”

“Once you master this one, yes. Until then, no. Now, as I was saying, the music should guide your feet. You need to stop thinking and start….”

“I don’t want to knock things over,” interrupted Harry, “or step on your feet…again.”

“There is a reason I am wearing boots and not dancing shoes,” said Severus.

“See? I’m pants at this. Hopeless. And I don’t see why I have to dance with Molly and Fleur and Andromeda anyway. This is a Weasley wedding, Severus. It’s not like there’ll be a shortage of male dance partners.”

“You are being whingy and petulant. You sound like a teenager, not a man in his forties.”

“Barely,” muttered Harry. He sat on the edge of Severus’ desk, “I’m only forty-one.” A sheaf of parchment fell to the floor. “Whoops.”

Severus stood. “You are incorrigible.” He stopped the Victrola, hefted it in his arms and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Harry managed to sound both annoyed and resigned.

“It is time for Plan B. Find something to do – preferably in our quarters – for thirty minutes then meet me in the Entry Hall.”

Harry watched him go silently, more relieved for the reprieve than nervous about what Severus had in store for him.

***
Harry waited thirty-five minutes before leaving their quarters.

He took his time walking down the corridor and counted the steps…slowly…as he descended the marble stairway.

Severus was waiting for him – of course he was – standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall. When Harry had almost reached him, he reached back and pushed open the door.

It was twilight outside, and only a dim glow illuminated the enchanted ceiling from outside. The floor was open and clear – the tables and benches had been pushed against the walls. A thousand candles floated above their heads.

“Nothing to bump into here,” said Severus, leading a hesitant Harry to the middle of the floor where Minerva McGonagall stood waiting. “And I’ve provided you a partner of the appropriate gender…and height.”

He walked off toward the head table where the old Victrola sat waiting.

“I haven’t waltzed in years,” Minerva said, placing her hand on Harry’s shoulder. Her eyes were shining. “Be gentle with this old lady, Mr. Potter.”

Harry leaned in to kiss Minerva on her wrinkled cheek. “I didn’t know you were back, Minerva. You’re kind to help us out.” Severus was a genius. Harry had the softest of soft spots for his old head of house. He placed his hand on her waist and they joined their free hands.

“I’m really bad at this,” he admitted.

“Severus has already informed me,” she answered. “Shall we prove him wrong?”

The first time around the floor was rather awkward. Harry stepped mechanically as Severus counted aloud the “One-two-three, one-two-three.”

But Harry laughed when Minerva whispered “Annoying, isn’t he?” and miraculously, he didn’t lose count.

When they began the third circuit, Minerva squeezed his shoulder.

“Look at me, Harry. Wrinkles and all, I’m still more interesting than the floor.”

He blushed, and laughed again.

“Albus loved to dance.”

She had a faraway look in her eyes as she continued to move gracefully with him.

“That’s not hard to believe. He had a certain…flair…”

“Pity he never married,” said Minerva. “He would have made someone a fine husband.”

“Well, greater good and all that,” said Harry, not knowing what else to say.

Minerva looked at him keenly. “What about you and Severus, Harry? Why haven’t you ever made it official?”

Harry knew he had this leading thing down when he didn’t stumble.

“Well…I suppose…I suppose he’s never asked,” he answered.

Minerva smiled knowingly as the music died away and they stopped in the middle of the floor. She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially into his ear.

“Well, Mr. Potter, it’s no wonder he’s teaching you to lead. Have you ever considered asking him?”

“Asking him?”

“Sometimes, when you really want something, it’s nice to have it offered to you,” she said, holding both of his hands. “Especially if you’ve been rejected a time or two.” She squeezed his hands then kissed his cheek.

He stayed rooted to the spot as Minerva walked toward the door.

Around him, the music started up again.

“Care to dance, Mr. Potter?”

He turned, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a very Severus-like smile. He stepped forward and placed his hand on Severus’ shoulder and reached for his hand.

“I’ll lead.”

~* 7 *~
2022, December

Beginnings

It snowed on their wedding day.

December 23rd, 2022.

Friday.

Two o’clock in the afternoon.

Not that there had been engraved invitations, or even guests. They’d make the announcement at the Burrow on Christmas Eve, and at Hogwarts in January when the students returned from Christmas break.

There were no decorations, no gifts, no cake, no honeymoon.

There was a visit to the Muggle Registrar’s office, with Minerva and Teddy signing as their witnesses.

Then back to Hogwarts, where they stood facing each other in their own quarters, before a west-facing window overlooking the grounds, and quietly exchanged the traditional vows as the snow came down.

…to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.

A kiss to seal the promise.

Hugs all around.

Minerva produced a bottle of scotch in a purple velvet bag.

They toasted.

Later, as Harry and Severus sat together on the sofa, four feet propped up on one ottoman, watching the snow fall, Harry twisted the unfamiliar weight of gold on his finger.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing his sock-clad toes against the top of Severus’ foot.

“Thank you? For what?” returned Severus, rather idly. He held a nearly empty glass of scotch in one hand. His other arm was wrapped around Harry, hand comfortably cupping the curve of his arse.

“For marrying me, you git,” said Harry.

“You needn’t thank me,” said Severus. He downed the rest of his drink and placed the empty glass on the end table, then pulled Harry even closer against him. “After all, I believe I now have unrestricted access to your physical charms.”

“My physical charms?” Harry laughed. “And I don’t remember anything about unrestricted access…”

“You clearly stated it,” said Severus. The fingers of his right hand gently squeezed Harry’s hip, then burrowed in further underneath him. “To have and to hold.”

“Hmmm…” said Harry. He laced the fingers of his left hand with Severus.’ “So that’s why you agreed to marry me. You were worried I might start restricting you.”

“Restricting? Is that anything like restraining?” He drew their joined hands up and kissed Harry’s knuckles.

“You’re drunk,” said Harry fondly.

“On you.” Severus pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple.

“Now I know you’re drunk. You’re kinky and sappy.”

“A man does not get married every day,” said Severus. He followed the statement with a proper kiss, wrapping his other arm around Harry, kissing his jaw after releasing his lips.

“I love you, Severus.” Harry spoke very softly. “Thank you. Really. For agreeing to marry me.”

Severus’ arms tightened around him. His voice, when he spoke, was rough with an emotion Harry seldom heard in it.

“No. Thank you.” He kissed Harry’s temple. “For asking.”

~* 8 *~
2030

Endings
“Dance as though no one is watching you,
Love as though you have never been hurt before,
Sing as though no one can hear you,
Live as though heaven is on earth.”
― Souza

Harry quietly pushed open Severus’ office door and stepped inside.

Severus was standing at the window, arms crossed, looking out over the lake. His face was carefully blank. Harry thought it must be costing him a lot to keep it so.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

He closed the door behind him and walked silently over to the window. He stood beside Severus, not touching him. After twenty-five years, he understood that Severus needed distance to grieve.

Just as Harry needed comforting arms and the companionship of friends.

“There is a bottle of scotch in the bottom left drawer of Minerva’s desk. It is inside a purple velvet bag tied with a gold cord. Use the headmaster’s password.”

“Sure. I’ll go get it.” Harry wanted to reach out and squeeze Severus’ hand, but he backed away instead and left the office, leaving Severus to his private grief.

Minerva had retired from teaching a decade ago, but she’d remained at Hogwarts, a Professor Emeritus of sorts, and had used this office every day of her quasi retirement. The scotch was just where Severus had said it would be, in the familiar purple bag. Harry smiled wistfully as he lifted it carefully out of the drawer, then looked around the office.

Minerva McGonagall was dead and would never again sit behind this desk, staring over her glasses at a student caught out after curfew. She would never again serve tea, or transform into her Animagus form, or cheer unabashedly for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, or tell him what a good man he had become.

She’d never again dance with him in the Great Hall.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and stared across the office at the painting on the wall beside the door.

Dean Thomas had shown his talent at Hogwarts, and had gone on to become a gifted painter. He’d painted the portrait of Harry that hung in the Ministry – the only tribute Harry had allowed in the years following the war. Harry, sitting on the castle stairs, knees up, chin resting on them. Looking every bit the boy he was.

And he’d painted this, this gift to Minerva, commissioned by Harry ten years after the war.

Defeating the Darkness.

Hogwarts, as Dean had seen it that morning after the battle. Hogwarts castle bruised and broken but with sunlight filtering through the cracks in the stones, lighting it from behind and even from within. The sun rising on the devastation. Blessing the victory, anointing the fallen.

He knew Minerva loved the painting. She’d hung it where she would see it nearly every day of her life.

She’d always told Harry he was to have it, after she died.

He couldn’t bear to move it yet.

She’d died peacefully in her sleep. Poppy had found her only a few hours ago, when she hadn’t come in for lunch, and Harry had heard the news, along with the rest of the professors, when they gathered in the faculty lounge at the end of the day. He had hurried to Severus’ office even as the cry went up, even as his stomach fell into his feet and his heart constricted and that horrible empty sense of loss robbed him of all feeling.

Severus met him at the door when he returned with the scotch. Harry handed it to him and searched Severus’ eyes. There was love there, pooled with the sorrow, and gratitude, but no invitation to stay.

“I’ll be in the castle,” Harry said. “Send a house-elf when it’s alright for me to come back.”

Severus lifted a shaky hand and brushed Harry’s cheek softly with his knuckles. He nodded.

Then he closed the door.

Harry had taken care of Severus. He had left him to grieve alone, with the bottle of scotch Minerva had had the foresight to leave him for just this occasion.

Perhaps she had expected him to share it with Harry.

Harry shook his head. No. She knew Severus better than that.

Harry, never one to grieve alone, joined the rest of Hogwarts in the Great Hall for dinner. Severus came in only long enough to make the announcement to the students that Professor McGonagall had died that day. At the end of the meal, it was Harry who led the entire group, faculty and students, in a round of Auld Lang Syne.

One more time. For Minerva.

No house-elf appeared as Harry and his colleagues continued the celebration of Minerva’s life in the faculty lounge that evening, lifting glasses of ale and mead and scotch and wine, telling stories, celebrating her commitment and courage and friendship, her fiery determination and ever-sharp wit.

At ten o’clock, as the celebration was winding down, he slipped away and walked alone to the lake.

He’d be fifty in three months. Severus had already turned seventy. Minerva had been ninety-five. How many years would he and Severus have left together? Would Severus’ cheek become as papery as Minerva’s? Would his hands tremble with age just as they trembled today with sorrow?

Harry skipped stones in the moonlight until the ache in his arm nearly made him forget the ache in his heart.

The doors to the Great Hall were standing open when he returned, and he heard music from within, strains of the Blue Danube. He closed his eyes. His heart stood still.

Nearly ten years had passed since Harry had danced with Minerva in the Great Hall. Ten years since she had taught him how to lead. Since she had upended the apple cart of his life and made him realize that if he wanted Severus for forever, he might just have to do the asking himself.

Severus was standing in the middle of the cleared Hall, holding two shallow glasses of scotch. He handed one to Harry.

“To Minerva,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up in half of a fond smile, his voice barely more than a whisper. Clearly, he was through grieving alone.

“To Minerva,” repeated Harry. They clinked glasses, and looked into each other’s eyes and downed the scotch in a single go.

Then Severus took Harry in his arms.

“One more time,” he said. “For Minerva.”

And they danced.