spfestmod (spfestmod) wrote in snape_potter, @ 2021-05-13 11:03:00 |
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The following days passed in a blur. All that Harry could recall were shades of black and grey, of formal robes and tombstones. Eulogies that seemed to never end, and in between them, the sound of clumps of earth that hit the lids of the coffins and somehow echoed in his own heart.
Days went by and Harry was still cold. At first, Harry tried to put on more clothes underneath his robe, use a Warming Charm, even produce a small fire and drop it into a glass jar to keep in his pocket. But none were helpful. Eventually, he gave up all those efforts and got himself accustomed to a life devoid of warmth just as to any other loss.
Except that Harry couldn’t shake off the last memory of warmth he felt at the night spent in Hogwarts’ Infirmary. And now and then, Harry would still find himself aching for it.
Snape.
The professor also attended all the funerals, but they hardly exchanged any words other than a reluctant greeting only if someone else was present. Harry could feel the man's gaze following him, and sometimes, Harry would turn around, fully prepared to confront the hostility in those endless black eyes. Every time Harry was left puzzled.
Snape's brow furrowed slightly. He looked thoughtful, and his dark eyes were clouded with an unfamiliar worried look that made Harry want to clutch his chest.
“Are you feeling cold?” Snape suddenly asked once. The low voice was too close to Harry's ear. Harry’s body trembled involuntarily, for the first time not due to the cold.
Harry was embarrassed by his body's response. Then confused. Then confusion turned into unjustified anger.
“Why do you bother?”
The anger responded. The anger caused Harry to glare up at his Potions professor, until Snape’s facial muscles distorted as his own fury took shape.
Harry hated himself more than ever.
Harry stayed at the Burrow that summer.
When things calmed down, Harry told Ron and Hermione about the strange meeting with Dumbledore at King's Cross. Harry hadn’t told anyone else, even the Ministry of Magic. It was an absurd experience even for a magical world and the last thing Harry needed now was another tale to be woven about him.
After Harry finished, Ron nodded empathically. Hermione looked pensive, her eyebrows furrowed deeply.
“Then you just walked through that door and… returned?”
Harry nodded, “Yeah.”
“That’s all?”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing like… you were cursed, or… accidentally touched any dark magic objects?”
“I don't remember anything relevant,” Harry shook his head. “Anyway, Dumbledore said that everything was just happening inside my head…”
“But that doesn't mean it wasn’t real, was it?” Hermione interrupted. They fell into silence for a moment when Harry genuinely tried to rummage through his memories to check if there were any other suspicious incidents. But none came up.
“You don't look very well, Harry,” Hermione’s voice was filled with concern. “You always seem to be cold, distracted, and maybe you don't realize it, but… you clutch your chest all the time. As if…”
Hermione’s voice trailed off. Harry looked in her eyes, urging her to continue.
“As if some parts of you were stuck in that place between life and death, or you might have dropped something there. And your body is unconsciously searching for it,” Hermione said in one breath.
Harry listened silently and waited for a while, until Hermione's breathing had calmed down and he could hear only his own. Then Harry slowly raised his hand, placed it on his own chest, slightly to the left, just above his heart.
And at that moment, for the first time, Harry understood the strange feeling that had been haunting him from the day he returned: that the heart beating in his chest seemed to belong to someone else. A fake heart. And Harry's real one was probably dead in that white world.
Harry gazed dazedly at the silver moonlight flowing down from the Great Hall ceiling, the only light that illuminated the vast hall.
Sitting on the Gryffindor dining table, feet barely touching the ground, Harry closed his eyes and envisioned the Great Hall all noisy, messy, filled with mouth-watering fragrance from more food and drinks than they could possibly cram into their bellies.
“If you were wandering around this late every night, someone might think that you were up to be the next Dark Lord, Potter.”
The moment the silky voice rose from the entrance of the Great Hall, a stream of warmth spread inside Harry. Harry chuckled. He could sense the owner of the voice approaching him, but Harry didn't look to the side.
“If that someone makes a bunch of gold by selling the story to the Daily Prophet, will I get a share too?”
The man huffed loudly.
“I’m scared,” Harry spoke out the words hurriedly, stealthily, as though confessing a shameful act. He looked down at his own hands resting on his lap. They were trembling. It was a cold night.
The man standing next to him remained silent. After a while, a hand larger and so much warmer covered Harry's, too cautiously, as though its owner was still debating if this was an inappropriately intimate gesture. Shortly after, the rational part must have been triumphed because the pale hand started to retreat.
“Please don’t go,” Harry whispered softly.
The hand stiffened, but slowly dropped back. The warmth radiating from the man’s palm melted the invisible ice layer that coated Harry’s fingers and Harry wiggled his own to sneak them between the man's longer and thinner ones.
“I might die,” Harry spoke softly. “And that's not even the worst scenario.”
“Imagine. The bright side is that we will be able to laugh at Dumbledore’s face since his carefully planned scheme had fallen apart. How entertaining.”
The man smirked, but his voice lacked the usual touch of sarcasm. His fingers loosened in Harry's.
“But that means we'll have to see him again very soon.”
Harry grinned at the scene in his head. Without looking, Harry could imagine the other man's face grimacing as if he had just tasted the late Headmaster’s favourite Lemon Drops.
“A hundred years too soon. I demand you endeavour to stay alive, Potter,” the man hissed dramatically.
Harry smiled, rubbing his thumb in a circular motion caressing the bony fingers.
“You too,” he whispered.
//I promised him.//
//I promised him. I must go back.//
Then all of a sudden, the man’s hand slipped out of Harry’s. The darkness of the hall was snatched away, as if it were nothing but a thin cloak and now, an invisible giant hand was wrapping it up into a bunch, squeezing hard to make it smaller and smaller, into a tiny black ball which turned out to be the hole in Harry's chest.
Standing in a vast white space, Harry looked down at the hole indifferently. Blood was streaming from there, but he felt no pain. Harry looked further down. Red, thick blood pooled around his feet and just some feet away lay a human heart. It was still throbbing as if it had just been ripped from someone's chest just a moment ago.
Awareness exploded in Harry.
“NOOOOO!”
Harry jolted awake. He was hugging the bundle of blankets around his chest. After a while, Harry realized that someone's voice was constantly calling out to him and that person was squeezing his shoulders.
“Harry! Harry! You all right? Harry!”
Harry inhaled deeply and slowly turned to the right. Ginny. A tingle of disappointment rushed through Harry.
Realisation slowly dawned on him and Harry remembered where he was. Ginny must have just woken him up from a nightmare, one that Harry couldn’t recall. In his chest lingered only the vague feeling of emptiness.
Harry looked up at Ginny, forcing a smile to reassure her. The worry on the young girl's face didn't go away.
“You feel cold, Harry,” Ginny said, gently rubbing Harry's shoulders.
The soothing motion triggered something inside him. Harry found himself grabbing Ginny's arm to pull her towards him, wrapping his arm around her soft, slender body, burying his face in her slim neck so that her scent and warmth enveloped him.
Ginny’s body went rigid for a moment, then gradually melted into Harry's arms.
“Let me take care of you, Harry,” Ginny whispered.
Harry froze, his throat tightened. Harry had a ridiculous feeling that his whole body was trying hard to stop him from answering. Harry did that nonetheless.
///
Harry's eighth year at Hogwarts went by relatively peacefully, to the point that Harry was almost convinced that he could finally enjoy a normal student life. Except for classes with Snape.
The man had been back to teaching Potions and, of course, back to his career of ensuring that Harry's life was miserable. Snape no longer got snarky with every student who wasn’t Slytherin. He even ignored Neville and reluctantly praised Hermione's potion once or twice. But he always managed to find mistakes in everything Harry did.
“Ha! Now he wants to play a good professor. By venting all his pent-up frustration on my head!” Harry grunted while on their way to the Great Hall for dinner. “I can’t wait to finish school so that I’ll never have to see that wretched man ever again.”
But it seemed that the Universe never favoured Harry (or left him freaking alone), so obviously, Snape had to overhear his accusations while coming up from behind them.
“What a loss, Mr Potter. 20 points from Gryffindor because I have to endure your impertinence until the end of June.” Snape strode past them.
“You…” Harry opened his mouth.
“Harry,” Hermione hissed softly and pulled him into the hall.
“What's wrong, Harry? Both you and the professor? I thought you two had become more… tolerant of each other?” Hermione asked as they sat down at the table.
“Because apparently you aren’t as much of a know-it-all as you thought.” Once again, the anger yelled on his behalf. Hermione just rolled her eyes.
The anger inside Harry immediately went flat like a punctured ball. “Sorry, that was mean,” Harry mumbled, then occupied himself with piling up food on his own plate to duck every potential question.
Harry wanted to know the answer more than anyone.
Time flew. After the event at the Great Hall, Snape now chose to ignore Harry completely, which somehow made him more unsettled than ever. Harry thought he must have gone nuts under the stress of the exam.
It was a Sunday afternoon, a particularly warm day after a lengthy period of cold damp winter months. Ron and Hermione carried their books to the Lake. A study date, Harry smiled inwardly. Ginny was training with the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And for some bizarre reason, Harry found himself in the library.
Harry walked aimlessly between rows and rows of bookshelves. It was so silent here. So tranquil. As if all the ancient stone walls and ceiling-high shelves could shelter Harry from the loud world and even the screaming inside him.
Harry froze when he caught a glimpse of a familiar dark figure. Safely hidden behind a bookshelf, he cautiously stuck his head out to peek at Snape. The professor was holding an ancient tome that seemed to have been there collecting dust for decades. To the right of Snape stood a tall stained-glass window. The afternoon sunlight was streaming through, enveloping the lone figure, softening every angle, every edge of the bony man.
Harry realized he had never watched Snape closely. Especially when the man wasn’t aware of him staring. The professor's brows furrowed deeply, teeth biting at his lower lip. And somehow Harry could see the man’s lower lip reddening. His lower lip was fuller than the upper one, Harry absently noted. And Harry dreamed about how that firm-looking lip must have felt if he bit on it…
God… Harry realized in horror the destination to which his mind was drifting. He pulled himself from the bookshelf and almost ran out of the library.
At the beginning of May, the Ministry of Magic held a small memorial event. Harry knew Snape was on the guest list, but didn’t expect him to show up. He did.
The moment the professor entered, their eyes met. Snape looked strangely elegant in his black dress robe. The expensive-looking silk hugged his slim waist and fell along his endless legs. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Snape glanced down shortly at Harry's arm wrapped around his escort, then turned his head and walked away, to a corner of the ballroom.
Harry felt so awkward that he withdrew his arm. Ginny raised an eyebrow in question, but Harry just shrugged. The lone figure in the shadows haunted Harry throughout the ceremony.
They started to dance, then swapped partners and Ginny was snatched away by her fellow classmates. Harry faked an excuse then quietly walked to the balcony door, where he had caught a glimpse of Snape going through.
The man was sitting on a white marble bench, slightly to the right – the part that light from the ballroom couldn’t quite reach. Moonlight streamed down his long dark hair, further down his lean back covered in the black robe. An endless lonesome road.
“The moon is too bright to practice astrology, don't you think?” Harry announced his presence, though Snape must have noticed the moment he opened the door.
Snape didn't respond, but still, he didn't yell to send Harry away either, so Harry took this as a positive sign to step closer.
Snape didn’t look up. His head bent slightly. His eyes were fixed on the glass of wine held loosely in his right hand as though it contained the answer to some great mystery of the Universe. His hair was now tied back with a dark green ribbon, and Harry had a strange desire to pull it off so that he could feel the cascade of black hair sweep over his fingers.
But Harry daren’t act on it. After all, he was no longer equipped with a piece of Voldemort's Horcrux as a spare life.
“Do you mind?” Harry asked.
“Yes,” Snape replied. His voice was so soft. Harry sat down on the other end of the bench anyway.
It took another moment for Harry to muster the courage to speak again, eyes glued to the vast space ahead.
“I apologise.” He spat out the words that had choked him for so long.
The man beside him remained silent, so Harry continued, “That night, at the infirmary, and after that. All those words weren't fair. And rude. And…”
“Apologies are accepted,” interrupted Snape.
“Impe… What!?”
Harry turned sharply to look at his professor.
“I meant what I said. Now go, Potter,” Snape repeated, the usual sarcastic undertone lacking.
Harry didn’t leave. He didn't want to.
“Thank you.” Harry said instead.
After another awkward moment, Harry added, “And yes, I felt cold. I still am.”
Snape jerked his head to look at Harry at last. The confession must have surprised him. Harry dropped his eyes, contemplating telling him about the meeting with Dumbledore.
“I know about that… happening,” Snape sighed. “How you survived the Killing Curse for the second time. You feeling cold doesn’t seem to be a good sign.”
Harry looked up again, his eyes open wide to express the question that his mouth failed to voice.
“I have been doing some research.” Snape evidently wasn't interested in answering Harry. “Let me know if anything else seems wrong. But for now, kindly refrain from doing anything suicidal…”
Before his mind could register, Harry's arm shot out to grab the man's left hand that was resting on his own thigh.
Snape's body tensed. Dark eyes bore at him. Surprised? Horrified? Harry's chest ached.
Then like a door slammed down, Snape's expression darkened and the man gritted his teeth.
“Let go of my hand, Potter.”
The more Snape tried to snatch his hand away, the more firmly Harry gripped. The only thing Harry knew for sure was that he didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t bear to. It was the first time in months Harry felt heat crept through his skin, warming him up. And maybe, maybe the void in Harry's chest could be filled up too.
“Please don’t go,” Harry whispered.
His voice sounded strange even to Harry's own ears, but Snape froze. The icy layer on his eyes melted into a soft black colour, like the water of a lake on a windless night. Snape's hand relaxed, letting Harry's fingers interlace with his bony ones. How could he do it so easily, so casually, as if their hands were already accustomed to the act?
Snape’s breath was uneven. His thin lips parted slightly.
“Harry, we were looking for y… Professor Snape!”
The door creaked open and a female voice soared high, breaking the silence the way the midnight bell signalled the halt of miracles. Harry was startled, his hand loosened, and Snape took the opportunity to yank his hand back. He stood up then strode away.
Harry watched the billowing black cloak ruthlessly pierce through the delightful colour palette until Snape was completely out of sight. Harry shook his head, signalling Hermione to leave him alone. Harry looked down at his right hand, clenching his fists.
The lingering warmth dissolved too quickly.
Not until he knocked on the thick door that led into Snape's office, did Harry realize it was already past midnight and no one would appreciate his presence now. No one, let alone Snape.
Just when Harry was about to leave, the door cracked open. Harry held his breath while pushing the thick iron door wider. But Snape wasn’t sitting behind the large table. He wasn’t in the office.
Then, another whining sound of iron scrapping on the stone floor drew Harry's gaze toward the right corner of the room. It must be the door that led into Snape's private quarters.
Snape's living room was simple. There wasn’t much furniture, only some worn pieces lying here and there. Nothing nasty like animal parts or dark magic objects that one could expect of the man was on display. Harry felt strangely at ease here.
Snape was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, face buried in his palms.
'What do you want from me, Potter?”
Harry had no answer to that question, except for the ridiculous though unshakable feeling that it was Snape who held the key.
Harry silently approached the man. Next to Snape’s feet lay an empty bottle of wine and not far from that, right at the foot of the mantel, were a hundred pieces of glass that looked like the remains of what must have once been a goblet.
“But I have none left.”
Snape sneered. His voice sounded both frustrated and defeated.
Harry reached out, brushing against Snape's black hair now falling loose around his face. It felt so cool and silky on his skin, just like the Invisibility Cloak. Harry reached for the man's fingers and slowly tugged them apart, one by one. Each time they touched, warmth tingled on Harry’s fingertips. Snape lifted his head slightly but didn't look up.
Then, all of a sudden, a hand grasped Harry’ wrist and he was thrown into the chair. Ruthless lips covered his. Snape’s other hand squeezed his jaw, forcing Harry to open his mouth for the strong tongue that tasted of brandy. There was nothing gentle here. His wrists were clenched, body pressed down, lips smashed, bitten. Even oxygen was sucked from Harry’s lungs. Everything hurt. But Harry surrendered, yielded, offered anything he had, anything demanded of him, just to hold on to that heat.
Then Harry found himself being thrown away again and he stumbled a few steps before regaining his balance, gasping for air.
Snape slumped back into the chair, eyes closed, chest heaving rapidly. His thin lips trembled.
“Get out of here.”
It took a moment before the words could sink into Harry. But Harry remained immobile.
“Just… go away,” Snape repeated, almost like a plea. “Harry.”
Hearing his own name spoken out by the man broke something in Harry. He clutched his chest. It hurt. It hurt so much that Harry couldn’t bear to stay any longer in Snape’s proximity. He swiftly turned and left.
When Harry looked back, through the door that was slowly closing behind him, he caught a glimpse of an obscure sorrow in Snape’s dark gaze.
Lying in his own bed, Harry couldn't help replaying again and again all the events of that night. There must be something, something that Snape was hiding from him. Why did he react like that? As if Harry had betrayed him. As if Harry’s presence alone could be a torment for him.
And how could his body be this cold? Why was it only warmed up by Snape’s touch?
And… Harry brought his hand to his chest. What was this hollow feeling?
Was he really dead?
Dead?
Harry sprang up.
There was a way for him to confirm it all.
Harry strained his ears to listen to the sounds from his roommates' beds. Once he was sure that all of them were sleeping soundly, Harry jumped off the bed and pulled out his wand. He squatted, sneaking his wand-holding arm under the bed, swinging it left and right like a clock’s pendulum.
Eyes closed, Harry concentrated on thinking about the Elder Wand. After a moment, Harry's arm halted. He pointed his wand at the stone. The surface liquidised, allowing Harry to reach down and pull out the cursed wand.
Harry slipped the wand into his pocket and grabbed the Invisibility Cloak from his trunk.
Harry went deep into the Forbidden Forest, let his own feet lead him and decide when to stop. Putting on the Invisibility Cloak, Harry took a deep breath, hand clutching the Elder Wand. An overwhelming source of magic burst out, welcoming its master.
“Accio the Resurrection Stone,” Harry said.
A few minutes later, the black Stone flew straight into Harry's open palm. Right at that moment, three magical points flared red at Harry's neck and his two palms. Then the red magic light connected, forming a triangle and Harry could feel magic rush through every blood vessel in his body.
Harry’s eyes remained closed.
“In the name of the Master of the Deathly Hallows, I summon You,” Harry spoke aloud the words that suddenly appeared in his mind.
“Death.”
As Harry spoke out the last word, the magic block that framed his body shot straight up to the night sky. The air suddenly turned chilly, otherworldly cold. Harry slowly opened his eyes. Before him stood a human figure, a figure achingly familiar to Harry: Dumbledore.
“Harry.” The late Headmaster smiled at him, eyes glittering.
Harry was unmoved.
“Isn't this the time for You to show your true form, Death?” Harry asked, bracing himself.
The twinkle in the blue eyes went out. Gentle smile distorted. Dumbledore let out a coarse laughter, body trembling intensely.
The forest around them shook. Strong winds swept past, collecting dry leaves and firewood to toss them to the sky. Birds soared through the trees, hooting frantically. Dumbledore's body gradually dissolved into silver strands which then turned black, even darker than the darkness of the Forest. The black threads of air coalesced into a solid cloak and fell on a bony figure that suddenly emerged from the air in front of Harry.
The figure was almost double Harry’s height. The cloak covered it from head to toe, so Harry could only make out the dents as the sockets of its eyes and mouth on a bizarrely long head. The mouth hole moved.
“We meet again,” Death greeted Harry while bowing in a showy way.
“Give me back whatever you took from me at King’s Cross,” Harry grunted, pointing his wand directly at its head.
Death’s body was immobile for a moment, then it burst out into laughter, head tilted back. The cloak shifted slightly, and suddenly white, bone fingers stuck out in front of him. Those fingers were holding a small emerald green sphere enveloped in a thin layer of shimmering golden light.
“This is quite extraordinary, Mr Potter. Not just love. More complex. Exquisite. And it tastes heavenly. Or, in my case, hellishly,” Death hummed.
“And that man… Ah, right, Severus Snape. The anguish on his face when he saw this thing being pulled out from you… Oh, such a lovely moment.”
The tall body trembled as though in an intense pleasure. Harry clenched his teeth and squeezed his hand around the wand even tighter. At that moment, he truly, truly wanted to kill Death.
“So, what are you going to trade with, Mr Potter?”
“With these three Deathly Hallows. You're always looking for a way to get them back, aren't you?” Harry replied.
The grim reaper leaned forward slightly, studying Harry.
“Are you sure, Mr Potter? With them, you can have the world at your feet. And this thing? Beautiful, yes, but too fragile. You'll find it shattered before you know what to do with it.”
Harry didn’t reply, just kept staring.
“Oh, brave kid. Brave kid.” Death sounded both surprised and amused. “Alright.”
The arm holding the emerald ball reached out and when Harry looked down, he saw a black hole opened in the centre of his chest. Bone fingers entered slowly, and a gentle warmth radiated through his body.
Harry vaguely felt both of his palms open. The Resurrection Stone and Elder Wand tumbled from his hands, the cloak slipping off his shoulders. Then Harry's body also fell to the ground.
Harry woke up with a wonderful feeling of refreshment and being whole. A peace that Harry hadn't had for the past year.
“If you already woke up, Mr Potter, kindly open your eyes.”
An icy voice poured down on him, but that voice no longer irritated Harry.
Harry opened each eye, blinking earnestly. He heard a loud huff and the round glasses were put back on Harry's face. In front of him was the scowling face of the Potions professor and Harry had to do his best to refrain from jumping up to snog the man.
Then Harry noticed the scent of herbs lingering in the room and on the bed he was lying on. Harry was in Severus' bedroom.
Before Harry had time to indulge himself with all kinds of imagination, Severus’s voice pulled him back to reality.
“Explain, Potter. About that unusual column of red light that shot up in the Forbidden Forest. And why did I find your corpse there,” Snape asked, arms crossed tightly across his chest.
My corpse? I’m not dead, Severus, Harry was tempted to argue, but stopped himself in time. Instead, Harry told Severus about his summoning Death and the transaction.
Long after Harry finished, Severus remained motionless as if he had been hit by a Binding spell.
“I'm glad we both survived, Severus,” Harry whispered.
Severus's expression slowly relaxed. Thin lips curled slightly and the light from the candles in the room danced in his dark eyes as Severus approached the bed, where Harry was still lying. His arm reached out slowly, brushed the stray locks on Harry's forehead and cupped Harry's cheek. It felt so warm.
“I warned you not to do anything suicidal. And what kind of stunt did you pull? Summoned Death?” Severus scowled, but his voice was soft and almost affectionate.
Harry's eyes closed. He leaned further into the warm palm. Severus's thumb rubbed lightly over Harry's cheek, sliding down and pressing against Harry's lips. Harry took a deep breath, his eyes opened and he slowly raised his head to look up at Severus.
“You need rest, Harry. We can… talk tomorrow,” Severus said. His thumb caressed Harry's lower lip for the last time before it retreated.
“But I'm cold,” Harry blurted before the man turned away.
“Are you?” Severus frowned pensively. “Are you sure that transaction wasn't another trick? That whatever you summoned was truly…”
“Severus!” Harry sighed frustratedly. “Yet you always humiliated me for the lack of subtlety!”
Harry waited and waited for the words’ meaning to sink into the stubborn man. When Severus' eyebrows still failed to relax, Harry whispered, “Stay with me.”
Eyes widened, Severus pursed his lips again, “But….”
How refreshing to see the sarcastic man lost for words, Harry triumphantly noted.
“Just lie next to me, okay?” Harry said quickly, and just to be certain, eyed Severus with a silent plea. Severus sighed, but he slowly removed his coat.
“Try to sound more convincing,” Severus snorted as he approached the bed.
“Please warm me up?” Harry inched onto the other half of the bed. “For medical purposes, of course.”
“My body temperature is all yours, Mr Potter.” Severus rolled his eyes.
Severus lay down and Harry sneaked close to curled around him. “Nox,” Severus whispered, and all the candlelight went out, revealing a starry night ceiling.
Harry rested his head on the man's firm chest, letting Severus’ warmth envelop him, warming him.
“I won't ever trade you for anything,” Harry whispered, to the flesh beneath the cloth, to the beating heart inside.
Severus didn't respond, just pulled Harry closer to him and kissed the boy's raven black hair. Severus' war did prolong for one more year, but at last, it might have ended now.