Snarry-a-Thon22: FIC: A Cold Front Title: A Cold Front Author:iggy_starlit Other pairings/threesome: Harry Potter/Oliver Wood, Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger Rating: Teen Word count: 5,350 Content/Warning(s): None Prompt: No. 47: Right after the war, Harry and Snape had an affair, but Snape ended things because he thought Harry was too young. It's a few years later and Harry is now a proper Auror in a committed relationship with another man, and work forces Snape to re-enter his life. Now Snape has to watch Harry be happy and in love while desperately pining for him. No infidelity or evil!boyfriend please. Summary: The Granger-Weasley wedding brings Potter back to the castle with his paramour, Oliver Wood, in tow. Severus doesn't care at all. Really, he doesn't. Even if his own history with Potter won't quite stay in the past. A/N: This was an incredibly fun prompt to work with. A few details didn't quite make it into the story, but I hope I did it justice! Many thanks to Molls for the beta–any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
Severus is reaching for a second helping of roasted mushrooms when he hears Harry's name and the chatter at the staff table around him resolves from a background hum into words.
"–arriving this evening," Granger is saying, in response to Minerva's question. "With Oliver, of course, and then the rest of the family on Saturday. I know he appreciates you allowing him to stay in the castle a few extra days – in some ways, I think, he still considers Hogwarts his home."
Minerva tsks at that, a soft, sentimental sound, and Severus snorts. He'd seen the spread in Home & Hearthstone, five pages of the posh Potter-Wood flat with its dedicated wine room and vaulted skylights. He highly doubts that Potter is pining for the dank, cold stone of the castle.
Granger's eyes cut over to him and linger briefly, not reproachful, just intent. Severus stares back, narrowing his eyes slightly.
"You will hold your tongue, won't you Severus." If it's a question, Minerva's voice gives no hint of it. "I'm sure Hermione would appreciate it. I won't go so far as to ask you to be kind to the boy, but weddings are not the place to air petty grudges, no matter how long-held."
Granger laughs lightly. "Actually, they so often are, aren't they? Still, I'm not worried about Severus. He and Harry made peace, I think, after the war, didn't they?" She turns a bit to include Severus in her smile, and he stares back, carefully unimpressed, unwavering. After a moment, she winces a bit. It's not quite capitulation, though.
"I mean, when you were helping his Auror team with the Wimbourne Poisoner," she adds awkwardly, then rushes to smooth it over. "Anyway, soon enough, we'll all have to contend with my mum and Molly, both. Did you know that my bridal party's dresses are designed to hang from the waist in exactly six evenly-spaced pleats? No, of course you didn't. Who would know such a thing? I swear, the sheer amount of fussing..."
"They just want it to be perfect for you; after all, you did make them wait, didn't you? And Ron is the last of his family to marry… though I suppose Molly's waiting on Harry and Oliver, too – "
The screech of Severus's chair pushing back from the table interrupts Minerva quite satisfactorily, and she and Granger both turn to look.
After a second, Granger continues. "Well, people are waiting these days, aren't they, in order to start their careers? After all – " And that starts another rehash of her Mastery, a favourite topic and tediously dull, for all Severus does respect her for it. Secretly, of course. Publicly, he sneers slightly as he turns to leave.
Granger's fingers brush his forearm casually as he edges out from between their chairs, a light tap of acknowledgement or reassurance, like you'd bestow on a friend in passing.
She's been kind to Severus in the year since she took over the History of Magic professorship from Binns.
It's unsettling. It makes him wonder what she knows.
—
The castle is nearly empty of students for the holiday and snow is blowing vertically past the windows when Severus makes his way to the Great Hall that evening. He'd contemplated eating in his rooms before deciding that he won't hide. Besides, Potter likely won't arrive until later; it's hardly polite to show up for a visit in the middle of dinner.
Of course, Potter has always done everything in the most attention-seeking, blundering, uncouth manner possible. It shouldn't be a surprise, then, when there's a great bang from the Entrance Hall just as food pops into existence on the tables, and moments later Potter bursts into the room. Wood is just behind him, a trunk bobbing along under his wand.
"Harry!" Hermione cries, and all eleven students plus the faculty stare as she pushes back from the table and rushes around to greet him.
Potter takes a few jogging steps, dripping clumps of snow as he goes, and they meet in the middle of the room, Granger launching herself into Potter's arms, like lovers reunited. Wood smiles inanely behind them.
The students look like they might start applauding.
Severus wonders if it's his fate to be a side character in the theatrical production of Potter's life.
After a long moment of silence, he pointedly enunciates, "The food is getting cold." It's directed at the students, who break out of their vapid staring as one and immediately start chattering excitedly, but it also jolts Minverva into action.
"Of course, of course; Harry, Oliver – come, you must join us. It's so good to see the both of you."
A flurry of movement and noise follows, greetings and the shifting of place settings, and Severus spears a roasted potato fiercely with his fork and refuses to budge over at all. He's about to take a bite when he hears a quiet, "Snape," from the figure suddenly looming above him.
"Potter," he acknowledges, and makes the mistake of looking up. Harry's glasses are still foggy at the inside corners and his cheeks are flushed. The same riotous hair, the same crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles tentatively, the face that Severus has only seen in newspaper photos for the last two years, and Severus had forgotten how vibrant he is, how beautiful.
And then, "Harry, here." Wood's voice interrupts and then his hands, turning Potter towards him and undoing the toggles down the front of his wool coat. "Let me hang this."
"Ah, right." Potter's fingers tangle with Wood's and then he shrugs out of the coat, the quirk of his lips changing to a bright grin as he looks into his partner's face. Wood unwraps the tartan scarf from around Potter's neck, bending to brush his lips over one cheek as he does, and Severus feels like the wet slush that's fallen off of Potter's coat has landed on his chest, turning him to ice.
The female students look like they're about to swoon. Even Minerva's smile is suspiciously dreamy, and yet again Severus's chair screeches as he pushes himself back from the table. This time no one seems to notice.
—
The castle grows increasingly louder over the next few days. First, it's quidditch. Ridiculous fawning over Wood, mostly from students, although Severus swears he sees Filius asking for an autograph. Shrieking from the pitch as impromptu matches take place. Then, as the awe wears off and the students realise that Potter is no unapproachable hero, it's stories of Auror raids and undercover operations.
"Is it true that Professor Snape used to work with the Aurors?" a voice floats into the hallway, and Severus pauses outside the empty classroom where they've gathered: Potter, Wood, and a gaggle of young admirers.
"He can't have," a second voice says – Daniel Doyle, if Severus isn't mistaken, "he was a Death Eater. They wouldn't trust him." Definitely Doyle-confidently incorrect, as always.
"Professor Snape did consult with us for a while; with my team actually." Potter doesn't broadcast his every emotion like he did when he was a boy; Severus can't read his tone.
"You worked with him?!" It's the first voice, again – Maryam Hadid, Hufflepuff 2nd year. "But he's so mean!"
Potter chuckles. "I suppose I thought so, too, when I was his student. But he's actually very smart and very brave. We wouldn't have solved some big cases without him."
"Really? Are you friends, then?" Maryam again, the simple categorizations of youth. Friend or foe; good or evil.
Potter chuckles again, dryly this time. "Sure, I guess you could say Professor Snape and I are friends."
"Of a sort," Wood chimes in, and there's and undertone of humour in his voice. "Now, enough about boring Auror consultations. What's your team, Daniel? Are you a Puddlemere man?"
The classroom door opens, just enough for Potter to slip through. Severus should have glided away silently, but it's too late now. The hallway is freezing, and he suppresses a shiver, tucks his frigid hands deeper into his robes.
"Oh," Potter says softly, and he glances behind him and then gently pulls the door closed. "Sorry – did you… Did you hear all of that?" He rubs one hand across the back of his neck self-consciously and Severus tracks it, the bunch of his shoulder under his sweater, the bones of his wrist.
He's not sure why Potter should be self-conscious when Severus is the one eavesdropping outside doors, but he's happy to lean into it if it ends this conversation more quickly.
"Hanging around the castle, regaling your little fan club with stories of your heroic conquests, Potter? It's like no time has passed at all."
"Oi! Hardly a conquest!" Potter's voice is full of faux indignation, an attempt at levity, but then their eyes meet on the word conquest and all the air is sucked out of the castle.
"I mean," he continues, self-consciously lowering his voice, "you said ‘conquest', I didn't. Besides, I always figured I was your conquest, if anything."
Because of course, of course, Potter has no discretion, no tact. Because he can't let the awkward moment slip by unremarked upon, leave past mistakes where they belong.
Severus feels his cheeks heat and he's unsure if it's embarrassment or rage. "We are not speaking of this," he hisses.
Potter speaks at the same time. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just," he looks away awkwardly, "I've wished we could talk."
And, oh, Severus hasn't.
He hasn't wished that they could talk; he's wished that he had truly hated the boy.
How much easier would things have been, if their months of working together hadn't turned to friendship? But Potter had surprised him, full of good humour despite the horrors in his recent past. First to laugh at himself, first to laugh at Severus's snide comments and dry wit. The first person to accept, wholeheartedly, that Severus was not foe. The first to seek out his company, as strategy meetings turned to discussions of Ministry current affairs, recent defence innovations and, eventually, the background minutiae of their day-to-day lives.
The first to touch him kindly since Albus's death. In passing at first, a brush of shoulders, a pat on the back. Then more deliberately: leaning in while laughing, knees nudging under the table, a hand on his forearm to emphasise a point.
And Severus, so isolated by circumstances for so many years… was it any wonder he had come to care for Potter? To crave him, even, covetously and desperately. Unhealthily.
Like adding shrake spines to cowbane, the resulting explosion was predictable.
And only a few months later, Potter and Wood had been photographed kissing after a Puddlemere match. Wood, who was suitable in every way that Severus wasn't. And Severus watched their romance play out in the press, and he burned.
Potter is still talking. "We – I still wonder – "
"– Harry?" The classroom door creaks open and Wood's head pops out. Severus takes a step back, like a spell has been broken.
"Yeah?"
Severus turns, letting his robes swirl out around him, and walks away as fast as is dignified.
—
He can't avoid the wedding – Granger had made a point, absurdly, of how she wanted him there. He's anticipating that it will be a Sartre-esque nightmare, full of Weasleys and members of the Ministry, Ron's and Potter's auror cronies, and assorted former Gryffindors both inept and inane. And, of course, the wizarding world's queer poster couple – so a press presence, perhaps, despite Hogwarts' strict wards and Minerva's sharp tongue.
He's pleasantly surprised by how small it is.
The ceremony is in the courtyard, painstakingly enclosed in magic and spelled warm. The weather cooperates; it's sunny, and a gentle breeze catches the dusting of snow off the hedges and swirls it above them.
Wood ends up sitting next to Severus, annoyingly, and leans over in the moments before the bride starts down the aisle to say, "I'm sorry that I interrupted your talk with Harry yesterday."
His face is earnest and contrite, totally unbothered by the fact that Severus and his partner have a past, by the fact that he caught them huddled close together in a private, shadowy hallway. Severus wonders if Potter hasn't told him the truth, or if Wood is just that confident in his relationship.
He's not sure which irritates him more.
Then the bridal procession starts.
Granger looks lovely, Severus acknowledges, and he's annoyed to find himself counting the pleats in Ginny Weasley's dress as the officiant drones on. Still, it keeps him from staring at Potter, who is beaming behind Ron Weasley.
Maybe their conversation in the hallway, that moment of closeness, the first few but real words they'd spoken in two years, has started to crack the ice Severus had built around thoughts of Potter, because now, all he can think is that Potter is breathtaking.
—
Potter and Wood are sickening at the reception.
Severus ignores them for most of the meal, after Granger seems to notice him noticing the way Wood sprawls one arm across the back of Potter's chair while Potter steals a tomato off his plate.
The dancing starts and Severus thinks he should leave, but he finds himself in a tedious conversation with Arthur Weasley, nursing a single glass of whiskey and watching as the younger generations throw themselves vigorously around.
Potter is an abysmal dancer. Severus can't help but watch him, jerky and arrhythmic, even when everyone seems to be primarily flailing. He's so terrible that it draws the eye, and Severus finds himself muttering, "Yes, of course," and "Certainly," in Arthur's direction as he watches Harry bounce off of Ronald Weasley and clumsily straight into Wood. Wood catches him, wraps one arm around his waist, and Potter laughs and bends close to talk, pressing their sweaty foreheads together. The wedding photographer takes a subtle photo, and Severus won't be surprised to see it in the gossip rags tomorrow.
Severus remembers Potter in the infirmary after Voldemort's defeat. He remembers his filthy face, sweat- and tear-streaked, the viciousness in his eyes when he said, "He's dead, Professor."
He remembers Potter's flushed cheeks when they'd incapacitated Giles Pfenninger, the Wimbourne Poisoner, after an ambush. The way he'd been breathing heavily when he said, "All right, Snape?"
He remembers the way Potter had blinked slowly, had laughed with a nervous shade of the same abandon when they'd kissed the first time. The way he'd leaned in and pressed their foreheads together in much the same way he's doing to Wood now, intimate, saying, "Well, there's that, I suppose. Severus."
It's infuriating to watch him with Wood now, the deliberate public affection, the flaunting. Potter is better than this – better than a vapid celebrity lifestyle with his vapid celebrity partner. Wood has no idea of the depths within Potter – he can't, not like Severus does.
Then the band changes gears, a soft cover of That Old Black Magic, and groom Weasley shouts, "Oi! Harry, isn't this your song?"
And the guests all seem to pause and goggle as Wood pulls Potter close. Molly looks positively misty, and even Granger is grinning when Wood looks to be singing, under his breath, I hear your name, and I'm aflame. They're wrapped together, hips swaying close, hands entwined, and then Potter brings Wood's knuckles to his lips for a sweet kiss, and the room sighs collectively.
Severus feels ill.
Potter finds him, later, in a corner of the room. Severus has been helping himself to the rather fine Muggle whiskey provided, presumably, by the bride's parents, and he's just thinking that he should retreat to his rooms, when Potter sidles into his field of view and slumps sideways into the stones next to him.
"Severus," Potter says, and then flinches a bit and corrects himself. "Snape."
"Potter," Severus returns pointedly, and Potter flinches again.
"We still – I'm still hoping we can talk. At some point. Before I leave."
Severus can smell Potter's cologne – pine and citrus. His bowtie is undone and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, and he's wearing braces.
Severus wonders, suddenly, if this is what Potter will look like at his own wedding, after he and Wood dance to That Old Black Magic. Maybe it will even be here, given his love of the castle. It's easy to picture – Molly sniffling proudly in the corner, Arthur beaming as he has been tonight, in loco parentis. More Woods, fewer Grangers. More press.
The thought is a knife, not in Severus's heart but in his lungs – slower acting, more gasping for breath before the end mercifully comes.
"I would have thought," he says silkily, "that you might have toned down your antics for your best friends' wedding. I should have known better."
Potter's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"
"You and your paramour, Mr. Wood." Severus can feel his jealousy turning to vitriol, can feel it slipping through, but it's so satisfying to lash out, to sting. "You are the same self-centred child you have always been. How fitting, then, that you've found an equally attention-starved partner. I wonder, will Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley find any satisfactory photographs of themselves on their joyous day? Or will it be, yet again, the Harry Potter show?"
Severus is anticipating fireworks, maybe a bit of shouting. Instead, Potter turns rigid, the openness of his posture closing off in a moment. He stiffens from where he was leaning against the wall, pulls his hands out of his pockets.
"Fuck you," he says coldly. His face is turned away, eyes on the dance floor now, sightlessly watching his friends and family. "You don't know what you're talking about. We – Oliver and I have split. We – well, we haven't been a real couple for a long time. I don't suppose, actually, that we ever were. We just didn't want to do it before Ron and Hermione's wedding. Didn't want to make it a story; didn't want to have everyone watching us instead of the bride and groom. So you're wrong."
Severus doesn't know what to say – he doesn't know what he's feeling. Something vindictive, guiltily gleeful, is trying to bloom, but it can't quite manage through the ash that's left behind after his words scorched the air between himself and Potter.
"And," Potter adds, "You have no right, none at all. I told you I wanted to be with you. You're the one who said no. You don't get to be a prick about Oliver. Not after that."
He pushes off the wall, and then he's gone. Severus doesn't wait to see him reenter the loving clutch of his friends on the dance floor, doesn't wait to see him reach for his, apparently, ex-partner.
His bed is colder than usual that evening. He lies there and imagines Potter, kiss-flushed and aroused. Remembers Potter's mouth grazing the tips of his fingers.
"I think we could have something," he'd whispered, moving to burrow into Severus's shoulder. "I think that I could love you."
—
The wedding guests leave the next day. Severus stays in his rooms, busies himself with two new tomes from Flourish and Blotts, curled on his couch in sleep pants and two sweaters, trying to ward off the bitter chill. The elves bring food for him to pick at and reject.
After three days, the students return, and the academic year resumes.
Severus doesn't think of Potter. He cuts off every thought of his bright gaze, of the smell of him, of the way he laughed, the way he kissed the corner of Severus's eye, the way he kissed Wood.
Severus tells himself that he doesn't dwell on the past, on things he cannot change. It's not in him to do so; it's futile; he's learned that lesson well.
Minerva tells him that she's proud of him for how graciously he tolerated Potter's presence in the castle. Granger smiles at him in staff meetings. She still touches his arm in passing, still insists on using his given name. Sometimes he catches her eyeing him sympathetically over eggs and rashers.
The story of Potter's split from Wood makes the Daily Prophet in early February. Severus has a drink of whiskey that evening, alone in his quarters, and studiously doesn't think of it at all.
On Valentine's Day, an outbreak of love lice spreads quickly from one house to the next. Severus spends an entire weekend brewing. When he's done, Pomfrey asks him to coordinate with Granger, who has apparently brewed several dozen doses of her own.
He knocks on Granger's door, exhausted and vaguely itchy himself, only to hear a faint, "One moment!"
A minute later, when the door opens, he's greeted by Granger in a hastily thrown-on dressing gown over tartan pants and a t-shirt, her hair in a messy, gigantic pile on top of her head. Over her shoulder, Potter is slumped on her couch in sleep pants and a t-shirt of his own. They're both wearing ridiculous, fuzzy pink slippers.
"Oh, Severus!" she exclaims, glancing back at Potter. "What can I do for you?"
"I've brewed enough Scalp Tonic to treat the entire castle. Poppy asked me to inform you." Severus tries to keep his gaze away from Potter, but it's difficult. He has bags under his eyes and a slight scowl on his face, but he's here and he's as striking as ever.
"Ah – well then I suppose mine will be back-up," Granger says. "Thank you for letting me know."
"Thank you for your assistance."
Potter snorts. Granger glances back at him disapprovingly.
"Would you – we were just having a drink, waiting for Ron to finish his shift," she says. "Would you care to join us?" For all the ridiculousness of the suggestion – they're in pyjamas, for Merlin's sake – she looks hopeful.
Potter scowls. "If he stays, I'm leaving."
"Honestly, Harry!" Granger rolls her eyes, and then, when Potter just tips his chin up stubbornly, says, "Oh, fine." She steps out into the hall, forcing Severus to take a step back to make room for her, before pulling the door closed. "I just wanted to say…" she trails off and rubs one hand through her hair. "I know it's not exactly my business, but you should talk to him." Her eyes are warm and sympathetic.
"You are correct – my personal life is none of your business."
She eyes him thoughtfully. "You know… when your name is mentioned, every time, Harry touches his elbow, like this." She demonstrates, and the effect is a subtle crossing of her arms in front of her, protective. "And you – when you hear his name, you're like a hunting dog pointing at a bird, frozen so stiff you almost vibrate with it. You care for each other. You should talk to him."
"Ms. Granger," Severus says, and then, because she is still looking at him earnestly, "Hermione." He is going to repeat that it is none of her concern, that he neither needs nor welcomes her meddling, but she smiles, just a bit, at his use of her given name.
And suddenly, here, knowing Potter is just beyond the door, hearing Granger intimate that he might still care – it's kindling on a fire that burns through Severus's denial. If there is a chance, even a small one…
But for all that Severus burns, he's never been able to express it freely. In the end, he's cautious, measured when he says, "I'm not sure that more communication is wise. It is likely that I have already said… more than enough."
Granger sighs, and it has the same world weary tone that Severus employs when a student is being particularly stupid. He starts to bristle, but then she touches his bicep, quickly, the same warm tap of acknowledgement she's been giving him since she returned to Hogwarts.
"It certainly sounds like you've put your foot in it," she says, "and I suppose I am assuming a lot." Her gaze turns searching, and Severus looks stoically at the wall over her shoulder, uncomfortable lest his eyes give him away. Give more away than he's apparently already let slip. "But it's not as bleak as it seems, really. Just… be honest. With yourself and with Harry."
"I'll… consider it," Severus says finally, and she nods. One more touch on his arm. Then she's ducking back through her door.
—
Potter is still in the castle the next day, and then the next. He doesn't dine in the Great Hall, doesn't parade down the hallways. Severus wouldn't know he was there if it weren't for the glimpses he catches of a solitary figure, swooping over the quidditch pitch, late at night.
"He's out of the flat, of course," Minerva mentions in the staff lounge. "Poor dear."
"I heard Wood is fighting him for custody of their crup," Filius says over breakfast. "Shameful, really."
Severus ponders the dark circles that were under Potter's eyes the other night, the rumours of an acrimonious split in the papers, despite both Potter and Wood making statements to the contrary. He wants to know what Potter meant when he said – well, everything he said, at the wedding, about himself and Wood.
He debates knocking on Hermione's door, asking to speak with him. She would facilitate, surely. But he knows, just as he knew two years ago, that there will be no turning back. If he's honest with Potter, if he reveals himself… Perhaps he's played both sides too long, carefully hid his true self too long to let anyone see the desperate, needy heart of him.
And surely, surely Potter deserves, will demand, nothing less. There can be no half-measures.
In the end, it happens during a midnight patrol. Severus has already sent three mischief makers and five amorous couples off to their common rooms, points deducted, when he climbs the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.
Harry is standing against the rampart, looking out into the darkness. His sweater is much too thin for the mid-winter chill, and Severus indulges in the fantasy of walking up behind him, wrapping arms around him, pulling him close and draping him in warmth.
Then Harry turns his head. "Ah," he says, when he sees Severus, and his breath fogs in the air. He turns back to face the grounds, and Severus walks up next to him, rests his hands on the cold stone.
Minutes pass in silence.
"Oliver and I were only together for two months, really," Harry says eventually. "It was clear early on that it wasn't going to work – we were better as mates. But I just wanted a break, from the press and the speculation about my love life. And then he met someone who couldn't come out to his family. It took the pressure off of us both, pretending, and… it was so nice, at first. Not to be alone, even if we weren't really together. And yet here I am. Two years on, older. As alone as I've always been."
Harry sounds wistful, and he's sharing this with Severus, unprompted, despite the cruel words from the other night. And this tower has been the sight of one of the hardest moments in Severus's life already. He has been terrified here, in the past, and desperate, and drawn on all his strength to act anyway. Perhaps, perhaps he can do it again.
"I owe you an apology," he says, soft and stilted. Harry snorts. "Or, perhaps, several."
There's a moment of silence.
"You can apologise for being a jerk at the wedding, but you don't need to apologise for not wanting to be with me, Severus. Much as it stung."
"And for lying?"
Harry glances at him curiously.
"When I said I didn't want you. I was lying."
Silence, then, "Ah," again.
Severus is rarely at a loss for words, they usually flow out of him; cruel, insulting, belittling, grousing. But he feels it now, a blockage between his heart and his mind, nothing able to pass by the words that loom large and terrifying.
He takes a shaky breath. There's nothing for it. Here, in the dark, here with Harry, one last chance. He exhales slowly. "I could have loved you in return. If I'd given us the chance."
Harry exhales, a quiet, "Oh," and there's something in his voice for the first time tonight, something beyond jaded apathy. "And now?"
"I'd very much like the opportunity," Severus says.
A beat passes, then two. Severus watches their frozen breath commingle in front of them, carried away over the Hogwarts grounds. He's glad to see physical evidence that he's still breathing.
"Okay," Harry says, and Severus isn't sure if it is an acknowledgement or an agreement, permission.
"I have told myself that I am not what you need," Severus continues, "but I have… longed for you. Desperately. Every day since we parted. If it's not too late…" he trails off.
"Look – " Harry says after a moment, vulnerable and shaky, "Look. Could you kiss me, already, then?"
Something in Severus bursts open and sings.
He reaches out slowly, giving Harry time to change his mind, but Harry doesn't. Severus takes his freezing fingers, tugs the bulk of his body close. He's undone when Harry leans in further, pulls his hands away to bury them at the back of Severus's neck. It's sweet, gentle, sharing shaky breath, hot in frigid air, and the tip of Harry's cold nose pressing into his cheek.
When they break apart, Severus's eyes are stinging. Harry takes his hands, pulls them up to brush his lips over frozen fingertips.
"I need to know that you're in this with me this time, Severus," he says, low and shaky.
"I am," Severus assures quickly, "Harry…" he slides his fingers to touch Harry's cheeks, the stubble at his jaw. "Give me the chance to prove it."
Harry studies his face for a long moment. Then he nods. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah–okay." Then he catches Severus's hand again and leads him down and out of the cold.
—
Two Years Later
Severus is arranging his egg so that the yolk, when broken, will pool directly into his potatoes, when Minerva sits down next to him.
"Severus, now do remind me. When is Harry arriving?"
"His team should be back from Ypres late this afternoon. I've asked him not to interrupt dinner, but he does have a flair for the dramatic, so I'm expecting him to parade in when the tables are at their fullest."
"I'm afraid he'll be too excited to wait," Hermione says as she drops down into her seat, grinning. "I'm sure he'll portkey to the front gates the moment he's done debriefing."
Severus rolls his eyes. Harry is like a puppy, sometimes, so eager that he trips over his own feet and bonks his head in a mad rush.
"Well, you can hardly blame him," Minerva chides. "I have to say, I never dreamed that this old castle would host your wedding, Severus Snape." Her eyes are glossy with emotion, and Severus shifts uncomfortably.
Undoubtedly, the weekend will be full of such displays of emotion. He's been girding his loins in preparation for weeks – Molly alone will likely go through a dozen handkerchiefs.
Hermione leans in. "We all know you secretly love it when he bursts into a crowded hall and heads straight for you, Severus Snape. I swear, that's half the reason he does it," she says, sotto voce, and Severus suppresses a smile.