Secret Snarry Swap: FIC: Flight of Dreams Title: Flight of Dreams Author:SerenaEW Other pairings/threesome: none Rating: T / PG-13 Word count: 3917 words Content/Warning(s): Creature inheritance, Creature mates, Dreams, getting together, fluff, sweetness, a bit of angst, Post-Canon/Epilogue what epilogue, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Severus Snape, wizarding legends, soft Severus Snape Prompter/Prompt: No. 15 from themightyflynn: Snape comes into a late creature inheritance once Harry comes of age. He tries to deny it, but is ultimately drawn back to his mate. Summary: There is truth in every legend, they say. It is a truth Severus has been feeling painfully since Harry Potter's return to Hogwarts as Defence Against the Dark Arts assistant professor. It is a truth he sees every night in his dreams. It is a truth his mother, Eileen Prince, has been telling him since his childhood. His Chosen One is waiting for him. A/N: Dear prompter: It seems my idea ran away from the original prompt a little here - I hope you still enjoy it! This is actually my second idea, since the first one turned out... Not feasible with the time at hand. I am planning to write it one day, though. One day. This fic would not have been possible without a literal army of people supporting me through my frustrated screaming. R., thank you for your support! W. and I., thank you for your spontaneous and quick beta work, your tagging, and I., your summary help. C., even though I couldn't use the primary idea this time, I'd like to thank you for your immense help. Your ideas and suggestions are absolutely top-notch. Every time. And thank you so much to the mods, especially Torino, for organising this, and for your patience! I know I'm butchering the original Ancient Greek concept of Diipetes here - I hope you can forgive me for that. Also, one scene is strongly influenced by AUctoberfest prompt 2022-05 (a soulmate bond manifesting through healing touch). Alright, enough waffling. Have fun!
He knows he has to be. There is no place in reality that allows him such… exaltation, almost childish in its purity.
He has not missed it; he has not felt young in so many lifetimes now. He would not have thought that innocence is something he is still capable of.
But he still is capable, it seems, and he allows himself to be.
He stretches his wings towards the night, letting the twinkling stars touch them - soft downs and pliant feathers scaffolded by the solidity of bones, held together by flexible joints. They absorb the shine of the moon, and bathe the air in their own soft light.
It takes no effort to raise them, they are lighter than air - but he knows he can trust them to hold his weight.
They will soon, he knows.
The smile on his face feels astonishingly familiar; the shout that leaves his heart is one of excited delight.
Because his mate is waiting for him. His Chosen One.
Soon, the night whispers.
He wakes, and he aches.
His shoulder blades are ablaze with fire. The sides of his spine, down to his tailbone, ache as if fists have been pounding barely-healing slices of a knife, and thousands of invisible fire ants are crawling all over his back.
But through the burning, he is freezing.
He has been waking up with this soreness for four months now. Its quality and its localisation are markedly different from the aftereffects of near-exsanguination and malignant venom from that night in the dusty Shack more than a year ago, or the residues of the dark magic heaped onto him for years and years. He had already recovered from those about nine months ago, insofar as "being able to function normally without major lapses" can be equalled to "recovered".
Poppy has given him a clean bill of health in her (yearly, mandatory, unavoidable) check-up at the beginning of this school year, expressing her astonishment about his quick recovery.
Yet, the pain is still there, is it not?
He himself has checked for spells and curses, potions and poisons. He would not have survived his spying days if he did not routinely think of every possible contingency.
But in this, he knows that his past, however dubious, is not the reason for his current discomfort.
Once upon a time, he was told, there was a heavenly creature. Some say it was an angel, others, a phoenix; we have no name for her now, other than the first of the Diipetes - the one who had fallen from Heaven. Cast out for her sins, she wandered the worlds, stripped of her name, her powers; the picture of remorse, searching for redemption, until one day, she came upon this Earth.
She did not quite understand what made her come here, but she knew in her soul that this was the world she was destined for. It did not matter where she was, she told herself, she would not stop searching for atonement, and so she continued doing good with what little shreds of her power were left, no more than an average human's aside from her knowledge.
And in so doing, The First found an unlikely ally in a young warrior who had been left to die by enemies and allies alike. She took in the fight-weary soul who blossomed under her touch, and, over time, the two fell in love.
They did not hide from the world of battles, instead choosing to give help to those in need; word of their oasis of peace was travelling through the lands. And perhaps that was their undoing.
A treacherous man came to them, presenting himself heavily wounded, in the guise of seeking help. He took what he could of their offerings, but when it was his time to leave, he tried to take retribution from the former warrior whom he decried as a traitor for deserting the battlefield.
In the flash of the blade, the First did not see, or think of, her own atonement; she merely wanted for her love to live, and took the knife into her heart instead.
She fully expected to find herself in Hell. But this last action, it seemed, was enough that the fire and ice of Purgatory would not harm her, and, given a chance to take her place in Heaven once more, she refused. Instead, she returned to the Earth to honour the promises she had given to her love, and the bond they had.
When she and her love eventually left for the afterworld together, her children, and their descendants continued her work. Some lost their ways; but those of them that repented would be gifted with a closer connection to their divine ancestor than any other. Some believe the returned, like her, underwent a process not unlike a phoenix's rebirth; others think that they are transformed into a being similar to her. Still others believe that their love for their soulmate - for their heart and magic will choose the one most suited to them - will allow them to transcend their limitations.
Eventually, they would be known as the family of Prince, our family; you will do well to remember this, Severus.
This is the Prince ancestry legend, as told by his mother, Eileen Prince. Severus would most probably not believe it if someone told it to him now. But as it is, he has heard this story many times in his childhood (always whispered in secret, in those few moments of joy that had lit up his mother's face while his father was out, drinking). This story, its logic, has been ingrained into his very being since even before he learned to think.
And one must not forget that per the definition of magic, there has to be truth in every legend.
In this case, it is a truth his body assures him of, painfully, every morning, until he gulps down a Pain Reliever and a Healing Draught that he remembers, by now, to habitually prepare on his nightstand every evening. The pains and aches indicate some sort of bodily change - a rare creature inheritance, perhaps, that is reported to come with anticipatory, repeating pains not quite unlike a woman's birthing pains, stretched out in length to months, sometimes years.
No one truly knows, he hears his mother say, because few have ever seen a Diipetes in their true form; the last lived centuries ago.
But, whatever this is, it has to be the truth, because this is a curse - not strictly in the magical sense, but at least metaphorically. And it is a fact of Severus' life that in his vicinity, truths are cursed, become curses themselves.
The accursed pain is, certainly, more real than the vague promises of happiness some read into these types of stories:
The only thing that every account agrees on is that with each Diipetes came a period of love and peace, and prosperity.
This is wishful thinking only, to believe in rebirths in beauty and glory, endless riches from out of the blue, true love fulfilling the promise of eternity.
He does not believe there is such a thing as a happily ever after. Life is just an endless battlefield, he knows, and everything has a price. A price of pain, of blood, of freedom.
Most of all, if he did allow himself to believe the fairytale of this tale, he would perhaps feel as if even his heart is feeling sore - burning from the fires of unresolved passions, overstretched from reaching out for the impossible - even when the rest of his pains are dimmed for the moment.
But, of course, he does not believe these notions. Just as he does not remember his dreams. Severus still cannot quite explain to himself why he is putting up with the man every day.
Yes, he is talking about his Defence against the Dark Arts assistant professor, Harry Potter. As soon as it became clear that he wanted out of that sham of a training program called the Auror Academy, Minerva had invited Potter to take the post. She had, in fact, created that post specifically for him, over Severus' protests that Poppy has given him the all-clear and that he does not need an assistant; never mind that Potter would never actually take the post if he knew that he would be Severus' assistant specifically.
He was hard-pressed to hide his astonishment at Minerva's answer: "Potter sounded elated at the fact that he would be working closely together with you, Severus." And he scowled when Minerva admonished, "Do try to get on with him, will you?"
Regardless of his protests, Severus deemed Potter's return to Hogwarts one of the man's more sensible decisions - until he found his assistant lounging in the staff room after the Start-of-Term Feast, robes unbuttoned at the collar, ankles crossed and a smile on his face, asking Severus if he could help with the theory behind the absorbent variation of the Shield Charm; just in case the sixth-years asked.
From that day, conversation with Harry has become a habit Severus can not get rid of. He has managed to move it to less public spaces, such as his quarters, though; it would not do well for his reputation as a solidly solitary man.
Harry flashes a smile at him.
As usual, an hour in, their conversation has strayed far from the question Harry comes to ask nearly every day - today, it is about the reversibility of the Reductor Curse, depending on the caster's intent. Their conversation has drifted to their students since; Severus can not help but wind Harry up about Potter the Professor's changed perception of student misdeeds whenever he comes groaning about pre-Christmas student antics - having the Boy Who Lived as their professor does not see to be much of a deterrent after all.
His assistant takes the ribbing in good humour. And just as during their subject-specific discussions, he gives as good as he gets, with a sassiness Severus finds absolutely not endearing.
Where a table has stood between them previously, there is only an arm's length of air now.
Severus feels it, from the moment Harry's - Potter's, goddamn! - hand snakes out to reach him, to touch his left arm. He can feel the heat even through the thick layers of his clothes; it warms him like nothing else can. He can feel the energy cracking under the younger man's skin - it stimulates and invigorates him, like the freshness of a warm spring breeze.
He feels more invigorated now than he has in months. He is slowly starting to suspect that he feels better whenever he is in Harry's presence.
It would feel even better without clothes, something in him whispers, more loudly than a shout into his ear.
He flinches. Where is that thought coming from?
Harry, of course, notices the minute movement.
"Everything alright?"
Concern is radiating from the younger man where there was only relaxed joy just a moment ago.
He is much more astute than Severus would have given him credit for during his student years. Or at the very least, Severus sees now that Harry is nothing but perceptive around - towards the needs of those he cares for.
And the realisation that he, Severus Snape, is among those Harry Potter cares for, is dizzying.
But of course, Severus cannot say any of this.
"Kindly remove your wandering hands from my body."
He is astonished, for a moment, by the vitriol in his slightly light-headed tone; he has not had the energy for that in quite some time.
The flash of hurt in Harry's eyes is almost imperceptible in its brevity. The apologetic smile that follows, only slightly strained.
"Sorry."
With a sheepish blink, the green-eyed man is back to his usual exuberant self, continuing his tales of commiseration about the unruliness of pre-Christmas adolescent students, as if nothing has happened.
But to Severus, the loss of that hand feels as if he, free-floating in high water, has just lost his lifeline, and can only stare at the outstretched hand calling from the shore in the far distance.
It's not that a Diipetes can't survive without a soulmate, his mother had told him, but a Diipetes and their Chosen One give each other life, they say. It is why, reportedly, most can not even help keeping their mate close.
The Chosen One. He can not help but bark a laugh at the thought.
Of course. Of course it would be him.
Harry looks at him for a moment, astonished; then wheezes, "Now that you say it…" He starts convulsing in laughter until he breathlessly clutches his sides; until he has infected Severus with his blinding, beautiful brightness once more. They laugh until they have both forgotten what they have been laughing about and can only cast wondering looks at each other, Harry's spring green eyes a perfect mix of dancing mirth and glowing warmth.
For a tiny moment, Severus wishes that he could see this expression of adoration on Harry's face every moment. That it was only reserved for -
No.
He will not finish this thought. He will not give in to what must be a biological imperative. Harry deserves better than this, than him, he tries telling himself.
But just at that moment, Harry's smile, breathtaking in its honesty, grows even wider, and Severus knows this is nothing as simple as mere biology.
He scowls in response, instead.
And then, the moment has passed and they slip back into conversation, nearly seamlessly, but the realisation of what has just happened is sledgehammered into Severus' mind.
From then on, he makes a point to keep his mind closed and his arms closer to his body.
He is not normally so disoriented when his dreams are shaped by despair. It is the usual state of his mind, after all. His rationality is trained to override the desperation, to dissect it, to search for whatever possible solutions there could be. And if this fails, there is always anger, sharp as knives and hot as glowing iron, to tear through it.
But here he is, standing in a field of black, barren bleakness. He knows he has been here before, and he is as lost as he has always been.
He can not see, so he flounders through the darkness that has no weakness which would allow him escape. No shape, no direction, no end; no gravity to ground him; no warmth to support him. His legs and arms and wings must be taking him somewhere, he is sure, but he can feel that he is not getting anywhere.
He knows he must be doing something wrong.
Still, he can not help but flail about until he is crushed by exhaustion. The burning in his body is doing nothing to offset the coldness that surrounds him.
He still tries moving, to where he thinks might be forward, because something, something beyond this endlessness, is calling him. He wishes this siren call were not floating just beyond his reach, calling him in a language he knows he should be able to understand, but cannot.
He wishes he knew where to follow it to.
He moves until the only thing that moves about him is the wetness on his face.
And eventually, that, too, freezes. The only thing he can remember upon waking is wetness tracking down his face, and increasing soreness in his chilled body as the nights grow colder.
What used to be morning fatigue a few weeks ago now stretches through every waking moment. The potions are not enough anymore to last him through the day. He realises he is missing more meals than he takes, his body instead collapsing into restless sleep that leaves him aching and more tired than before.
Whenever he looks up, he sees a pair of green eyes tracking him, more and more concerned. It is only in their presence that he feels, at all, alive in a way that is not the frost burn of pain suffusing him.
He needs to escape from these too-observant, too-concerned eyes. He has never done anything to deserve this.
Today, some part of his mind manages to register that classes are over for this calendar year. Harry has told him - asked him for his permission, in fact - to spend parts of the upcoming holidays with the Weasleys, so he expects Harry to be off soon, chaperoning on the Hogwarts Express. He will not need company for marking the tests either way, so he plans to retreat to his rooms for the holidays. It will be a relief; the exhaustion is eating at him.
But before he can open the door, Harry Potter, of course, approaches again.
"Hey, Severus? May I have a moment of your time?"
(They both know that Harry will get more than a moment.)
"Please? There is something… I wanted to…"
"What is it?"
When he sees Harry fidget, he adds, "Spit it out, Potter. Sometime today, preferably."
Harry gestures vaguely towards the door.
"Not here? Please?"
A nervous Harry Potter never bodes well, Severus thinks as he opens the door to his quarters; that has never changed, and probably never will. As if in agreement, the pain in his back aggregates to two sharply pulsating lines.
"Well, what are you waiting for?"
Harry shifts his weight from one foot to another, rakes a hand through his hair, shoves the other deeper into his robe pocket, hesitates, pulls it out. From the corner of his eyes, Severus can see him put something on the table in the hallway.
Something that looks suspiciously like a miniature box with a bow.
"I - um. Ugh, this is hard."
That fool should be glad that Severus is not hexing him to death at this very moment for sending his instincts into overdrive.
"Oh, sod it. Later," Harry mutters under his breath. Before Severus can narrow his eyes, he asks, "Are you alright? You seemed so tired recently."
Severus wants to deny that vehemently, to deflect, but instead, he finds himself saying, "That should not be of any matter to you."
"Why shouldn't it be?"
Because…
"In case you haven't realised, I care for you. And I know you call me nosy, but something is telling me that things aren't alright here. You are missing meals all the time. You look like you haven't slept in ages. Some days, you look even worse than when I was a student, and that's really saying something."
Harry sighs, then inhales deeply before Severus can interrupt. "And I - I get the feeling that you are… hiding? I don't get to see you anymore."
Pouts do not usually look good on grown men.
"You still seem to be under the impression that the world revolves around you," Severus snarks back.
His world, certainly, should decidedly not be revolving around Harry Potter. (But it does.)
"Well, I hope it doesn't, or I'd be dizzy in no time," Harry shoots back with a huff that, to Severus, does not sound annoyed at all. "But in all honesty, it's your mood, too. It's as bad as during the war some days, and…"
He trails off with a frown that has no right to look so ridiculously… precious.
"And what exactly is wrong with me being -"
"Don't get me wrong," Harry cuts across him hastily. "I love you, temper and all, but - " He stops mid-word, mouth hanging open. "Shoot. Did I really just say -"
Severus has no chance to admire the blush blooming on the younger man's cheeks before searing pain overwhelms him, worse than ever before. His back feels like a raging inferno, as if two white-hot knives are carving burning stripes into his back, from hairline to tailbone.
Time seems to pass in slow motion as he collapses on the floor once more. He vaguely registers a tearing sound, a shout. A silver animal lighting up his vision, before it bounds out of the door.
And suddenly, the inferno of pain in his body is letting up, enough so that he can feel the hand supporting his neck, enough for him to turn his head and see an expression of shock and dawning realisation in Harry's eyes.
Enough so that Severus, too, realises what has happened.
The next moment, Harry has torn off their shirts and wrapped himself against Severus' back, trying to staunch the rivulets of blood with the whole expanse of his torso. Desperate hands press in on Severus' burning front, surrounding him with the cool numbness of relief, the tingling energy of healing magic.
"Please, please, please," Harry mutters frantically. "Close up, close up, come on!"
Using the last of his strength, Severus moves one of his new wings to cover Harry from the cold air, before he loses consciousness.
Poppy Pomfrey fears the worst when Harry's agitated stag Patronus leads her to Severus' flat in the dungeons. When she arrives, she finds, in a heap on the floor amid a pool of blood, Harry Potter clutching desperately at a dark-haired creature who, in turn, has wrapped his black-feathered wings around the young assistant professor.
It seems Severus must have come into some sort of surprise creature inheritance; it is rare that they so overwhelm the wixen gaining it - she has to ask him later about this. But first, she has to see to her unconscious patients.
A quick diagnostic charm reveals nothing apart from fatigue for the two of them. Her diagnostics have not failed her in nearly three decades now, but this time, considering the scene before her, she sincerely doubts that everything is mostly alright.
When she finally manages to pry them apart for a moment to spell the blood away, she is relieved to find that the wounds that must have been there just moments ago have healed nicely. In their place, she finds the glow of a content soul bond between the two peacefully sleeping men.
Still, she decides she had better haul them off to the Hospital Wing, just in case.
Two gift-wrapped boxes, one in green and silver, the other in plain wrapping paper, lie forgotten, and unshrunk, on the tables of Severus' quarters.
There he is.
Severus has finally found him. His Chosen One.
Because, biology or no, there is no way he would choose any other. He knows that, just as surely as he knows his own heartbeat, his own breath.
The beat of his wings carries him towards the light, confidently now that he is taking the right path.
The stars twinkle merrily from above. The moon shines brightly. But none so brightly, or merrily, as Harry.
His Chosen One stands before him, arms outstretched. Come to me, beg those arms, in the most ancient language of the body; now, he can understand the tongue of love. Let us be at peace. Let us be one.
But there is no need for begging; Severus would have come of his own devices.
He knows he will never regret this calling.
There is no need for words as their fingertips touch, as they clasp hands, unite their lips, their bodies, their hearts, their souls.
Severus' greatest, most joyous dream has come true. And that is a gift he will cherish for the rest of his existence.
That, he will never forget.
-The End-
End notes: Thank you for reading! I am looking forward to your feedback and your comments. I may not be able to reply (due to anonymity and lack of presence on some blogs), but know I read each one. Happy Winter Festival Season, wherever you are!