![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Post Mortem (Complete)
I finally finished it. I said I would, and I did. No, not Le Lion au Serpent (which I also plan to finish), but Post Mortem. It is a work of minimalism and very sparse vocabulary. I hope you enjoy.
TITLE: Post Mortem
PAIRING: SS/HP
RATING: PG-13 for some snogging.
TIMELINE: VERY alternate
SUMMARY: An alternate ending to the war -- and how things might have turned out if Snape hadn't gone to Voldemort.
Post Mortem
Harry
1.
He watches his world drift into plumes of smoke across a ravaged wasteland.
Six unicorns, the last of their kind, lie in a molten heap of garish white and violent red where once a dark enchanted forest thrived. Ghosts drift in aimless despair searching for kin and meaning. Harry takes a stumbling step into this desolate wilderness, his sword dragging across scorched earth and bone.
He is tired, dirty and bleeding from deep and scarring cuts.
"We did this for nothing," says the young man vacantly. The other man who fought for and protected him snorts derisively. Harry turns to look at this very man and makes a small questioning move of his head.
Severus Snape lowers himself onto a rock and bows his head against the hilt of his sword in a gesture that may, to others, suggest humility, but Harry knows it is merely the result of profound exhaustion. It is one he feels as well, but he is restless enough to keep standing. "On the contrary, Potter. We did it for something. We stand here, alive, while he festers in his smoldering ruins. It is a time to rejoice." Injured cattle wail in the distance. How festive, Harry muses.
"I doubt this’ll offer great comfort to those who’ve lost their loved ones," Harry says after a moment of gazing at the dying embers of Wizarding society. In the wake of the battle, Severus Snape has reverted to his callous self. Harry thinks there had been moments, on the battlefield, when Snape’s glimpsed humanity had stroked something deep inside of him.
That feeling is gone, and for a moment Harry has the uncomfortable sensation of being back in class; a memory that seems so ancient just now. Shy of twenty, Harry Potter is a man of experience now, a Wizard of wisdom and skills. He chuckles when he thinks about his Occlumency lessons.
"Laugh," Snape says, and Harry stops short. "It seems the right moment, after all. Weren’t we just speaking of great comfort and the loss of loved ones?" he asks with a sneer as he rises. He leaves behind his claim of the rock, and Harry watches sadly as a couple of cornish pixies immediately take possession of it.
Harry turns away. "You don’t care, anyway."
"As usual, your talent for the obvious astounds me, Potter. After all, I regularly put my neck on the line for a cause I care nothing about." He winces when Snape curls his hand over the nape of his neck in a small though meaningful way. "You would do well to remember what I did here," he whispers.
The touch evaporates swiftly, and Harry glares at the back of Snape’s head as the man moves forward to survey the disaster. "Why? So you can avoid trial?" He feels a surge of satisfaction at Snape’s startled glance. "I’m not stupid. Dumbledore is dead. I’m the only one left to testify on your behalf."
Something changes on Snape’s face; the rage he has seen on the field, the cruelty that surfaced as he uttered a killing curse. It is enough for Harry to tense. "I am comforted that you continue to offer up proof of your perpetual stupidity, Potter! The Ministry is gone, you insufferable boy, having choked under the weight of its precious bureaucracy. There will be no trial, Potter. Not for me,” he adds as an afterthought. Harry doesn’t question this; somehow he knows what that means.
Harry walks over to stand next to Snape. He shuts his eyes and turns his face toward the wind. A scent of scorched flesh triggers an odd shiver in his stomach. "Don’t underestimate a beaten people, Snape. Where there’s vengeance, there’s always a way." He says this, and knows there is no reason for him to voice this. It is only grim acknowledgement of his own fate.
In the distance, it is possible to distinguish the pyres, burning brightly against the dark horizon. "You owe me," Harry adds. "I’m not so stupid not to know that much." He ignores the burning look on Snape’s face. He smiles, instead, and begins the journey toward the ruins. "Shall we? I shouldn’t want to miss the festivities."
He can hear Snape following, the crunch of dead branches and brittle bones cutting loudly into the sweltering breeze.
2.
They sit in an imperfect circle of survivors and soldiers amid the ruins of what had once been the Great Hall; Wizards and Witches alike, now stripped of all but their winding need to survive. Some are permanently disfigured by field magic. Others have dressed wounds from swords and blades.
Remus is here, too, a thick bandage on his neck where Macnair’s axe nearly lopped his head off. He looks up but he doesn’t smile. At his side, a black dog sleeps curled against his thigh. A stray to remind him of lost times.
Harry expects no acclaim, but he does feel a pang of disappointment at the apathy that greets him. He also notes that Snape does not sit down. He stands paces behind Harry, and he knows the man will never break bread with those who still believe he should be burning on the pyres rather than stand at Harry’s side.
The provisional government is chanting in the background, eerie encouragement for the flames to lick at the corpses of their enemy.
Remus looks down and nibbles from his plate. He says, "We managed to secure quarters at Hogsmeade. The rebuilding effort should begin early in the morning." Harry nods and lays his sword over his crossed knees. He senses the people beside him shift away.
Across from him he can see Molly drifting around another circle, offering wine and food from a burnt pan with the care and attention of a mother who has lost her husband and most of her children. But Fred does not need attention. He finds solace in his thoughts and memories, content to shun the rest.
Harry feels the emotion tighten in his chest.
But he will not cry.
"I think that’s--" Harry cannot finish his sentence, and he scrambles to his feet when a man jumps into the circle with a dagger in his hand.
"My boy, you killed my boy, you let those murderers torture and kill MY BOY," he screams and lunges for Harry who remains paralyzed in shock. He hears the grinding slide of a blade seconds before he sees its tip pressed up against the man’s throat. The circle falls silent, and Harry breathes quick shallow breaths, feeling the warmth of Snape pressed at his side.
"Remove yourself from the circle," hisses Snape.
This is wrong, Harry thinks. The war should be over.
But he finds very little sympathy to encourage him otherwise. Even Remus seems to lose interest in all but offering the dog at his side a bit of food.
The man backs away, the hatred ugly in his face.
Snape, his sword still extended, presses his free hand on Harry’s shoulder. "We should not be here." Harry nearly ignores his words, enthralled by the steadiness of the sword as it hangs suspended from the man’s hand.
He finally nods, mumbling his assent, and they leave the circle. Harry wishes for someone to call him back.
He only hears the silence of a beaten people, eating and mourning.
As they walk, Snape sheathes his sword and says, "What did you expect, Potter? Praise? Celebrity?"
He hates the word and says nothing.
Snape shakes his head. "Heroes who survive are seldom celebrated."
Harry wonders if he is a monster for having hoped otherwise.
3.
"Is this the end?" Harry asks, sliding his hands over the rough wood of the table. The taste of splinters in his skin soothes an inexplicable itch. Close by, Rosmerta is busy fending off drunken patrons eager to display the severed heads of their enemies. Harry is disturbed by his lack of disgust.
Snape slips into his chair, his eyes sweeping the area with the practiced ease of one who’s often seen evidence of treachery. He does spare an irritable glance at Harry.
"What nonsense are you spouting off now?"
"I mean to say, is this it?" Harry sighs, nodding at the door where Rosmerta is threatening the more stubborn men with her wand and a chair. She throws the latter at them and slams the door shut. Few patrons bother to look.
"Philosophical rubbish had no place on the field. It certainly has no place here."
"Then where?"
Snape makes a disgusted noise and leaves the table. Harry leans on his fist and looks at the ravaged tavern, scorch marks visible where men and women have died. Rosmerta is limping, not yet accustomed to the enchanted wooden leg. He remembers muffling her mouth as the healers fixed it, afraid that her screams would attract Voldemort’s men.
Two mugs slamming on the wood return him to the present. Snape claims back his seat.
"Nowhere," he says, and tips his goblet for a generous swallow.
"You don’t want to think about it," Harry says.
"No, I don’t." It is a rare admission and Harry feels grateful for it. Still, he presses on.
"Is this it, then? We’re just going to get drunk and forget it ever happened?"
"That is my plan for now."
As plans go, it’s not a bad one. "I’m tired," he sighs. He looks away at the strangely focused stare Snape gives him over the rim of his mug.
"When did you last sleep?"
"I don’t remember."
After another irritated sound from Snape, they continue to drink in silence. The quiet between them is sometimes companionable, sometimes awkward. Harry doesn’t know why.
But the awkwardness fades into companionship as the alcohol lowers their inhibition. Silence fades as they reminisce over their victories. They laugh at things like death and torture. It has been their world for the last year, and they can’t remember the other things that might also make them laugh. For now, they are content to clash their mugs over the agony of their enemies.
Soon they are stumbling upstairs for sleep. Swords clatter clumsily to the floor. Fumbling to get rid of clothes, they don’t stop to wonder when exhaustion makes way for urgency.
Snape’s mouth tastes like stale whiskey and raw meat.
It is the only thing Harry will remember in the morning.
4.
Harry would be content never to leave their dilapidated room above Rosmerta’s tavern. He traces the scars on Snape’s body and calls them beautiful. Snape watches him, guarded despite the endearments he has, moments ago, whispered into Harry’s skin.
Harry caresses his fingers up the marked sallow skin, watching them disappear in a crop of short hair. "Will you let it grow again?" he smiles.
"I don’t know. It gives me a sophisticated air, don’t you think?" It feels good to giggle without the encouragement of alcohol. Snape does not laugh, but he smirks.
"I don’t want to leave," Harry says, drunk on the moment. He leans down and hugs the thin body under him. He doesn’t understand why Snape tenses.
"The rebuilding effort," Snape offers. Harry begs silently for Snape to return the embrace.
"They don’t want me. They hate me," Harry whispers, turning to give the skin a few urgent kisses. "I want to stay where I’m wanted."
The tension mounts, and Harry feels something inexplicably break inside of him. He leans back and Snape sits up. "Don’t confuse sex for love," Snape growls, and he leaves the bed.
Where he felt comfortable he now feels vulnerable, and Harry tugs the tangle of sheet to his lap. "I never said-- I just--" Harry tries to explain, but the thing that broke lodges shards in his throat. "Fuck you," he chokes.
Snape dresses himself, his back to him. "We were drunk. It was only--"
"It was more than that, you coward," Harry yells, his shame forgotten as he stands up. He picks up his trousers and roughly puts them on. "And I never said love. I said I wanted to stay where I was wanted. It seems you’re the only one who’s confused."
He ignores the startled glance as he slips into his shirt and bends to retrieve his sword.
"Potter ..."
"My ruddy name is Harry," he mutters darkly before leaving the room. He tries to ignore the thud of Snape’s footfalls as he follows him, and hates the spark of pathetic hope the sound triggers.
5.
Together, they work. Silence presses over them uncomfortably, but Harry would rather have the awkward silence of two men working together than the silence of one man abandoned, finally, by his most faithful soldier.
To that soldier, Harry throws a glance once in a while and wonders if and when conversation will begin again. Not now, in any case, and he brings down the axe one more time to fell the ruined branches from the Womping Willow.
It releases a mournful whine. In a moment of insanity, Harry wishes the old tree had enough fight in it to shake them to the ground. It shouldn't be so complacent, now, permitting them to perch upon its good branches while they lop off malignant tumors dark magic has left in its wake. It should be fighting.
"I think this is enough," Severus says from the other side, and Harry looks up in time to see the other man slip down from his perch, axe balanced over one shoulder, a bag of twigs hovering after him. In the distance, Harry can see fires burning -- similar groups of people working on the rebuilding effort.
"I shouldn't be confessing this," says Harry as he carefully climbs down from the Willow, "But I'm happy you're talking to me." He gives Severus a smile, knowing it is as silly as he feels.
But to feel silly at all is a blessing in a time when laughter is as rare a commodity as Unicorn blood.
"You're an idiot," Severus sighs.
"I know."
Harry swears there's almost fondness in Severus' eyes, but the moment passes, and the older man is already walking toward the ruined walls that once supported the bulk of Hogwarts. "Where are we going?" Harry asks, jogging to catch up with his companion.
"To eat. And then to argue and fall exhausted in each other's arms," Severus smirks.
Harry knows he is being laughed at, an effort no doubt for Severus to distance himself from the intimacy they have shared. But it hardly matters at all.
Regardless of what they did, they would do it together.
6.
Harry likes to eat with his fingers. He has lost the use and the preference for utensils, instruments that, during a war, were nothing but a fanciful luxury. The war may be over, but the need for such ostentatious nonsense hasn't returned.
He keeps secret the fact that the child in him likes to eat with messy, oily fingers. Severus does the same, but he has the sense to look annoyed by it. "I'm famished," Harry says around a mouthful of chicken.
"Stop talking, then, and eat," Severus says, dropping his empty tin plate to the ground. The sound echoes around them, in what has once served as the Great Hall. Now, only the pillars remain, and the tattered vestiges of House banners swaying in the open air.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the conjured sweets that once swelled over rows of tables, and the chatter of excited, young students.
"We shouldn't linger," Severus says warningly. Harry looks at him in time to see the pointed look at his plate. He's only taken a few bites, despite his childish enthusiasm at eating the meal with his hands.
"I'd prefer a drink."
"Alcohol will not cure our need for sustenance. At least not forever," Severus scolds.
"But I wouldn't care," Harry argues, and he yearns for that, the sweet oblivion that comes with heavy liquor. The harsh sound of metal grating over stone makes him look up in time to see Severus stand with his sword. He sheathes it after a cursory look at the blade. "Bring it," he nods at Harry.
"What?"
"The food; bring it. We are not staying."
"But Remus and--"
"To bloody hell with the rebuilding effort! Come with me; it's not safe here." For the first time Harry notes the wild look reflected in the other man's eyes, and there's something frightening about it, and the way it makes the small hairs on the back of Harry's head stand on end.
"You're worrying me," Harry frowns.
"Good. Follow me."
Harry's heart is pounding and he hates the way his chest hurts as he stands up. A cold chill crawls down his spine as though something horrible has materialized behind him. "I don't understand--" he stammers, but he does, too clearly, and the screaming nearly drowns Severus' frantic order to draw back.
Harry clutches his head.
Rogue dementors.
Hungry rogue dementors.
Everywhere.
Snape
1.
The boy looks in pain. It gives Severus a small pang of pleasure he quickly pushes aside. It won’t do to gloat over this small victory; the boy is not right about everything, and that uncertainty will almost certainly be his downfall.
He crouches down to enfold the boy in his arms, draw him to his feet and pull him from danger. The headache wracks the small body in his arms as they retreat to safety, the wail of dementors close on their heels. The sorrow they project is nearly debilitating, but Snape has known little happiness in his life, and it protects him now, where it counts.
“I can’t—" cries Harry, stumbling clumsily in his wake despite Snape’s effort to keep the boy moving. “I can’t—" he repeats, emitting a rare and poignant weep. Harry has never cried, not in front of Snape in any case, and the former Potions master tries to reign in the emotion this draws from him.
“Nonsense, Potter. Simply keep moving, and the feeling will pass.”
But the boy crumbles at his feet, drawing Snape almost to topple over him in the process. He lowers himself to a knee to brace himself against the sudden weight pulling him down and he glowers at the pitiful lump on the ground. He takes a moment to scrutinize the horizon; the dementors seem to have abandoned their chase in favor no doubt of easier prey. Snape breathes. “Potter—"
“I want to die,” the youth cries, his face buried against the ground. “Let me die,” he whispers. “I hate this, I don’t want to go on. I hate this, I hate it I hate it Ihateit—"
Snape pulls him roughly up, so that he can cup the face with his shaking hands. The words Potter repeats now is triggering an odd anger in his soul, an ancient fear that coils in his throat. He will not see the light die from those eyes again. “Listen to me,” he hisses, shaking the boy roughly. “Stop your nonsense. The war is over, and you have been victorious. That is ALL that counts,” he says.
The pain and sorrow on Potter’s face is unmistakable and speaks of the torment that wracks the small body. “All my friends—"
“—died for a worthy cause, and knew exactly from the moment they joined you what the risks were. Potter, I will not have our efforts be in vain because of your guilt, unfounded as it is.” The boy opens his eyes, glossy with tears and red with pain. Snape’s fingers twitch at the wetness staining his fingers. He yearns to taste it, taste Potter’s unhappiness and compare it to his own that has so often snaked into his own mouth.
And why not.
Here now, in this desolate place.
Snape crushes his mouth to the young man, drawing into him that very pain, a small part of him yearning to keep it for himself so that Potter never need feel it again.
The silence that follows as they part is oppressive, but not uncomfortable. There is only the loud sound of their ragged breathing, and the heady scent of arousal and new life.
“All right?” asks Snape huskily.
Harry looks at him strangely.
“What?”
“That’s the first time you’ve ever asked.”
Snape glowers and draws back to spit out another insult, but Harry grabs his face and draws him in once more. The kiss is everlasting, stretching to encompass the landscape until Snape is certain he can see a brighter horizon. He closes his eyes and drinks of the young man, taking in his strength, his power, the very essence of the Chosen One.
And who but Snape, the very man whom the boy mistrusted and judged wrongly, would? He allows for a rare smile against Harry’s mouth, his eyes still closed and his hand buried in the thick warm crop of the boy’s hair. He inhales deeply and slowly. The horizon brightens again. There is sun now, beaming through the scorched clouds. He opens his eyes, and the pair staring back at him pierces at him from a distant past.
He smiles again. He thinks he can get used to the gesture.
END
TITLE: Post Mortem
PAIRING: SS/HP
RATING: PG-13 for some snogging.
TIMELINE: VERY alternate
SUMMARY: An alternate ending to the war -- and how things might have turned out if Snape hadn't gone to Voldemort.
Post Mortem
Harry
1.
He watches his world drift into plumes of smoke across a ravaged wasteland.
Six unicorns, the last of their kind, lie in a molten heap of garish white and violent red where once a dark enchanted forest thrived. Ghosts drift in aimless despair searching for kin and meaning. Harry takes a stumbling step into this desolate wilderness, his sword dragging across scorched earth and bone.
He is tired, dirty and bleeding from deep and scarring cuts.
"We did this for nothing," says the young man vacantly. The other man who fought for and protected him snorts derisively. Harry turns to look at this very man and makes a small questioning move of his head.
Severus Snape lowers himself onto a rock and bows his head against the hilt of his sword in a gesture that may, to others, suggest humility, but Harry knows it is merely the result of profound exhaustion. It is one he feels as well, but he is restless enough to keep standing. "On the contrary, Potter. We did it for something. We stand here, alive, while he festers in his smoldering ruins. It is a time to rejoice." Injured cattle wail in the distance. How festive, Harry muses.
"I doubt this’ll offer great comfort to those who’ve lost their loved ones," Harry says after a moment of gazing at the dying embers of Wizarding society. In the wake of the battle, Severus Snape has reverted to his callous self. Harry thinks there had been moments, on the battlefield, when Snape’s glimpsed humanity had stroked something deep inside of him.
That feeling is gone, and for a moment Harry has the uncomfortable sensation of being back in class; a memory that seems so ancient just now. Shy of twenty, Harry Potter is a man of experience now, a Wizard of wisdom and skills. He chuckles when he thinks about his Occlumency lessons.
"Laugh," Snape says, and Harry stops short. "It seems the right moment, after all. Weren’t we just speaking of great comfort and the loss of loved ones?" he asks with a sneer as he rises. He leaves behind his claim of the rock, and Harry watches sadly as a couple of cornish pixies immediately take possession of it.
Harry turns away. "You don’t care, anyway."
"As usual, your talent for the obvious astounds me, Potter. After all, I regularly put my neck on the line for a cause I care nothing about." He winces when Snape curls his hand over the nape of his neck in a small though meaningful way. "You would do well to remember what I did here," he whispers.
The touch evaporates swiftly, and Harry glares at the back of Snape’s head as the man moves forward to survey the disaster. "Why? So you can avoid trial?" He feels a surge of satisfaction at Snape’s startled glance. "I’m not stupid. Dumbledore is dead. I’m the only one left to testify on your behalf."
Something changes on Snape’s face; the rage he has seen on the field, the cruelty that surfaced as he uttered a killing curse. It is enough for Harry to tense. "I am comforted that you continue to offer up proof of your perpetual stupidity, Potter! The Ministry is gone, you insufferable boy, having choked under the weight of its precious bureaucracy. There will be no trial, Potter. Not for me,” he adds as an afterthought. Harry doesn’t question this; somehow he knows what that means.
Harry walks over to stand next to Snape. He shuts his eyes and turns his face toward the wind. A scent of scorched flesh triggers an odd shiver in his stomach. "Don’t underestimate a beaten people, Snape. Where there’s vengeance, there’s always a way." He says this, and knows there is no reason for him to voice this. It is only grim acknowledgement of his own fate.
In the distance, it is possible to distinguish the pyres, burning brightly against the dark horizon. "You owe me," Harry adds. "I’m not so stupid not to know that much." He ignores the burning look on Snape’s face. He smiles, instead, and begins the journey toward the ruins. "Shall we? I shouldn’t want to miss the festivities."
He can hear Snape following, the crunch of dead branches and brittle bones cutting loudly into the sweltering breeze.
2.
They sit in an imperfect circle of survivors and soldiers amid the ruins of what had once been the Great Hall; Wizards and Witches alike, now stripped of all but their winding need to survive. Some are permanently disfigured by field magic. Others have dressed wounds from swords and blades.
Remus is here, too, a thick bandage on his neck where Macnair’s axe nearly lopped his head off. He looks up but he doesn’t smile. At his side, a black dog sleeps curled against his thigh. A stray to remind him of lost times.
Harry expects no acclaim, but he does feel a pang of disappointment at the apathy that greets him. He also notes that Snape does not sit down. He stands paces behind Harry, and he knows the man will never break bread with those who still believe he should be burning on the pyres rather than stand at Harry’s side.
The provisional government is chanting in the background, eerie encouragement for the flames to lick at the corpses of their enemy.
Remus looks down and nibbles from his plate. He says, "We managed to secure quarters at Hogsmeade. The rebuilding effort should begin early in the morning." Harry nods and lays his sword over his crossed knees. He senses the people beside him shift away.
Across from him he can see Molly drifting around another circle, offering wine and food from a burnt pan with the care and attention of a mother who has lost her husband and most of her children. But Fred does not need attention. He finds solace in his thoughts and memories, content to shun the rest.
Harry feels the emotion tighten in his chest.
But he will not cry.
"I think that’s--" Harry cannot finish his sentence, and he scrambles to his feet when a man jumps into the circle with a dagger in his hand.
"My boy, you killed my boy, you let those murderers torture and kill MY BOY," he screams and lunges for Harry who remains paralyzed in shock. He hears the grinding slide of a blade seconds before he sees its tip pressed up against the man’s throat. The circle falls silent, and Harry breathes quick shallow breaths, feeling the warmth of Snape pressed at his side.
"Remove yourself from the circle," hisses Snape.
This is wrong, Harry thinks. The war should be over.
But he finds very little sympathy to encourage him otherwise. Even Remus seems to lose interest in all but offering the dog at his side a bit of food.
The man backs away, the hatred ugly in his face.
Snape, his sword still extended, presses his free hand on Harry’s shoulder. "We should not be here." Harry nearly ignores his words, enthralled by the steadiness of the sword as it hangs suspended from the man’s hand.
He finally nods, mumbling his assent, and they leave the circle. Harry wishes for someone to call him back.
He only hears the silence of a beaten people, eating and mourning.
As they walk, Snape sheathes his sword and says, "What did you expect, Potter? Praise? Celebrity?"
He hates the word and says nothing.
Snape shakes his head. "Heroes who survive are seldom celebrated."
Harry wonders if he is a monster for having hoped otherwise.
3.
"Is this the end?" Harry asks, sliding his hands over the rough wood of the table. The taste of splinters in his skin soothes an inexplicable itch. Close by, Rosmerta is busy fending off drunken patrons eager to display the severed heads of their enemies. Harry is disturbed by his lack of disgust.
Snape slips into his chair, his eyes sweeping the area with the practiced ease of one who’s often seen evidence of treachery. He does spare an irritable glance at Harry.
"What nonsense are you spouting off now?"
"I mean to say, is this it?" Harry sighs, nodding at the door where Rosmerta is threatening the more stubborn men with her wand and a chair. She throws the latter at them and slams the door shut. Few patrons bother to look.
"Philosophical rubbish had no place on the field. It certainly has no place here."
"Then where?"
Snape makes a disgusted noise and leaves the table. Harry leans on his fist and looks at the ravaged tavern, scorch marks visible where men and women have died. Rosmerta is limping, not yet accustomed to the enchanted wooden leg. He remembers muffling her mouth as the healers fixed it, afraid that her screams would attract Voldemort’s men.
Two mugs slamming on the wood return him to the present. Snape claims back his seat.
"Nowhere," he says, and tips his goblet for a generous swallow.
"You don’t want to think about it," Harry says.
"No, I don’t." It is a rare admission and Harry feels grateful for it. Still, he presses on.
"Is this it, then? We’re just going to get drunk and forget it ever happened?"
"That is my plan for now."
As plans go, it’s not a bad one. "I’m tired," he sighs. He looks away at the strangely focused stare Snape gives him over the rim of his mug.
"When did you last sleep?"
"I don’t remember."
After another irritated sound from Snape, they continue to drink in silence. The quiet between them is sometimes companionable, sometimes awkward. Harry doesn’t know why.
But the awkwardness fades into companionship as the alcohol lowers their inhibition. Silence fades as they reminisce over their victories. They laugh at things like death and torture. It has been their world for the last year, and they can’t remember the other things that might also make them laugh. For now, they are content to clash their mugs over the agony of their enemies.
Soon they are stumbling upstairs for sleep. Swords clatter clumsily to the floor. Fumbling to get rid of clothes, they don’t stop to wonder when exhaustion makes way for urgency.
Snape’s mouth tastes like stale whiskey and raw meat.
It is the only thing Harry will remember in the morning.
4.
Harry would be content never to leave their dilapidated room above Rosmerta’s tavern. He traces the scars on Snape’s body and calls them beautiful. Snape watches him, guarded despite the endearments he has, moments ago, whispered into Harry’s skin.
Harry caresses his fingers up the marked sallow skin, watching them disappear in a crop of short hair. "Will you let it grow again?" he smiles.
"I don’t know. It gives me a sophisticated air, don’t you think?" It feels good to giggle without the encouragement of alcohol. Snape does not laugh, but he smirks.
"I don’t want to leave," Harry says, drunk on the moment. He leans down and hugs the thin body under him. He doesn’t understand why Snape tenses.
"The rebuilding effort," Snape offers. Harry begs silently for Snape to return the embrace.
"They don’t want me. They hate me," Harry whispers, turning to give the skin a few urgent kisses. "I want to stay where I’m wanted."
The tension mounts, and Harry feels something inexplicably break inside of him. He leans back and Snape sits up. "Don’t confuse sex for love," Snape growls, and he leaves the bed.
Where he felt comfortable he now feels vulnerable, and Harry tugs the tangle of sheet to his lap. "I never said-- I just--" Harry tries to explain, but the thing that broke lodges shards in his throat. "Fuck you," he chokes.
Snape dresses himself, his back to him. "We were drunk. It was only--"
"It was more than that, you coward," Harry yells, his shame forgotten as he stands up. He picks up his trousers and roughly puts them on. "And I never said love. I said I wanted to stay where I was wanted. It seems you’re the only one who’s confused."
He ignores the startled glance as he slips into his shirt and bends to retrieve his sword.
"Potter ..."
"My ruddy name is Harry," he mutters darkly before leaving the room. He tries to ignore the thud of Snape’s footfalls as he follows him, and hates the spark of pathetic hope the sound triggers.
5.
Together, they work. Silence presses over them uncomfortably, but Harry would rather have the awkward silence of two men working together than the silence of one man abandoned, finally, by his most faithful soldier.
To that soldier, Harry throws a glance once in a while and wonders if and when conversation will begin again. Not now, in any case, and he brings down the axe one more time to fell the ruined branches from the Womping Willow.
It releases a mournful whine. In a moment of insanity, Harry wishes the old tree had enough fight in it to shake them to the ground. It shouldn't be so complacent, now, permitting them to perch upon its good branches while they lop off malignant tumors dark magic has left in its wake. It should be fighting.
"I think this is enough," Severus says from the other side, and Harry looks up in time to see the other man slip down from his perch, axe balanced over one shoulder, a bag of twigs hovering after him. In the distance, Harry can see fires burning -- similar groups of people working on the rebuilding effort.
"I shouldn't be confessing this," says Harry as he carefully climbs down from the Willow, "But I'm happy you're talking to me." He gives Severus a smile, knowing it is as silly as he feels.
But to feel silly at all is a blessing in a time when laughter is as rare a commodity as Unicorn blood.
"You're an idiot," Severus sighs.
"I know."
Harry swears there's almost fondness in Severus' eyes, but the moment passes, and the older man is already walking toward the ruined walls that once supported the bulk of Hogwarts. "Where are we going?" Harry asks, jogging to catch up with his companion.
"To eat. And then to argue and fall exhausted in each other's arms," Severus smirks.
Harry knows he is being laughed at, an effort no doubt for Severus to distance himself from the intimacy they have shared. But it hardly matters at all.
Regardless of what they did, they would do it together.
6.
Harry likes to eat with his fingers. He has lost the use and the preference for utensils, instruments that, during a war, were nothing but a fanciful luxury. The war may be over, but the need for such ostentatious nonsense hasn't returned.
He keeps secret the fact that the child in him likes to eat with messy, oily fingers. Severus does the same, but he has the sense to look annoyed by it. "I'm famished," Harry says around a mouthful of chicken.
"Stop talking, then, and eat," Severus says, dropping his empty tin plate to the ground. The sound echoes around them, in what has once served as the Great Hall. Now, only the pillars remain, and the tattered vestiges of House banners swaying in the open air.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the conjured sweets that once swelled over rows of tables, and the chatter of excited, young students.
"We shouldn't linger," Severus says warningly. Harry looks at him in time to see the pointed look at his plate. He's only taken a few bites, despite his childish enthusiasm at eating the meal with his hands.
"I'd prefer a drink."
"Alcohol will not cure our need for sustenance. At least not forever," Severus scolds.
"But I wouldn't care," Harry argues, and he yearns for that, the sweet oblivion that comes with heavy liquor. The harsh sound of metal grating over stone makes him look up in time to see Severus stand with his sword. He sheathes it after a cursory look at the blade. "Bring it," he nods at Harry.
"What?"
"The food; bring it. We are not staying."
"But Remus and--"
"To bloody hell with the rebuilding effort! Come with me; it's not safe here." For the first time Harry notes the wild look reflected in the other man's eyes, and there's something frightening about it, and the way it makes the small hairs on the back of Harry's head stand on end.
"You're worrying me," Harry frowns.
"Good. Follow me."
Harry's heart is pounding and he hates the way his chest hurts as he stands up. A cold chill crawls down his spine as though something horrible has materialized behind him. "I don't understand--" he stammers, but he does, too clearly, and the screaming nearly drowns Severus' frantic order to draw back.
Harry clutches his head.
Rogue dementors.
Hungry rogue dementors.
Everywhere.
Snape
1.
The boy looks in pain. It gives Severus a small pang of pleasure he quickly pushes aside. It won’t do to gloat over this small victory; the boy is not right about everything, and that uncertainty will almost certainly be his downfall.
He crouches down to enfold the boy in his arms, draw him to his feet and pull him from danger. The headache wracks the small body in his arms as they retreat to safety, the wail of dementors close on their heels. The sorrow they project is nearly debilitating, but Snape has known little happiness in his life, and it protects him now, where it counts.
“I can’t—" cries Harry, stumbling clumsily in his wake despite Snape’s effort to keep the boy moving. “I can’t—" he repeats, emitting a rare and poignant weep. Harry has never cried, not in front of Snape in any case, and the former Potions master tries to reign in the emotion this draws from him.
“Nonsense, Potter. Simply keep moving, and the feeling will pass.”
But the boy crumbles at his feet, drawing Snape almost to topple over him in the process. He lowers himself to a knee to brace himself against the sudden weight pulling him down and he glowers at the pitiful lump on the ground. He takes a moment to scrutinize the horizon; the dementors seem to have abandoned their chase in favor no doubt of easier prey. Snape breathes. “Potter—"
“I want to die,” the youth cries, his face buried against the ground. “Let me die,” he whispers. “I hate this, I don’t want to go on. I hate this, I hate it I hate it Ihateit—"
Snape pulls him roughly up, so that he can cup the face with his shaking hands. The words Potter repeats now is triggering an odd anger in his soul, an ancient fear that coils in his throat. He will not see the light die from those eyes again. “Listen to me,” he hisses, shaking the boy roughly. “Stop your nonsense. The war is over, and you have been victorious. That is ALL that counts,” he says.
The pain and sorrow on Potter’s face is unmistakable and speaks of the torment that wracks the small body. “All my friends—"
“—died for a worthy cause, and knew exactly from the moment they joined you what the risks were. Potter, I will not have our efforts be in vain because of your guilt, unfounded as it is.” The boy opens his eyes, glossy with tears and red with pain. Snape’s fingers twitch at the wetness staining his fingers. He yearns to taste it, taste Potter’s unhappiness and compare it to his own that has so often snaked into his own mouth.
And why not.
Here now, in this desolate place.
Snape crushes his mouth to the young man, drawing into him that very pain, a small part of him yearning to keep it for himself so that Potter never need feel it again.
The silence that follows as they part is oppressive, but not uncomfortable. There is only the loud sound of their ragged breathing, and the heady scent of arousal and new life.
“All right?” asks Snape huskily.
Harry looks at him strangely.
“What?”
“That’s the first time you’ve ever asked.”
Snape glowers and draws back to spit out another insult, but Harry grabs his face and draws him in once more. The kiss is everlasting, stretching to encompass the landscape until Snape is certain he can see a brighter horizon. He closes his eyes and drinks of the young man, taking in his strength, his power, the very essence of the Chosen One.
And who but Snape, the very man whom the boy mistrusted and judged wrongly, would? He allows for a rare smile against Harry’s mouth, his eyes still closed and his hand buried in the thick warm crop of the boy’s hair. He inhales deeply and slowly. The horizon brightens again. There is sun now, beaming through the scorched clouds. He opens his eyes, and the pair staring back at him pierces at him from a distant past.
He smiles again. He thinks he can get used to the gesture.
END
no subject
It's also a pleasure to read this compelling piece of writing. To me, it's an old-school style Snarry - angsty, gritty, no holds barred, but with a glimmer of hope for both Snape and Harry.
Thanks for sharing this.
no subject
no subject
I'd like to add this story to the
no subject
no subject
no subject
I'm glad you're back! And thank you for friending me!
no subject
no subject
And you bring gifts. Thanks for friending me.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject