Archive of Our Own

“That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like a blind man.”

- Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

The warm afternoon sun streamed in through the windows of Severus’s cottage, bathing his latest work in an orange hue. It melded with the soft cerulean he had used for the sky, the murky greens and blues of the lake, the umber of the tree bark. In the centre, still unfinished, stood a man. He faced the viewer, turning his back on the paradise awaiting him. His hair was a tousled black, his gait frozen in a hasty step forward, as though he were forcing himself to leave. Severus chose to adorn him in muggle clothes from times long past. The impression of a cravat at his throat, a waistcoat binding his middle, a cane in his grip. The only thing missing was his face.

Severus had tried many times over the past week to get the details of his face right, but it never looked quite right. It often looked soulless, and he tried not to take it to heart. It was not a personal failing, no, nor a lack of skill. A lack of inspiration, perhaps? His mind was blank.

When he first started painting, ten years ago, it was a simple exercise to retrain his precision in the right half of his body. Nagini’s venom had left him with persistent muscle weakness down his neck and arm, and a strict course of rehabilitation was prescribed. It started with simple movements - picking things up, placing things down, writing his name, casting simple spells. Over time he got better, then the St Mungo’s physiotherapist recommended painting. 

Even as a child, Severus didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. His creativity came to him in the form of invention - potions, jinxes, charms, hexes. He could understand the logic of trying painting to fine tune his motor skills, but he didn’t want to feel like a child. Instead, he was made to paint still life. He tried to copy the scenery from outside his hospital window, or the vase on the bedside across the room. It looked terrible at first, but then the most peculiar thing started to happen - it started to help his dexterity, and the paintings started to look somewhat okay.

Once he was discharged from the hospital, he continued to paint. Severus found that he was starting to enjoy it. It kept thoughts of the war at bay - no matter how much the Potter boy tried to bring him into the limelight. Trial after trial after interview after public appearance. It wore down on him very quickly, and he had always liked to distract his mind at the end of a tiring day.

Over the next couple of years, he collected every book he could on oil painting - techniques, history, artbooks from muggles and wizards alike. Now that he was no longer employed by Hogwarts, he made his money supplying potions shops and consulting the Aurors on cases involving poisons. Every red cent he made went to buying a small cottage in Appleby, North Lincolnshire. It was far from Cokeworth and situated on the bank of a river. There, Severus finally started to find peace.

But not before long, Severus found his peace slipping away. He found he often knew what he wanted to paint, but he didn’t have the skills to create it. There was a gap between the mind and the body.

And so he went to work. Ten years in his craft. Ten years of ruined clothes, turpentine burning his nostrils, paintings turning out and not turning out. Ten years of money and time and dedication, and what did he have to show for it? A handful of paintings he could be proud of, and hundreds he’d slashed by hand or by magic. 

A knock at the door startled him from his reverie, followed by the ‘thud’ of mail landing through the letter box in the front door. Outside, two owls screeched at each other loudly, fighting over the remains of a rat on the road. One relented and flew away.

Severus put down his palette and wiped his paint stained hands on his jeans. It did not matter, they were stained beyond repair. It was good to have clothes set aside for that purpose. He made his way to the front door, the floorboards cold underfoot. A peach toned thumbprint appeared where he picked up the letters and the Daily Prophet. The only reason he subscribed to it was so he had a newspaper to protect his floorboards when painting. Still, he found himself looking through from time to time.

On the front page was a man Severus hadn’t seen for quite some time. Although Harry Potter tried to stay out of the public eye after the war, he had been very bad at doing so. For the first five years he ran - that is when he wasn’t trying to clear Severus’ name, much to his chagrin. However, it seemed as though he had finally succumbed to the public’s persistence. In the centre of the spread, Potter smiled out at a crowd as his hands gripped the sides of the lectern. His knuckles looked white, but his expression was soft. 

The headline read:

‘ Potter Pronounces Peace! Ten Years On from the End of the War! ’

A quick skim revealed that Potter had announced a Ministry Gala to commemorate the fallen from the Second Wizarding War and to celebrate ten years of peace. Severus’ eyes flitted to the letters in his other hand and his stomach dropped. He flipped one around and spotted the Ministry seal binding the envelope shut.

He rolled the Daily Prophet up and shoved it into his back pocket before he opened the Ministry letter. It read:

‘Dear Severus Snape,

You are cordially invited to attend the Ministry of Magic’s Gala for Peace. This event pays tribute to all the brave witches and wizards who fought and gave their lives ten years ago during the Second War. The event is formal, and any donations raised will be given to the families still suffering from this terrible tragedy.

Warmest Regards,

Kingsley Shacklebolt

Minister For Magic.’

Severus’ hand quivered as he scrunched the invitation in his fist. Realising what he had done, he quickly smoothed it back out. 

The last thing he wanted to do was dress up and talk to people he hasn’t seen in ten years. People he didn’t particularly care to ever see again. People who still thought he was a traitor and a Death Eater, despite Potter’s insistent denial. And yet-

He looked at the second letter, from the Headmistress of Hogwarts. Joy. Severus tore it open and found a much more informal letter from Minerva ordering him to attend. 

Well, that was that.

He set both letters down on his kitchen table as he walked back through to his studio. The Daily Prophet threatened to fall from his pocket, so he took it out.

Another glance at the cover revealed something he missed last time. The bright, speckled green of Potter’s eyes standing out against the formal black he wore. He blinked once as he addressed the crowd, it appeared he had mastered the art of ‘smiling with the eyes’.

Severus looked over to his unfinished painting, then back down to that green colour he had seen so much of throughout his life. He set the Prophet down by the base of his easel, then picked up his palette and a palette knife. He took a bit of dark green, yellow ochre, orange, some more green, and mixed. The eyes, of course, now it seemed obvious. The eyes should be green.

These days, Severus always had something to do with his hands. Brewing, chopping, mixing, turning pages, painting. With an absence of a stimulus, he picked at the paint caught underneath his right thumbnail. He tried to be inconspicuous; no one would be paying attention to him during these grand affairs.

“Severus!” A familiar voice called out. He looked up and hid his hands behind his back as Minerva approached him. She weaved through the massive crowd of people.

The witch was dressed in deep emerald dress robes with gold trimmings along every hem. The colour suited the rosy hue of her cheeks, a pigment that was always missing ten years ago. 

“Min-” He couldn’t finish her name before she enveloped him in a tight hug. Although she looked old and almost frail, she was still surprisingly spry. 

She pulled back, her wrinkled hands resting on the sides of his arms. She surveyed his face, Severus felt equally cared for and pinned under her gaze. “It’s been a long time, friend. Where are you holed up these days?” She asked.

“Appleby,” Severus replied. He gently removed her hands with his own, noting a collection of oversized ruby and emerald rings decorating her fingers.

“And you’re doing alright? You know we’d always take you back if you need the money,” Minerva said.

Severus tried not to focus on the unintentional sting of her words. “Yes, I’m fine. My teaching days are long behind me, you know it was never my strong suit,” he explained as Minerva moved to his side. He looked out across the crowd.

At the top of the hall, an orchestra played on the stage. People danced slowly to the waltz, robes fanning out in delicate circles as the mass pulsated with the rhythm. And there - through the crowd - Severus spotted him. Harry, leading a woman in a clumsy waltz. In the split second Severus saw him, his face was equal parts confident and relaxed. He vanished once more.

“How is your post at Hogwarts? Is the role of Headmaster as glamorous as I remember?” Severus asked, distracting himself. For all the bad things that came along with his job at Hogwarts, Minerva’s company was not one of them. It truly was nice to see her, but he had never been good at small talk. That was the best he could muster up.

“It’s Headmistress, do well to remember that,” Minerva replied shrewdly, “and it’s okay. It would be better if our current Potions Master were half as adept as you.”

Severus chuckled, “Like I said, those days are long behind me.”

After a few more songs passed, their conversation started to grow thin. Minerva bid him good evening and promised to see him once more in the coming months. 

Severus turned his back on the crowd, set on finding himself a flute of champagne. As he turned, he came face to face with Mrs Granger-Weasley. She looked older, with premature grey hair already beginning to curl at her temples. She blinked owlishly, obviously not expecting to see him tonight.

“Professor!” She exclaimed.

Severus tried to force a smile, it felt more like a grimace than anything. “Please, I haven’t been ‘Professor’ in over a decade.”

She cleared her throat and stepped back. “Of course, force of habit. Have you seen Harry?”

It was Severus’ turn to blink. What did Harry want with him? “No, should I have?”

A faint, embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. “No! No, he just said he was looking for you. Never mind.” Granger-Weasley had become almost as public as Potter these days, on account of her working as a spokesperson underneath Kingsley himself. He had read many of her speeches, seen her confident face in the Prophet many times, but she seemed so insecure in front of him. No, not insecure, flustered. 

“Why was he looking for me?” Severus pressed.

Granger-Weasley looked past Severus, likely spotting someone else she could talk to. “Sorry, I need to leave. Forget I said anything.” 

As quickly as she appeared, she vanished. Severus barely had a chance to catch his breath before a new person bumped into him. One he was not yet prepared to face.

“Severus!” Harry Potter in the flesh was shorter than the Prophet framed him. He had filled out, shoulders broadened, but his hair was still a wild mess. He wore it longer these days, curling past his ears, but it didn’t manage to obscure the lightning that spanned across his forehead.

“Mr. Potter,” Severus greeted. A faint flush bloomed across Harry’s cheeks, telling him that he’d had his fair share of complimentary champagne.

“I didn’t think you’d be here, I’m glad my invite got to you,” Harry said.

“Your invite?”

“Yes.” Harry drew his brows together in confusion. “No one thought you’d show up, Kingsley wasn’t going to bother inviting you, but you’re the star! We wouldn’t be here without you.”

Severus scoffed, “And neither you. This whole thing may as well be in your honour.”

“You always did have a gift for flattery,” Harry said sarcastically, though he didn’t seem offended by the remark. “I haven’t seen you around at the Ministry lately, what’s been keeping you?”

Nothing had been ‘keeping him’, he merely preferred to work from home when he was able to. Not every consultation required his physical presence. Besides, he could certainly do without the chitchat Harry tried to set upon him every time he was there. He sometimes wondered if someone had stuck a note to his back saying ‘Harry! Please come and talk to me!’. There was no other earthly reason the younger man should feel compelled to talk to him every time he visited. A sense of duty, perhaps he felt responsible for what transpired following the war? That couldn’t be it, it wasn’t possible that someone that self-sacrificing existed.

“There’s music,” Harry pointed out, pulling Severus from his dead-end thoughts. 

“Yes, I have ears.” Did he think he was so old he had gone deaf?

“It’s a pity to waste a good song by standing still,” Harry pressed again.

“Really?” If he pushed enough annoyance into his voice, maybe he would finally leave him alone and find better things to do with his night than talk to him.

Harry stepped out and stood in front of him, looking him directly in the eyes. “Have this dance with me.”

Severus blinked.

“Have you lost your mind?” He scowled. The thought of him - with Harry - out there, in front of all those people was almost enough to send him to an early grave.

“No. You look lonely, standing here. Let me fix that.” When that didn’t work, Harry spoke again, “Come on, it’ll be good for the press,.” He reached down to grab Severus’ hand. Oh . Of course he had an angle. There was always an ulterior motive. He knew it was too good to be true, it would seem that no one was above social climbing. Not even Harry Potter.

Harry led them to the centre of the room as the music began to swell. It was a simple waltz, not hard for anyone to follow. Anyone except the golden boy after two flutes of champagne too many. 

“Are you leading or am I?” Severus asked gruffly, leaning down so Harry could hear him over the din.

Harry ignored his question and looked down to avoid stepping on Severus’ feet for the third time. Luckily for Severus, his shoes were already worn. The warmth of Harry’s hand on his shoulder burned through his flesh right to the bone; His own grip on Harry’s waist tightened as he tried to avoid a collision with a nearby couple. 

Once he had righted their path, Severus took in Harry’s dress robes. The deep, navy blue of the fabric contrasted with his tanned skin rather nicely, and the black accents matched his curling hair. 

It was reminiscent of the night sky, minus the stars; Even Harry was not decadent enough to have diamonds hand-stitched into his robes. In his mind, Severus pictured it - velvety navy fabric adorned with white specks, catching the light and glinting back at the viewer. The vision warped, twisted into something new - an indigo sky rendered with oil paint, sparse stars a dim grey to show their distance, and a moon. A huge moon, the centrepiece. Each crater carved in detail, every imperfection immortalised. But this moon was not the blinding white or shining silver the viewer would expect. No, it was a dusk moon, cast in hues of ochre, umber, and gold, matching that unique blend of Harry’s skin.

“You still have your scar,” Harry said tentatively.

Severus faltered, remembering that he was not in the comfort of his studio but in fact in the centre of the Ministry’s ballroom. He surveyed Harry’s face, and found that he was gazing straight at the neckline of his robes. It’s a pity these dress robes did not offer a collar high enough to completely cover the ugly mess of scar tissue on his neck.

Severus held his head high and looked out across the room. “You’re looking at it, aren’t you?”

At first, no reply came, but then he felt it. The tip of a thumb tracing over that wretched scar, or what was peaking out over the top of his collar. As Harry’s fingers grazed his skin, goosebumps rose in their wake. In an instant, the music Severus heard was replaced with a high-pitched ringing. All the air left his chest, like stepping into a vacuum. Those fingertips burned hot into his skin, and for a tense, agonising moment, it was all Severus could feel. How long had it been since another person had touched his neck?

Before he lost himself entirely, he swatted Harry’s hand away. 

“Do you mind?” Severus seethed.

To his dismay, Harry gave him a wry smile. He was expecting something a little more fearful.

“It’s not so bad,” Harry started solemnly, “be glad it’s not across your face.”

Against his better judgement, Severus looked up from Harry’s eyes to his scar. The root of the lightning bolt started in his hairline, and it spanned out across his forehead. Each branch of lightning twisted its way in different directions, one bisected his eyebrow and another reached his temple. It had faded from his youth, no longer raised as though it were fresh. Instead, it was dull and white.

Severus had another vision of his studio. His largest canvas on an easel in the centre. That indigo sky and umber moon, familiar figures by now, but the moon emerged above grey storm clouds. Brilliant, white lightning streaked across the sky, almost being birthed from the moon itself. 

“Severus, are you okay?” Harry’s hesitant voice knocked him from his reverie. It was strange to hear him use his first name, not many bothered to even learn it these days.

More than ever before, he craved to be back home, surrounded by his paints.

“I’m fine,” Severus said gruffly, looking away from Harry’s face altogether.

The song finally ended. Harry thanked him for the dance, before catching someone else’s eye and disappearing into the crowd. It didn’t bother Severus, he was desperate to get away. 

He did not expect to stay at the Gala so late. He had bumped into more people he never thought or cared to see again - mostly old Hogwarts colleges and students alike - and could not get away from any of them. Had he lost his touch? People used to avoid him like the plague when he was a Professor, what changed? Severus didn’t care to dwell on it, he was mentally drained. He craved nothing more than to retire home and collapse on his bed.

“Severus!” He thought he had heard that voice for the last time that night, but alas.

Somehow, in the past two hours since they had last seen each other, Harry had managed to find more champagne. A healthy pink blush coloured his cheeks, and his smile reached his eyes. 

“Why are you still here?” Harry asked once he reached him. He swayed on his feet a bit.

“I could ask you the same,” Severus replied.

Harry waved a hand around dismissively. “Ah, you know, I- what was I going to say?”

“I don’t find you that charming, Potter. Where have your friends gotten off to? Do you have someone to escort you home?” Severus asked. 

Although he’d rather not know, it would be best if he could pawn him off to his elusive partner. Someone Harry presumably lived with, but the media had been all quiet on that front for years.  He only assumed the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ would be able to find a life partner with ease. He hoped that person would magically appear and take him off his hands, before Harry asked the inevitable.

“I don’t know, I guess they left a while ago,” Harry said after great thought. He looked up at him, green eyes catching the golden light from overhead. “If you think I need to be escorted home, will you do it? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a personal chaperone.”

“I’m not your slave, Potter,” Severus said quickly.

“And I never said you were. I’d owe you,” Harry answered.

Quietly, he suppressed a scoff. He knew he’d never return the favour - not that he particularly wanted him too. But then he looked at Harry once more, and at the hand gently grasping his wrist. Just when had that gotten there? He would surely splinch himself if he attempted to apparate alone.

“Fine,” Severus muttered, “but we’re leaving now. I don’t care if you have unfinished business, that’s not my problem.” He roughly grabbed Harry’s arm - the one holding his wrist - and began leading him from the Ministry’s ballroom. 

“No, of course not,” Harry seemed to be muttering to himself from behind him. Severus pointedly ignored the strange looks they got, he just wanted to go home. 

Minutes later, once they left the Ministry, Harry gave him his address and they apparated away.

They appeared at the end of a lane in southern England. A faint alarm rang through Severus’ mind as he realised he didn’t live too far from here. This village was within a twenty minute bus trip from his own.

“I thought you lived in London, at your Godfather’s old place,” Severus said as he led them to the front door of Harry’s flat.

Harry scoffed and stumbled over a loose paver in the darkness. Clumsily, he thrust his arms out, searching for purchase in the midair, only to find Severus’ upper arm instead. 

“No, I couldn’t stand going back there. I sold it as soon as I could,” he explained. Severus didn’t blame him. Even in its heyday, it was a dump. Now, it held nothing but ghosts. 

Harry fumbled for his keys, searching each of his pockets in his elaborate dress robes. Instead of wasting more of his own precious time, Severus fished out his wand and wordlessly cast an unlocking charm. The dim, yellow light from the street lamps caught in Harry’s eyes as he looked up to thank him.

The door swung open and Harry all but tripped inside. “Merlin, I vow to never get this drunk again,” Harry muttered. Somehow, Severus doubted that. He turned those expressive, green eyes on him once more and asked, “Would you, er-, d’you think you could help me out?”

Severus uselessly clenched and relaxed his hands at his side. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him like that, like they needed him. Distantly, Severus knew it was because he was the only familiar face in a forty kilometre radius. But what exactly did he mean by that?

“You mean-” He started.

“It’s just- this thing has so many buttons, and I can’t quite get my fingers to work,” Harry said, fiddling with the multitude of buttons lining his arms and chest. He looked up from the buttons to Severus once more. “At least come in out of the cold, even for a moment.”

There was a beat. A period where Severus was trying to will himself to say no, to turn around and leave. Surely Harry realised what it sounded like he was asking, but it was nigh on impossible that he actually meant it: He was positively smashed. And Severus was, well, himself . A man twenty years his senior who he only saw a few times a month. Harry used to curse the ground he walked on, like most of his past students - he wasn’t oblivious. What changed? 

No. It was simply all in his head. Just his imagination. There was nothing wrong with this, no connotation or undertone. Severus was just pent up, and Harry Potter was the last person he’d consider taking to bed. 

Even still, his hands shook.

“Okay.”

Harry smiled, then led them inside. He busied himself, switching on a few lights and mumbling to himself as he went. Severus warily looked around, noting a distinct lack of photographs and decorations.

“Have you recently moved here?” Severus asked. He trailed a finger along the wooden hutch in the corridor, upon inspection it was free of dust.

“Yeah, don’t know how long I’ll stay here, though,” Harry’s voice sounded from deeper within his home, Severus quickened his step to catch back up. Merlin, he moved quickly.

“Do you move often?” Severus asked. He followed the trail of lights - past the kitchen, the living room, to a small corridor out the back of the house. 

Harry answered a quick affirmative, then Severus heard a struggle round the corner. Severus entered his bedroom and was met with the sight of Harry struggling with the tight buttons at his wrists. 

“Bloody things, I can’t even get these when I’m sober,” Harry muttered. Several times over, his fingers slipped over the tightest button, right at the base of his hand. It was incredibly painful to watch.

To save himself from the pitiful display before him, Severus reached up and removed Harry’s hand. “Is that not why you asked for my help?”

Truly, he couldn’t believe he had stooped to this level.

Harry offered Severus his hand, and he began working at the buttons. He felt Harry’s eyes on his face, his hands, and he tried to steel himself. He was acutely aware of their proximity, and the heat radiating from Harry.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act so kind before,” Harry mused. 

“Watch your tongue.” Each button revealed more of his bronze skin, his strong forearms. 

Harry chuckled, “Sorry, does that make you uncomfortable? The knowledge that you’re doing a nice thing?”

“It’s not uncomfortable, it’s distracting.” Frankly, Severus would prefer if Harry kept his mouth shut for the rest of this night’s duration. He finished one arm and worked on the other.

In the morning, he would add this to his long list of bad decisions.

“You smell amazing,” Harry said softly.

The polite thing to do would be to ignore that he’d said that. He never was good at being polite.

“Excuse me?” Severus asked. He looked down at Harry, and where his face was almost buried in the junction of his neck.

“It smells herbal, is it tea? Or is it something you were brewing earlier today?” Harry asked. He inhaled again. “Smells like the forest.”

It was his soap. A pine and sandalwood blend he had grown to love in the past couple of years.

“Can you do the rest yourself?” Severus asked, eyeing the remaining buttons lining Harry’s chest. He wanted to leave. “You’re not a child.”

Slowly, Harry looked down at his dress robes, then back up to Severus.

Severus fought the urge to grind his teeth. “...Fine.”

He made quick work of Harry’s dress robes, then helped him shrug the robes off his shoulders. He wore a white undershirt and light slacks. That was far enough, he needed to leave now. He looked back up at Harry, planning to make his leave. Before he could say anything, Harry kissed him. 

It was a quick motion, over before it began. Harry’s soft, parted lips pressed against his own, and Severus momentarily froze. His senses were overwhelmed with the feeling of Harry against his lips, the smell of his hair. Harry’s hands squeezed his forearms as he stood closer to him, which was enough to bring Severus back to reality. He broke away, gently shoving Harry off him and taking a step back. He squared his shoulders, standing up straighter. 

“This isn’t right,” Severus said sternly. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed that to happen.

“Severus, I’m- I’m sorry,” Harry said, eyes flitting over his face and looking lost for words. He wished he wouldn’t say his name like that, with such sincerity. It only confused him more. Underneath his shirt, Severus watched Harry’s chest rise and fall with every breath - the movement was more pronounced than it had been a minute ago. “I just thought-”

“What? You thought what? That I’d take advantage of a drunk man? You think that poorly of me?” Severus asked, feeling himself get mad. “You’d ask that of me?”

“No, I never meant- I’m sorry to do that to you,” Harry said. He laughed gravely, a hollow sound. “And here I thought the champagne would make this easier.” Harry sighed. “Look, maybe I didn’t pick the best way to go about this, but you must know that I want you, Severus, if I haven’t made it obvious enough by now.”

No, that was impossible. Moreso, it was unimaginable, and made no sense. Him. Severus. Why? Then it dawned on him.

“No, you don’t, you’re just looking for a warm body,” Severus said bristly. He wouldn’t have Harry make a fool out of him.

“No, that’s not-” Harry tried.

“I don’t care. Goodnight, Potter,” Severus cut him off. He stormed from Harry’s bedroom and left his house swiftly. He ignored Harry’s pleas for him to return. Once outside, Severus apparated away.

It was past two in the morning and the fumes of paint thinner wafted throughout Severus’ studio. Working by candlelight while oil painting was not one of Severus’ smartest habits, but he much preferred it to the harsh white of the overhead lights. If it were up to him, he would work in the moonlight, and let the silver of its shine influence his colour choices. In the past - when he was up this late - he would open the curtains and expose the moon’s glow. He would reposition his easel to the window and let the canvas bathe in the argent light.

But tonight, he wanted no distractions. Only the warmth of the glow from the flame.

He pictured the idea from earlier in the night. That stormy, midnight blue canvas, adorned with brilliant lightning. Now that it was spread out on his canvas, Severus could see that it was missing something.

He had long since discarded his dress robes from earlier in the evening. Instead, he donned painting-friendly jeans - ones with stains already set in - and a loose shirt. He felt the hunch in his back worsening as he leaned over to closely inspect the details. 

The lightning, it almost-

If Severus focused, it looked exactly like the lightning streaking across Harry’s forehead. His eyes had gone bleary, thank Merlin he couldn’t see clearly. Otherwise, he’d have to think about why the blessed Chosen One was starting to appear in his paintings.

An unearthly loud shriek woke Severus far too early in the morning. The Gala had thrown his sleep schedule into chaos and he had spent the past week trying to right it once more. The owl shrieked once more, and Severus reluctantly swung his legs over the side of his bed. He stretched, ignoring the worrying crick in his neck, and dug his toes into the plushness of the rug. He let his head hang forward, trying once more to stretch out his neck, and spotted flaky blue paint under his nails. 

An uneasy feeling churned in his stomach. He was slipping. Though he tried not to waste too much time on his appearance, his nails were the exception. He always tried to keep them short and clean, an old habit formed from too many experimental brewing sessions. There was no telling what even a small amount of contamination may do to the most precarious of potions. 

As Severus made his way to the front door to collect his post, he pondered the paint some more. It was hardly his fault he’d been up half the night painting again. When inspiration struck, he seized it. He found painting so relaxing, so enjoyable, but he was often stuck on what to paint. It wasn’t easy to train his mind to be creative after so many years of being purely analytical. The only problem now was that he was never happy with the finished product.

It was no surprise why he worked with oil paint instead of acrylic, he kept altering and rearranging minute details in his works until he was finally happy. Did he like this side of himself? The pedantic, nit-picking perfectionist? Not particularly. 

But he didn’t know how else to be.

Amongst his daily mail, one letter stood out. A hand written envelope with free-flowing handwriting that bordered between elegant and illegible. Severus sat the rest of his mail down and opened the letter first. 

“Dear Severus,

Please accept my humblest apologies for how I behaved the other night. I have only brought myself embarrassment, and hope that I have not embarrassed you in the process. Please let me make it up to you, do me the honour of joining me for lunch today at my flat.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter”

He couldn’t be serious. 

Everything within Severus was telling him not to go. To put that night behind him, forget it ever happened. Even a week later, Severus couldn’t believe he’d been foolish enough to put himself in that position. To let himself be tempted by Harry. To turn down a man incredibly out of his league, whilst knowing Harry didn’t know what he was truly asking.

Even so, he found himself dressing for an outing. What was he doing? Truly, he did not want to leave his house today. There was a deep itch in his system to create, to paint, though he knew everything he was making was fruitless. 

An hour later, he was knocking on Harry’s door. The house looked much smaller in the light of day. Much like the town he resided in, Harry’s suburb was a blend between Muggles and Wizard-kind. He wished he knew that before deciding to wear robes.

Harry opened the door and a flicker of sheepishness passed through his eyes. 

“Before you say anything, let me apologise,” Harry said without delay.

“You-”

“It was wrong, how I acted, and what I did to you-” Harry cut him off.

“There’s no need to self-flagellate for my sake,” Severus spoke above him, and Harry finally stopped talking. Let’s just get this over with . No need to drag it out.

With a stilted nod, Harry averted his eyes from his face. He then shut the door behind and he stepped into the sun. The golden light somehow made his skin appear more radiant.

“What are you doing?” Severus asked. 

“I thought it would be nicer for us to go out,” Harry said.

“Marvellous, I didn’t want to eat any of your cooking anyways.”

The shorter man shot him a stony look. “You know, I cooked a lot when I was a child. I’m not half bad.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Harry chuckled. “Next time, I’ll cook for us instead.”

Next time? Severus pushed the thought from his mind and remained silent. 

Harry grabbed his arm gently, pulling him to his side before he apparated them away. They reappeared on a cobblestone-laden street, lined with cultivated bushes and street lamps. A handful of owls flew overhead and a joyful tune waltzed through the air from a charmed street piano. The scent of baked goods wafted from the nearest building - a bakery. 

Severus hadn’t been to Blackburn Alley since he was a child. He visited once on a rare outing with his mother, just the two of them. They had stopped in at the owl emporium so she could send a letter to her remaining family in Russia. The Princes were a proud people - Severus had been told - and did not lower themselves to Muggle standards. They used no Muggle technology - no electricity, no post, no telephones. After they sent the letter, they stopped in at a bakery, just like this one. Maybe this exact one.

“I’m not sure what you’d like to eat, but this place makes a mean coffee and Cornish pasty,” Harry said from Severus’ side as he looked up at him.

Severus cleared his throat. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, like always. Should he clasp them behind his back, cross his arms, gesture towards the bakery as he spoke? “This’ll do just fine. After you.”

Severus kept his arms at his sides as Harry opened the door for them. Inside, the decor was quaint but not old-fashioned. Light-coloured curtains lining the windows, plants along the countertops and adorning the centres of tables, waxed wooden floorboards, pale yellow walls that warmed in the sun. There were not many people inside, only an older gentleman sitting near the counter drinking tea and two young girls huddled together over an array of tiny pastries. 

Wasting no time, thankfully, Harry made his way to the counter and ordered a coffee for each of them, as well as two Cornish pasties. They sat by the window, at a table bathed in sunlight. Harry clasped his hands and leaned forward. 

“Sorry for presuming your order, but I have a feeling you’ll love these,” Harry said.

“That’s okay, Potter, but I don’t remember telling you that I prefer coffee,” Severus said skeptically.

Harry blinked, lost for words for a moment. There’s a first, Severus thought. He pressed his lips together, looking around almost nervously, before looking at Severus once more. “I remembered that you drank it.”

“You remembered?” He couldn’t possibly mean from Hogwarts. There was no way he would be able to tell what he was drinking each morning from the Gryffindor table. Even if it wasn’t impossible, he was too wrapped up in himself back then. “When did I ever tell you that?”

“You didn’t have to,” Harry started, Severus was getting more confused with every word, “it was all you drank when you were recovering.”

When he was-

Severus’ stomach tightened painfully. He had blocked it out. That humiliating ordeal, ten years ago, of Harry insisting on waiting by his bedside while he recovered. Helping Poppy change the bandages on his neck, talking to him to keep him from going out of his mind with boredom. 

In those few months, Harry had shown him more kindness than anyone had his whole life, though he didn't have to . 

And just now, he demonstrated that kindness again. After ten years, he somehow still remembered what he liked to drink.

A barista set two hot coffees down on the table in front of them. “Enjoy.”

Severus stared down into the dark liquid. “...Thank you.”

Harry took a sip of his own drink and smiled. “What’s that?” He asked. 

Severus ignored the feeling that he was walking straight into a bear trap just by being here. “What’s what?”

“That right there on your nail,” Harry said, setting his drink down as he grabbed Severus’ hand with his own. He reached out with his other hand and inspected his thumb, or more specifically, the blue paint there. 

He jerked his hand back, snatching it from Harry’s grip. “It’s nothing.”

“Do you paint?” Harry asked, not taken aback by Severus’ abrasiveness. 

“I dabble.” If Severus was half honest, he was thinking of nothing else but being back in his studio. He wanted to paint something that combined the warm tones of Harry’s skin with the brilliant green of his eyes. An apple orchard, perhaps, with each apple the same dusky red as his lips. But that wasn’t the full truth - he was also thinking of how the warmth of Harry’s touch had bloomed across his skin. He silently wished for its return.

This is what a single touch of the hand did to him. Sent his thoughts flurrying like he was stark mad. 

It had no weight, no importance, he told himself over and over. He was just pent up. Logically, that was bound to happen. If he latched onto the first person that showed him an ounce of attention, that was hardly his fault. But he needed to shut that line of thinking down, for Harry’s sake and his own. He would not be the instigator of his own mixed signals. 

“Really? I never would have imagined,” Harry mused. “What sort of things do you paint?”

“Landscapes mostly. Portraits don’t agree with me.” Or certainly there’s been no one worth painting a portrait for. 

“Y’know,” Harry sipped his drink again, “I’ve always wanted to learn. Do you think you could teach me?”

Severus scoffed. “Don’t you remember how much you loathed my teaching? I have not changed, you know.”

“I beg to differ, you were quite gentle when we were dancing last week,” Harry said.

The nerve of this man - “If I were any harsher, you would have sent us both crashing to the ground.”

Before they could devolve into an argument, the barista brought over two pasties. They looked large, larger than Severus had expected, and flaky. Harry thanked the barista before starting his food. 

Severus took a hesitant bite of his own, and realised he had tasted this before. Over forty years ago, in this same bakery. He looked up at Harry. 

“Good, right?” Harry asked. 

Against his better judgement, Severus gave him the smallest of smiles.

It was early in the morning and Severus was trying not to set his house on fire. He longed to be burned too, to leave nothing but ash in his wake. He would do it if it meant never being in the public eye again. 

And he would take that blasted newspaper with him.

It stared up at him from where it rested on the kitchen table. In the centre of the front page, that looping image tormented him, replaying that moment from yesterday where Harry reached out to inspect Severus’ hands. Though it was against his better judgment, Severus read the article once more:

‘ Potter Prefers Past Death Eaters?

Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, was spotted yesterday at lunch with a known past Death Eater, Severus Snape. Though Snape, seen pictured above, was exonerated a decade ago, one can’t help but wonder if any dark tendencies still lurk beneath his surface. If this is the case, Potter seems keen enough to ignore it. The last time Potter was seen in public with a romantic partner was with Ginevra Weasley, a young flame that burned out in the aftermath of the war.

The pair were spotted in a bakery in Blackburn Alley sharing food. For more photos of their illicit meeting, turn to Page 4.’

Severus screwed up the paper in his hands. Tabloid nonsense. It always had been. How dare they put his life front and centre, his own personal relations? Were they that desperate for money that they had to fabricate stories to draw an audience? Any fool could see that Harry’s inspection had been platonic, his touch had been trivial. A flicker of curiosity, brushed over and forgotten about within the minute. 

Severus looked down at the paper, crumpled in his grasp. He unfurled it slowly, and gazed at the picture again. He caught the expression on Harry’s face, the way his brow furrowed and his shoulders drew up as he leaned in closer to inspect Severus’ hand. He had cradled it so gently, like an injured bird - ready to startle and do itself more damage. 

And the Prophet had reduced that to…what, exactly? A somehow coveted meeting between two lovers in broad daylight, in a public shop? To make Harry out to be some lovesick fool who didn’t know any better was the biggest offence of all. He was not some doting idiot who had fallen for a Death Eater. He was more intelligent than most realised. More caring, more thoughtful, more shrewd, more righteous. He perfectly encapsulated human goodness.

Harry was bigger in his world than he realised - in anyone’s world. He was the sun.

And Severus could not have the sun.

After a quiet moment, Severus rose from his chair, paper in tow, and made his way into his studio. 

There was his abandoned painting from the other night, the one of the apple orchard. Brilliant green trees, adorned with ripe, red fruits, lining a cracked cobblestone pavement. The pavement was overgrown, tufts of yellowing weeds springing up from between each paver. Wherever the weeds went, the fruit rotted. However, the weeds hadn’t ascended the whole way up the path. There was still a light of hope for the remaining fruits - that they would not be corrupted by the weed’s presence.

He wasn’t sure what he was trying to achieve with that particular piece. Yes, it was beautiful, but every time Severus looked at it, he felt an indescribable sadness. And so it remained on the floor, propped against the wall, destined to remain unfinished.

Severus retrieved a blank canvas, larger than the last, and set to work on his new vision.

It was late in the evening when there was a knock at the door. Severus was pulled from his reverie by the sound. He looked down at his paint-splattered grey shirt and jeans. He was in no state to accept visitors.

When was the last time he had visitors?

Not counting owls with their mail, of course, Severus could not remember the last time he had invited someone into his home. Delivery men, perhaps? Electricians and plumbers. There had certainly been no social calls. 

The sound came echoing through the small house again, and Severus set down his palette and knife on the newspaper protecting the floorboards. Severus stalked through the house, unhappy at the interruption. No, his oil paints would not dry in his absence, but he wanted to chase his line of creative thinking before it abandoned him entirely. He had still not gotten the greens of the eyes quite right.

One last round of knocking occurred just as Severus reached the door. He opened it harshly, cutting off the visitor. Harry’s hand swung through the air, missing the door.

“Severus.”

“Harry.” One part of Severus wondered if they would remain there all night, repeating each other's names. Another part wondered, or fantasised, that Harry had travelled just to see Severus. It was a pleasant thought, however unlikely.

“I’m sorry for the hour,” Harry said. It was late, that was true. The sun had long since set and though the stars were obscured by the overcast sky, the moon still shone through, illuminating the clouds in silver light.

“How did you get my address?” Severus asked, although he thought that was perhaps the least concerning part of Harry’s sudden appearance.

Harry bit at his lip before talking, “That’s, erm- it’s not important right now. Can I come in for a moment?”

Resisting the urge to look down at the state of his clothing, and at how much paint covered his arms, he stepped aside to let Harry in. 

That’s when he saw why Harry had come here. That morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet was clutched in his fist. Severus’s heart thumped painfully in his chest as it felt like all the air was sucked from the room. Was this it? Had Harry come for some confrontation? To curse Severus out for making it appear like they were lovers? Severus was no stranger to the feeling of anxiety, that anticipatory feeling of not knowing where he would be hit first. In the teeth, the stomach, the lungs, the heart. 

Harry surveyed Severus’ face, then followed his gaze to the Prophet in his hand, then looked back up at him. Under that gaze, Severus felt like a moth pinned to a corkboard.

“We need to talk about this.” Harry held the newspaper up. That headline image taunted Severus again. Those versions of Severus and Harry, the past versions, looked almost happy. Calm. Unaware.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Severus really didn’t want to have this conversation. “Who cares what some reporters think?”

Harry stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t care what some reporters think, or the public for that matter. I care what you think.”

Him? When he didn’t reply straight away, Harry stepped back and sighed. “Please, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Though it was an ugly thing to do, Severus often found that he prided himself on his intelligence. It came easily to him, especially after years of teaching subpar students and fraternising with wizards of less-than-average intelligence. However, he was becoming more confused with Harry’s every word.

“Make what harder than it needs to be?” While the feelings in his chest were in a tangled ball, he hoped Harry wasn’t ramping up to a rejection. To shut him down before he even began to figure out what he was feeling. Some would consider it a mercy, but to Severus, it felt like hell.

Harry looked at him, Severus imagined he was deciding whether to let him down easy or to tear his heart apart. Instead, Harry unexpectedly asked him, “Why are you covered in paint?” 

Harry reached out and grabbed Severus’ arm, pulling him towards him.  Severus almost stumbled over at the sudden movement, and he felt his heart thud painfully from the proximity to Harry.

No less than twenty swatches of green paint lined his left forearm. It wasn’t his fault - he just couldn’t get the shade right. At first, they had all appeared too lime for his liking, and when he started mixed yellows back in, the shade went too olive. Different mixes of blues, yellows, store bought greens, whites and browns yielded twenty incorrect results. 

“Were you working on something?” Harry asked. 

Severus realised Harry was still holding his arm, and he pulled back. He saw some of that green paint smeared on Harry’s fingertips, and looked down at the prints left on his arm. 

“I was, it’s not important.”

Harry looked past Severus. “Is your studio back there?” He asked. 

Severus looked over his shoulder at the light streaming from the back of his house.

“Yes, but-”

Harry set off, stepping around Severus and walking towards his studio. Severus’ heart then thudded for an entirely different reason. He wasn’t ready to share his works with anyone, let alone the inspiring factor for most of them. His muse, as some would call it.

Severus hastened his step to catch up to Harry. “You know, it is incredibly rude to wander through people’s houses uninvited.”

Harry looked into the room before stepping inside. He didn’t like this sudden angle of familiarity Harry adopted. Was it his way of coping? This - whatever it was, conversation they were trying to have must have been uncomfortable for him too. To confront the man twenty years your senior who had tarnished your public image and confused your mind in your own home. Severus would regret taking Harry home that night for as long as he lived.

“This is…” Harry muttered as he looked around. Oil paintings of all sizes lined every available wall. It’s true, Severus was running out of room to house them all. Some he was more proud of than others. “These are incredible, I never knew you were such a talent.”

They were hardly incredible. “You never asked.”

“Yes I did,” Harry rebutted, turning to face him. His expression had softened from the worried look that had greeted him at the front door. “I asked you to teach me, don’t you remember?”

Of course he remembered, he only hoped that Harry wasn’t serious. It felt as though he had lived a lifetime between yesterday and now. With nothing to say, Severus stayed silent.

Harry turned to look at the rest of the paintings. He stopped by the one he made a few weeks ago, the thickest parts were still drying. The lightning storm. The blood moon. The thunder, the clouds. That burst of light, in such a familiar shape.

“Is that…” Harry trailed off. He raised a hand to his forehead, feeling the raised scar that lived there. It wasn’t an exact replica, but if Harry recognised it, it must have been close enough. 

Severus cleared his throat. “If you want to leave-”

“How much?” Harry asked, eyes tracing the intricate brushwork. 

“What?”

Harry dragged his eyes away to look at Severus. “Sorry, I’m not sure if you’ve ever considered selling them, but how much would you sell this one for?”

Severus didn’t know what to say. He had never considered selling his paintings before. They were a private thing, very personal to him. Although, he supposed this one was also personal to Harry. Not many people would want to own art created by an ex-Death Eater. 

“Why do you want it?” Severus asked. 

Harry looked back at the painting. “You’ve turned something ugly into something beautiful.”

“Your scar is not ugly.”

“It represents something ugly.” To that, Severus had no reply. Harry continued, “This, though, is something powerful. A- a reminder perhaps, that strength can come from brokenness.” 

Severus had never heard something so introspective from Harry before. It unsettled him. If he were in Harry’s position, he was not sure he would’ve reacted so friendly. Not unless-

“Is this the one you were working on?” Harry asked. He had set the Prophet down on the floor, the true intentions of his visit long forgotten. “It has so much soul.”

“So much soul?” Severus asked.

Harry furrowed his brow and looked up at him. “I am not a particularly artistic person, I don’t know what to say about paintings.”

“No, it’s fine.” Severus supposed it had soul. But it wasn’t quite right.

A black vignette faded around the edge of the work, casting a shadow through the mossy forest. Creeper vines hung from the trees, falling into the dense shrubbery. The bark of the trees were highlighted only on one side, as if illuminated from the central figure. A stag. Head raised high and turned towards the viewer. The eyes were a solid, bioluminescent green. A void. The stag seemed to glow, the only light source in the forest. Severus wanted the viewer to feel on edge looking at this piece, as though they had stumbled upon something they were not allowed to see. 

Maybe it was the expression on the stag’s face, too welcoming, too calm. If he looked at it too long, he would destroy it, like he had done to so many paintings before. He was a perfectionist, never happy with the way they turned out. He could endlessly tweak and adjust things, seeing more faults with each adjustment.

“This one, too,” Harry said. “Once it’s finished, of course.”

“Both paintings?” Severus asked, trying and failing to hide his astonishment. 

Harry chuckled. “I mean, I shouldn’t have to point out why I like this one.”

“Because it’s a stag?”

“I’m a simple man, I guess,” Harry smiled.  “It feels like I’m an intruder, like I’m witnessing something I’m not supposed to. Something ancient and magical.” He turned from the painting to face Severus. They were close, the flickering candlelight bathed Harry’s face in a warm, orange glow. “I have to ask, did you paint these while thinking of me?”

Harry had never been one to shy away from what he wanted to say.

If he answered yes, what would he do? It was impossible to deny that the lightning painting had been done with Harry in mind. But the stag?

“I-”

“The truth would be nice,” Harry cut him off with a coy smile, the expression surprisingly suited his face well. Severus pursed his lips, he did not like being pushed around by a younger man. But Harry had an effect on him.

“Yes, I did,” Severus answered. His eyes roamed Harry’s face, looking for any sign of discomfort or disgust. He often failed on picking up social cues - he had been told more than once - and this was a moment he truly didn’t want to mess up. 

Harry leaned up and brushed his lips against Severus’. Softly, tenderly, unexpectedly. Severus froze, mind and body. 

Once Harry pulled back, Severus almost laughed. He couldn’t believe himself. He had this man, this handsome man, right in front of him, wanting him , and it had been so long that he had forgotten how to act.

Harry took a hesitant step back. “I’m sorry if I misread things, again.”

Before Harry could startle further, Severus reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, forgive me. I fear I’ve confused you.” He himself had felt confused until this very moment. This moment where he could no longer shy away from the truth of inner turmoil.

Harry blinked, looking down at where Severus’ hand circled his wrist. “And how have you done that?” he asked.

Words failed him again. There was one thing that spoke louder than words. Action. Severus pulled Harry towards him, cradled his face with his other hand, and kissed him. Stronger than Harry had kissed him, but not so hard that Harry couldn’t pull away if he wanted to. 

Harry leaned in, pressing his body flush against Severus’. At this distance, Severus could smell Harry’s shampoo - sandalwood and grapefruit. It was alluring, masculine, and Severus struggled to think about anything else. Harry deepened the kiss, and he reached out to touch Severus - to encircle his waist with an arm and envelope his hand on his face. Harry traced a thumb over his knuckles, and Severus almost trembled at the sensation. So- so tender, so caring. For the first time in his life, he felt like something fragile. Like he was fine china, and Harry his dedicated ceramicist. 

Severus pulled back, resting his forehead on Harry’s as he caught his breath. He was not as young as he used to be. “I will not break, Potter.”

“I think we’ve long since moved past last names, don’t you?” Harry chuckled and angled his face up to kiss him once more. “And I am not scared that you’ll break.”

Harry kissed him again, harder this time. He planted his hands on Severus’ chest and pushed him backwards, away from the easel in the middle of the room. Harry’s hands snaked up to grab at the collar of his shirt before pulling him down. Severus tried to quell the panic in his mind as they descended to the floor. He felt his body burning up, and the coolness of the floorboards was a nice contrast. It made up for the lack of any real furniture in this room. Harry didn’t relent, kissing him while still holding his collar tight, and Severus felt himself hardening. 

Severus pulled away, resting back on a hand. He reached out and tucked a curling strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. Harry stole another kiss, smiling, before Severus turned his head away. He had to ask. “Are you sure? I mean, right here, on the floor?”

“Yes, I-” Harry cut himself off by kissing Severus again. “I can’t wait.”

“You always were in excess of energy,” Severus murmured before nipping at Harry’s earlobe and trailing a line of kisses across his jaw back to his mouth.

Harry leaned in his touch. He straddled Severus, strong thighs bracketing his legs, and brought up a hand to the back of Severus’ neck. Harry took control, kissing along his neck and encouraging Severus to tilt his head back into his hand. His eyes slipped closed as Harry sank his teeth into the junction where his neck met his shoulders. He bit his lip to hold in a moan, and he resisted the urge to buck his hips up into Harry’s. He would not rush this, he would go at his pace. 

Harry hummed in pleasure as he kissed his way back up his neck, right over his scar. Severus felt hands at the hem on his shirt, lifting it up. Harry kept kissing him feverishly, only pausing to pull his shirt over his head. Before Severus could feel awkward in his own skin, Harry pulled off his own shirt and leaned back in to kiss Severus once more. 

It was hotter, heavier, and Harry coaxed his mouth open with his tongue. He pushed Severus onto his back, following him to the ground. Harry’s touch was fire, melting something deep inside Severus. He felt Harry’s smooth skin against his chest, the muscles in his back as he ran his fingertips down to the hem of his jeans. Harry matched his movements, running his hands down the front of his chest, over his nipples, until they rested at his fly. Severus arched up into his touch, grinding his hard dick into Harry.

“Help me take these off,” Harry said, sitting up. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. Severus propped himself up on his elbows, taking in Harry’s form. His defined collarbones, the muscle in his chest and abdomen, the trail of hair starting at his belly button and disappearing below his belt line. Severus felt his mouth water, he wanted to see where that hair led. 

“You first,” Severus asked. His own voice sounded foreign to his ears. A little desperate, pleading. Harry smiled down at him. He unbuttoned his own fly, shifting off Severus to quickly take off his pants. Severus couldn’t help it, his eyes went straight to Harry’s navy boxers and the bulge there. The damp spot of precum. He couldn’t believe he had this effect on someone. His fingers itched for a brush, to channel what he was seeing and feeling into a work of art. To symbolise and immortalise the lines and angles that made up Harry. 

Harry knelt next to Severus, fingers deftly unzipping the fly of his slacks and pulling them down and off his legs. 

“God, you’re so-” Harry praised, eyes roaming down Severus’ groin and legs. He climbed back into Severus’ lap and grinded down into him. Harry grabbed Severus’ wrists, captured his lips with his own, and pinned him to the floor. He wasn’t sure who was moaning more, but the sensation was heaven. The slow drag of fabric and heat against his aching dick, Harry’s tongue in his mouth, the overwhelming scent of soap and sweat. He never thought- never dreamed this would happen. Certainly not like this - Harry taking control and using him so eagerly. 

Harry sped his movements up and pleasure pooled low in Severus’ abdomen. He arched his back, trying to lean further into his touch. Severus reached out, digging his fingers into the back of Harry’s thighs, trying to pull him in closer. He cupped Harry’s arse, and Harry moaned into his mouth. He pulled back, lightly biting Severus’ lip before sitting up. Severus noted the green paint smeared along Harry’s hips and arms, and looked to find the palette on his arm all smudged together. 

“Do you have any…” Harry trailed off as his cheeks coloured. 

“What, lube? No, I don’t.” Severus was not yet ready to admit out loud how long it had been since he’d done this. 

Harry smiled gently. “That’s okay.” He leaned over, fishing through the evergrowing pile of clothing until he found his wand.

“You are joking, right?” Severus scoffed. The concept was so ridiculous, he didn’t want to imagine the myriad of ways it could go wrong.

Harry frowned, looking between the wand and Severus. “This isn’t going near you, don’t worry.” 

He looked down at his boxers. Severus was fixated on the way his dick strained upwards, tenting the fabric.

“Maybe we should get rid of these first.”

Harry smiled and set the wand down, pivoting off of Severus once more to pull off his underwear. Before Harry could do it, Severus darted out a hand and stopped him. Harry looked up, pupils blown with lust. A faint look of confusion crossed his face.

“Please, allow me,” Severus asked. He heard the pleading note in his voice, and silently prayed Harry wouldn’t think less of him for it. Harry slowly smiled and leaned back on his hands, happy for Severus to take over. He slowly eased Harry’s underwear down over his hips, revealing his cock inch by inch.

Severus could finally see where that dark hair led. It curled down to his groin, where his dick strained up. The head was glistening with precum, and deep red with arousal. Before he could stop himself, Severus grasped Harry’s dick. The younger man moaned, hips thrusting into the touch. His head lolled back as Severus smeared the precum over his head and down his shaft. Harry was hot in his hand, and he wondered how he would feel against his tongue.

As Harry panted and moaned, he reached down to pull Severus’ own boxers off. He lifted his hips up to help Harry, and felt his dick hit his stomach. Harry wasted no time, he straddled Severus once more and aligned their hard dicks. They both moaned, Severus rested a hand on the back of Harry’s head and pulled him closer, resting their foreheads together. Harry was hot and heavy against him, he could feel his dick pulse against his own as he thrust up towards Harry. 

Harry reached for his wand once more and spelled lube onto his fingers. He set the wand down and reached behind himself. Harry bucked his hips forward as he sank a finger into himself. Severus’ dick throbbed dangerously at the sight.

“You could have asked me to do it,” Severus said.

“I assumed you would have liked to watch,” Harry smiled. 

He was right, but the alternative was just as attractive to him. Severus wrapped a hand around both their cocks, not quite making it the whole way around. He slowly moved his hand up and down, languishing in the way Harry sighed and tilted his head to the side as his eyes slipped shut.

Finally, Harry finished working himself open and pushing Severus back to lean on his elbows. He grasped Severus’ dick, lining it up to himself, and sank down.

It was bliss, being entwined with Harry. From one simple action, he was ruined for all other people. Harry ground his hips down slowly onto Severus. Merlin, he was tight-

“It’s been a long time-” Severus started.

“That doesn’t matter, I don’t care,” Harry smiled down at him. Severus watched the muscles in his thighs tense as he moved. God, he was a sight.

“No, it’s been a very long time. This might be over very quickly,” Severus confessed.

Harry laughed softly. “Would it ease you to know I feel the same way?”

“Yes, it does,” Severus returned the smile. He ran his hands up Harry’s thighs until they reached his hips. He sat up, keeping Harry close to him, and maneuvered Harry onto his back whilst trying his best to stay inside him. 

Harry looked up at him, cheeks flushed a soft red, and Severus started to move again. Ever so slowly at first, savouring the sensation of Harry squeezing around him. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s legs, hitching them up higher and changing his angle into Harry. Whatever he did worked wonders; Harry threw his head back and moaned loudly. The sound went straight to Severus’ cock, and he sped up, desperately trying to coax out that sound again. Between them, Harry’s dick jumped with each thrust, and the younger man quickly melted into a constant stream of moans and soft praises. 

Severus was in servitude. In that moment, he only lived to please Harry. He would not rest until he had devoted everything he had to the man underneath him and shown him what he meant to him. 

Pleasure mounted in Severus, but he held back. He wouldn’t allow himself to finish, not until Harry was ready. He sped up his thrusts, and Harry writhed underneath him. Every small movement brought him closer to the edge. 

Severus leaned in close to the side of Harry’s head, panting with effort. He bracketed him with his arms, the move protective. If he could protect him from everything outside of them, he would. 

Harry cried out his name, a sound so sweet Severus could have melted. His moans grew louder as he bucked his hips desperately, pushing himself onto Severus’ dick, until he came onto his stomach. Harry pulsed around Severus as his whole body seized with his orgasm, sending Severus over the edge. He buried himself in Harry, coming harder than he had in recent memory. Nothing, nothing he had ever done compared to this. 

Severus remained there for a moment, resting their foreheads together as they rode out their high. Once he started to soften, he pulled out and collapsed on his back next to Harry. Not for the first time that night, he was thankful for the coolness of the floorboards, but he would have preferred the softness of a bed.

They lay in silence for a moment, listening to each other breathe. Other noises blended in. Cars in the distance. Owls singing. The faint buzzing of electricity. Severus felt Harry press his palm against his own.

Harry cleared his throat, Severus waited attentively for him to speak. “Please don’t let this be a one time thing.”

He wasn’t used to the overflow of emotion he had endured tonight, that sentence was the final straw for Severus. He didn’t think he could go back to a world without Harry. Being with him brought out a new side of himself. He followed that feeling, like a moth to the flame. 

Severus pressed his palm back into Harry’s, holding his hand tight. He felt the green paint caking their hands, and squeezed regardless. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”