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It’s quiet in the depths of the castle. There is a stillness here, a calm. Some would find it disquieting, unnatural. And, after everything that’s happened, Severus understands. But for the first time since he’s been awake—from Poppy’s potion-induced coma, from the night of the battle, from his death—Severus feels as though he can finally breathe.

The corridors are empty, the portraits—for the moment, at least—deserted. There is nothing to see here. No commotion or excitement. Nothing, save for cool, dark stone and the magic that courses through its veins.

Outside of the dungeons, Severus knows the castle is alive with activity. Minerva has teams of volunteers working tirelessly, clearing debris and repairing structural damage. Shacklebolt has Aurors here as well, working to remove the taint left behind from dark magic, from the sheer amount of spellwork used the night of the final battle.

Minerva is determined to have the castle ready to welcome students back come September, to provide needed stability in the aftermath of war. And, after the trauma of the last few years, the prospect of a fresh start, of a return to normal, of a new school year, is a much-needed reason for hope, for optimism.

The dungeons sustained minimal physical damage, but there is still work to be done here. After all, the repairs involve more than moving rock and mending stone. Hogwarts’s magic is rooted in the very foundation of the castle, and that magic has been damaged as much as the castle’s towers and walls.

Not all the protective enchantments were broken in the battle, but many of those that weren’t have come unravelled with the deterioration of those surrounding them. New wards will need to be created to replace the ones that were lost. That new magic will then need to be woven to the existing spellwork and anchored to the castle itself.

The spells found here, in the deepest parts of the castle, are some of the oldest at Hogwarts. And Severus knows these spells like the back of his hand, like the ingredients in his lab. They are as familiar to him as his own magic, and he can tell that they are out of joint.

Severus walks the length of the corridor outside the Potions classrooms. He listens to the magic; it pulses beneath his feet, thrums all around him and, yet—

He knows the moment Potter steps foot on the dungeon stairs. He hopes the boy’s merely taken a wrong turn, that he’ll go back to the Great Hall or to the courtyard, to the North Tower or wherever Minerva has requested his assistance. But that’s too much to ask, and, soon, Severus hears the echo of Potter’s footsteps coming closer, the buzz of his magic.

Severus does not look at Potter as he rounds the corner, leans against the wall ten paces down from where Severus kneels, inspecting a narrow crack in the stone floor.

But when the boy doesn’t speak, does little more than stare at him, Severus can’t help himself. “Mr. Potter, might I ask what you’re doing down here?”

“Heard you were out. Thought I’d see for myself.”

“And you have. Now, if you don’t mind, please leave me be.”

But Potter doesn’t move. “Did Pomfrey release you?”

At this, Severus does look up. Potter is watching him, face impassive. He’s got an apple in his hand; he takes a large bite.

Severus scowls and looks down again. “Obviously.”

“What are you doing?”

Severus wonders if he could simply turn and walk back to his rooms, leave Potter standing here in the corridor. Instead, he takes a deep breath. “There is spell damage here. The castle’s magic is—”

“It’s hurting, isn’t it?” Potter cuts him off. “I can feel it.”

“Yes.” Hurting, after all, is one way to describe it.

Potter tilts his head, as though listening. “And it’s worse down here.”

It’s not a question, and Potter does not wait for a response. He just turns and disappears back down the hall.

***

“How’s your magic, Snape?”

Severus draws his wand along a crevasse in the wall. With a whispered incantation, he feels the magic pooling there shift and slide as it settles back into its proper place. “My magic is fine.” And it is. He might still be recovering from his…encounter with Nagini, but his magic feels as good as it ever has.

“And you? Because you look like death.”

Severus glares at Potter, but the boy merely shrugs, expression blank.

“Was there something you needed?” Severus casts another spell, feels his magic pulse briefly beneath layers of rock.

“No. Just thought I’d check in on you, is all. Wouldn’t want you dropping dead down here after I brought you back. Pomfrey would have a fit.”

***

“And to think, I had such a crush on you sixth year.” There is something unkind in Potter’s voice.

Severus sets down his stirring rod to stare at Potter. He’s found Severus in his lab today as he works to prepare the bases for several of Poppy’s draughts; her supplies are beyond depleted and it’s nearly July. “Excuse me?”

“Well, not you, exactly,” Potter amends, “because that would be seriously fucked up, but on the Prince.”

“The Prince…”

“The Half-Blood Prince…” Potter drawls. “Dramatic little bastard, weren’t you?”

Severus doesn’t respond. He looks back at the herbs he’s stripping. He’s running low on rosemary and sage. He knew Potter had his old book—of course he did. What else could explain the sudden improvement in Potions and, of course, the near-disastrous incident with Sectumsempra?

“I almost killed him, you know,” Potter continues, “Malfoy. And it would have been your fault, too.” He laughs harshly. “I idolized the Prince and that spell—fuck, Snape, that spell. You are one twisted fucker. Is that what you do? Spend your time inventing ways to kill people?”

Severus doesn’t respond, doesn’t rise to Potter’s bait; he does his best not to react at all. “Isn’t there something important you should be doing right now?” He asks instead. “I thought you were an essential part of the reconstruction team.”

Potter only looks at him. “No, not particularly.” He shrugs. “They’re having trouble with some old wards. They don’t seem to like the new protective enchantments we’ve cast. And we can’t secure the magic or move on to the next section until someone figures out how to either unravel them or make them cooperate.” He leans against Severus’s worktop, hip propped against the side. “Flitwick thinks it’s old blood magic—which, of course, is notoriously difficult to deal with.”

Severus takes a copper cauldron from the shelf and fills it with water before bringing it to boil with a flick of his wand. Potter is watching him. He can feel his gaze prickling against his skin. It’s unnerving.

“Come to think of it,” Potter says after a moment, “it seems like the type of thing you might know how to deal with. Surprised McGonagall hasn’t come asking for your help.”

Severus uses his silver knife to puncture the handful of juniper berries he’s set to the side. He adds them one at a time to the now bubbling cauldron.

“Then again, everyone’s afraid to bother you. Don’t know how to treat you anymore. Now that you’re back from the dead and apparently not an arse—” Potter stops, shakes his head—“well no, you’re definitely still an arsehole, but now that you’re not a traitorous arsehole.” He laughs; it’s not a pleasant sound. “That, and they’re worried you might have a breakdown or something. They think you’re fragile.”

Severus drops the last berry into the potion and does not look at Potter. He knows the boy’s trying to rile him up, trying to get a reaction—first with the nonsense about his old textbook and now with the string of insults. And Severus has no desire to give him whatever it is he thinks he wants. No desire to play whatever game he’s playing. Finally, he says, “And yet, you seem to have no qualms against barging into my personal space at all hours of the day.”

Potter only looks at him for a long moment, green eyes assessing. Then: “You told me yourself, you’re fine.” With that, he turns and walks from the room.

Severus returns to his potion and does not think about the fact that Potter purportedly had a crush on his teenaged self.

***

“You’re a coward, Snape,” Potter says, and his voice is harsh, but it often is when he comes down here, seeking Severus out, looking to pick a fight. “Dumbledore was, too. Bigger coward than you, really. But you…” He shakes his head. “Fuck you, Snape.”

Severus should send him away. He should lock himself in his rooms. He should absolutely not engage in…whatever this is. So, he bites back the words on the tip of his tongue. Potter wants a reaction, and he will not allow himself to be provoked. Potter is quick to anger these days; Severus thinks he understands. After all, he knows better than anyone what the boy’s been through, what they asked of him. And while his friends, his year-mates, also lived through the unthinkable, Potter’s experience was singular. And now—now that he’s revealed himself to be, arguably, the most powerful wizard alive? Well, that can be isolating, to say the least. Still, that doesn’t mean Severus needs to indulge him when he comes skulking about his dungeons at all hours of the day.

“Albus was a coward?” he says instead. “Interesting.”

Potter looks at him as though he’s an idiot. Maybe he is.

“Yes.” He doesn’t offer anything more.

“All right then,” Severus says, “humour me. As I am not currently in the habit of reading minds, you’ll have to elaborate. Do explain how the great Albus Dumbledore—arguably the most accomplished wizard of our time—who literally died for our cause, was a coward.”

Potter’s not looking at him, he’s staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed. “Dumbledore knew. He knew about that Horcrux. He knew what I would have to do, and—”

“This is your complaint? That Albus Dumbledore, in all his brilliance, could not come up with an alternative to your sacrifice? Because, if you’ll recall, he did not expect of you more than he asked of himself.”

The glare Potter gives him is caustic. “Of course not. It was war, Snape. We all make sacrifices. Both of us know that all too well, and I never expected to survive. I was not afraid to die.”

Severus frowns. “Then what?”

“He never told me. He had all this information. Or, at least, theories. And you know as well as I do that Dumbledore’s theories were correct more often than not. But he left us blundering around in the dark trying to figure it out, and all the while he knew. He knew what I would have to do and he was too big of a coward to just come out and tell me. Instead, he left that job to you.” Potter’s lips twist cruelly. “And why not? He’d already demanded everything else of you.”

“And you believe that cowardice?”

Potter nods. Severus thinks he understands—remembers how he felt when Albus revealed this information to him. Severus had always known it was likely for Potter to die—hell, it was likely they would all die—and it was astounding that Potter had managed to survive his previous meetings with the Dark Lord. But that Albus intended him to die? That Albus had always known? “Albus was a master strategist,” he says. “Trust is a liability.”

“He trusted me.” Potter’s tone brooks no objection. “He trusted me to follow through. To do the right thing. To walk into that forest and let Voldemort cast that spell. But he couldn’t be bothered to tell me that I was meant to be the sacrifice? That was merely another unpleasant task he laid at your feet.” Now he does turn to Severus. “And you? When exactly were you planning to tell me? Because had I not come to the shack exactly when I did…”

Severus feels a brief stab of shame at his miscalculations. It was almost disastrous, of course. Had he not managed to give his memories to Potter—to carry out Albus’s final impossible task at the last conceivable moment, before— “I’ll admit, that part was not entirely well thought out.”

“You don’t say?” Potter rolls his eyes. “Here’s an idea. Maybe instead of sending your Patronus for me to follow about in that fucking forest, you could have come to me yourself. We could have been allies, Snape. If you’d had bollocks enough to fucking talk to me.”

“Would you have listened?”

Potter’s mouth quirks. “I might have tried to hex you first. But yeah. I would have listened.” He’s quiet after that, eyes on Severus as he adds the last of the dried herbs he’s chopped to the cauldron. He stirs, counting to twenty, before covering the potion with a glass lid. It will need to simmer for an hour. Then he cleans his knife, his ladle, and wipes down the worktop. Potter is still watching him.

“Do you hate him?” he asks, breaking the silence. “For what he did? For what he made you do?”

Severus turns, folding his arms across his chest. “Sometimes. But I hate myself more.”

***

“Did you ever fancy my father?”

Severus opens his mouth, shuts it again. “No. I never fancied your idiot father. What the actual bloody fuck, Potter?”

“I dunno, Snape," Potter says, amusement glinting in his eyes. "He was pretty attractive.”

“Lucius Malfoy has always been an attractive man, and I’ve never wanted to fuck him, either. I could list dozens of ‘attractive’ men that I have no desire to engage in sexual congress with.”

Potter purses his lips. “Well, Lucius is a pompous arsehole. So, there’s that. Nice hair, though.”

“Your father was an even bigger arsehole.’

“Touché. I just thought, you know, an enemy lover type thing.”

“You’re an imbecile.” Severus casts the spell again, but the magic doesn’t hold. He scowls, dragging a hand through his hair. These enchantments, in particular, have been ridiculously uncooperative. “Tell me, have you ever wanted to fuck Draco?”

Potter actually considers it for a moment. But then he laughs and shakes his head. “Christ. Can you imagine what a bossy bottom Malfoy would be?”

“Draco or Lucius?”

He feigns a shudder. “Both, clearly. Ugh.”

Severus laughs.

Potter is quiet for a moment and then: "Say 'fuck' again. I think I like it when you curse."

"...Fuck."

***

“Do you ever wish you could go back? Do things over again?”

“Tell me, Mr. Potter, which part of my life do you think I’d like to relive?”

Potter chews on his thumbnail. He’s sitting cross-legged atop Severus’s desk, watching Severus at his lab table.

Severus has stopped asking him if there is someplace else he‘d rather be, something else he should be doing. Potter has done enough for Minerva, for Hogwarts—for the entire bloody world—to do whatever the hell he wants. It’s merely…unfortunate that what he wants to do is apparently irritate Severus at all hours of the day.

“At times, I wish I hadn’t come back.”

Severus looks up from the roots he is chopping. “Pardon?”

“That night, when he killed me. I had the choice. I could have boarded a train. I could have gone…on.”

“A train…”

“I was at King’s Cross, yeah? And I didn’t have to come back. There was only one more Horcrux and I—well, I didn’t have to.” Potter looks down, fringe falling into his eyes; he brushes it back again. “But I did. I came back, and I killed him. And sometimes I think it would have been better if I had just…stayed.”

Severus sets his knife down. They haven’t talked about that night, the night they both died. Severus hasn’t wanted to and, until now, Potter hasn’t brought it up.

“You killed him.”

“I know. And obviously I’m happy he’s dead, but I can’t help but think about how nice it would be if I were just—”

“If you were just done.”

Potter regards him for a moment—as though waiting for some criticism or censure. “And what kind of person does that make me? Because I feel really fucking selfish.” His voice is soft and there is something in his expression that makes Severus’s chest ache.

“No. Not selfish. It makes you normal. Except that you did something no normal person could have ever done.”

Potter doesn’t look convinced, so Severus says, “That night, when the Dark Lord summoned me to his side, I knew that he meant to kill me. And while I had never expected to survive the war, knowing that I was—in all likelihood—going to die, being faced with the actual moment of my death was an entirely different matter. I was terrified and, yet, a part of me was glad to be…finished.” Severus takes a deep breath. “I believe, after the things we’ve lived through, the things we’ve done, it is understandable to desire, to…fantasise about an ending.”

“Do you wish I hadn’t done it? That I hadn’t brought you back?”

Severus considers his answer carefully. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it. If I didn’t wonder if I would be better off—death is such an enticing prospect, after all. To have no obligations or responsibilities. To not worry about anything or anyone ever again. But no. I do not regret what you did for me. You have given me a second chance at life—for better or for worse. And I am grateful.”

***

“There’s something weird about your magic now, Snape.”

Today, Potter is helping him neutralise some of the dark magic clinging to the walls outside the Potions classrooms, the laboratories. It’s the type of thing, Severus knows, Shacklebolt would love to set his Aurors to, but Severus won’t allow them down here. Or, at least, he’s been successful at keeping them out thus far.

“I’ve always been good at reading magic, yeah?” Potter continues, passing his wand over a section of the floor. Severus feels the magic lurking there shimmer briefly before retreating, seeping through layers of rock and back into the earth far beneath the castle’s foundations. “But yours—” He turns, looks sideways at Severus. “Well, ever since the battle, and then even more so since you woke up, I can feel your bloody magic all the fucking time. It’s…well, it’s weird.”

Severus is quiet for a moment, unsure what to do with this information. But then he says, “You’re down here enough, Potter. What would you expect? Perhaps if you didn’t want to feel my magic, you could stay in the tower where you belong.”

At that Potter laughs. “You’re funny, Snape. Never realised how funny you were. And you know that’s not what I mean.”

***

“You should have told me about my mother.”

Severus doesn’t look at Potter. “Why in Circe’s name do you think I would talk to you—or any student for that matter—about my love life?” Or, lack thereof, Severus thinks, but he does not say that part aloud.

“Not like that,” Potter says. “Wait, you didn’t sleep with her, did you?”

Severus glares, but answers truthfully. “No.”

Potter looks relieved, then he smirks. “Thought so. I mean, you’re a bigger poof than I am.”

“Potter,” Severus says in warning, but the boy ignores him. Of course, he does.

“You could have told me that you were friends, though, and that you, you know, felt responsible. I might have understood then. Why you hated me.”

Severus takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. “Potter, I regret every single one of my life choices, but I am still not sure what I did to deserve your incessant presence in my dungeons.”

“I don’t blame you,” Potter continues, undeterred. “Not anymore. But that first night. At the Sorting Feast—what was I supposed to think? You were staring at me and then my scar starts to hurt.”

Severus frowns, trying to remember.

“I mean,” Potter shakes his head, “what the fuck.”

“You were—” Severus stops, considering his words. “I admit, I was unprepared for how I would feel when I saw you. You look like your father, but there is so much of Lily in you, too. I was…I was not ready for the memories.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t you, anyway. Quirrell literally had Voldemort on the back of his head. Fucking psycho. No wonder my scar hurt.”

“Quirrell was an idiot.”

“Yeah, you don’t say.”

The ward Severus has been trying to secure collapses again. “Shit.” He lowers his wand. He’s broken a sweat and, Merlin, why won’t this magic cooperate?

“Want some help with that?” Potter’s watching him with disinterest, sitting cross-legged in the centre of the hall.

“I…yes.”

***

“I’m starting to think you’re hiding down here, Snape. You’ve been out of hospital, what, three weeks? Four? And I haven’t once seen you in the Great Hall—or anywhere out of the dungeons for that matter. What is it? Is it the junior Aurors?”

Severus has decided there is something predatory about Potter’s smile.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He’s sitting on Severus’s desk again, drumming his fingers against the surface. “There is a certain…something about their sheer mediocrity.”

Severus takes a deep breath, resists the urge to count to ten. And, no, he will not admit that, of course he’s been hiding from the junior Aurors. Anyone with half a brain would do the same. Instead, he says, “Potter, I must insist that you leave my lab. I have several time-sensitive potions I must attend to and I simply cannot entertain your antics today.”

“Antics? Hmm…” He slips off the desk, walks over to Severus’s side. “Is that what it is? Antics…”

Severus does not turn to look at him, tries to ignore how close Potter is standing, but he can feel the warmth from his body, smell the fresh scent of his soap, his shampoo—the hints of lemongrass, of sage.

“Potter—”

“That one,” he points to the large vat of calming draught, “must simmer for at least another three hours. If you’ve set a temperature charm—which I’m certain you have—best leave it alone.”

Severus only grunts. So, the boy recognises one potion; any competent fifth year could do the same.

“And those two…” Potter indicates the blood replenishing potions in their identical copper cauldrons, “are finished.”

Severus goes to object, but Potter stops him. “Unless, of course, you intend to add a thickening agent to extend shelf life. In which case,” Potter purses his lips, “I’d say you should probably do so in about forty-five minutes. Your pain potion still needs asphodel, yeah? But I’m reasonably confident in your ability to add one ingredient with or without my antics.”

He’s looking at Severus now, mouth quirked in a half-smile and clearly awaiting a response, but Severus refuses to indulge him, refuses to acknowledge—or be impressed by—the fact that he’s correctly identified the potions as well as the stage in the brewing process.

“That one, though…” Potter points at the last potion simmering on Severus’s worktop. “I have absolutely no idea what that one is. So, I’m assuming it’s the super sensitive, work-intensive one you were referring to?” There is humour in his voice, and a challenge.

And Severus would roll his eyes. He would laugh because, no. But he doesn’t want to give Potter the satisfaction. “It’s a basic contraception potion that Poppy keeps on hand in the infirmary.”

Potter raises an eyebrow.

“Surely you’re familiar with the concept of safe sex?” Severus tries to inject an appropriate level of condescension into his voice, but it clearly does not have the intended effect because Potter laughs.

“Of course I am, Snape...” He’s definitely smiling now. “But I think we both know the type of sex I prefer doesn’t typically come with…that particular risk.”

Severus turns away to set his ingredient jars back on their proper shelves. When he turns arounds again, Potter is watching him, clearly waiting for some reaction. It’s unsettling. Severus feels off balance, and it’s not a feeling he’s used to.

“Potter, what are we doing?” he manages to ask. At least his voice is steady. “What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Then Potter is stepping towards him, backing Severus up against his lab table, and Severus holds his breath, unsure if Potter is going to draw his wand, cast a hex, or take a swing at him. But, instead, he’s fisting his hands in Severus’s robes and…kissing him.

Oh.

Severus finds his hand on the back of Potter’s head, pulling him forwards and…oh—fuck.

Potter kisses hungrily, desperately, tongue sliding over Severus’s lips, and, this is—this should not feel as good as it does. Severus opens his mouth, and Potter licks into it, clutching at him, pulling him closer and arching against him. Severus doesn’t want to think about how perfectly Potter seems to fit against him. How easy it is to slip a hand to his waist, to hold his hips against his, to feel Potter getting hard against him.

Potter’s tongue slides against his and they kiss until they’re breathless, lips slick with spit, and Potter gasps, pulling back to catch his breath, but still pressing his hips forwards as Severus’s own arousal spikes through him.

Christ. Severus had no idea how much he needed to know what it feels like to press his prick against Potter’s. And, despite a lifetime of poor choices, despite the fact that Potter is no longer his student, Severus thinks he has never done anything as reckless or improper as rut against him in his bloody laboratory. He pulls back, gripping Potter’s chin in his hand, pressing his fingertips into the soft skin beneath his jaw. Potter turns his head, licks at Severus’s palm before stepping away.

“Fuck, professor—” He shakes his head; his mouth is red and swollen, his glasses fogged. “You have no idea. The things I want you to do to me.” But then he takes another step back, reaching down to adjust himself, before turning and walking from the room, leaving Severus standing there with his potions, his cock aching, and wondering what the fuck just happened.

***

When Potter does not return to his dungeons, Severus assumes that’s it. After all, the kiss shouldn’t have happened in the first place, and surely Potter meant it as nothing more than—

Severus has no idea. He has absolutely no idea what Potter wants or what he thinks he’s doing. And, surely, Severus wants nothing to do with Potter.

So, he occupies himself with his brewing and his magic and thinks it’s for the best.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling of Potter’s body pressed against him. Of the taste of his tongue in his mouth.

And then, nearly two weeks later, Potter appears at his office door just as Severus has sat down with his timetables and a glass of whisky to begin planning for start of term.

He stands in front of Severus’s desk, hands shoved in his pockets. “So, what we did…”

“I’m sorry,” Severus says quickly. He doesn’t want to have this conversation; he’d prefer never think of the incident again. “I’m not sure what came over me, but I shouldn’t have allowed—” He stops, takes a breath. “It was inappropriate.”

“No,” Potter says. “It wasn’t. I’m of age. I saved the fucking world, and I can—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Severus says, cutting him off. “I—”

“No,” Potter repeats. “Everyone wants me, yeah? But not because they care about me or even know a damned thing about me. Just that I’m Harry Potter.”

Severus doesn’t know what to say. He could say he, also, doesn’t care about him, but he’s not sure that’s the truth—has ever been the truth—and he has seen the way people flock to Potter. Like moths to a light, flies to honey. Of course, they’re drawn to him. Severus doesn’t doubt that he could have anyone he wanted—

“But I don’t care about them,” Potter says. “And I certainly don’t want them.”

“You don’t want me, either,” Severus says because even the thought is ridiculous.

“I think you want me.”

Severus glares. “Sorry to disappoint, but I am not—I will not be part of your sycophantic fan club.”

Potter does not say anything, just continues to regard him with that same cool, detached expression on his lovely face. “I know you do,” he finally says. “I know. And I also know that you don’t want anything from me.” He laughs. “Aside from wanting to know what I sound like when I come, of course. What it would feel like to slick me open, fuck me into your mattress?”

“Potter—” Severus means it to sound like a warning, but his mouth is dry, throat raw. Potter smiles. And there is something sharp there that sets Severus’s teeth on edge but also sends a rush of warmth to his groin.

“Thought so,” Potter says. “And it’s all right, yeah? You’ve been in my head. And I’ve been in yours.”

As if that changes anything. Makes what Potter’s saying remotely all right,

Maybe it does.

Or, maybe, it doesn’t matter.

***

It’s nearly a week before he sees Potter again. Castle repairs are progressing and he’s finally making some headway on his brewing. Potter has not been back to the dungeons, and Severus is still avoiding the Great Hall. He knows he shouldn’t—Minerva will not tolerate his absence forever. But it is still summer holiday, and Severus cannot, will not endure the infestation of Aurors, former students, and parents at every meal.

It’s late on a Friday when Severus once again feels the press of Potter’s magic in the hallway outside his office. Potter doesn’t knock. He knows Severus knows he is there. And when Severus opens the door, neither of them says anything.

Potter is gorgeous. His cheeks are flushed, his dark hair standing up in every direction, and he’s most likely drunk. And, because Severus is also drunk, he steps aside, letting Potter through the door, before walking back to his quarters. Once inside, he pours himself another whisky and takes a second glass for Potter.

The boy is by the fireplace, hands in the pockets of his dark jeans, looking around the room impassively. But he takes the offered drink with a nod before taking a long sip. Severus can’t help but watch him, watch the line of his throat as he swallows, watch the way his mouth is wet with whisky when he lowers the glass again.

Potter raises an eyebrow. “See something you like?”

Severus scowls. “It’s you who’s come to my rooms at midnight unannounced.”

“We were in Hogsmeade.” He flashes a brilliant smile. “It’s my birthday, you know. Decided I’d see if you were still awake.”

“The liberties you take, presuming—”

But Potter cuts him off. “I think, sometimes, I deserve to get whatever I want. Or, at least I tell myself that.” There is something almost dangerous in his smile and it…does things to Severus’s stomach. “After all, I already sacrificed myself for the greater good. Saved the world. Surely, I can have this.” Surely I can have you…

He drains the rest of his drink, sets it aside before taking Severus’s glass from his hand. And Severus doesn’t object, doesn’t say anything at all because Potter is kissing him again.

This kiss is as desperate, as needy as the first, and it’s every bit as reckless. Potter’s hands are on his hips, holding him close as he licks at his mouth, tongue grazing teeth and sliding against his own. Severus doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like this—so frantic and wanting. It’s obscene.

He tilts his head, opening his mouth against Potter’s. And he knows—he knows they shouldn’t be doing this. Potter is broken and Severus—Severus is too. But he slips a hand underneath Potter’s t-shirt, feels the warmth of smooth skin under his palm, and does not care. It’s easy to give in, after all. To think of nothing more than the press of Potter’s lips, his body to his. Everything narrowed to this one singular point of focus, Potter sucking on his bottom lip and the sound he makes as Severus slides his knee between Potter’s legs, buries his face against Potter’s neck. “You are…”

Severus is already hard—would be ashamed at how painfully aroused just a few kisses have him if Potter weren’t also gasping, rocking his hips against Severus’s.

He pulls back, cheeks pink, mouth swollen and red. “I’m just going to—” And he pushes Severus back to sit down on the sofa before dropping to the floor. And Potter on his knees at Severus’s feet is, perhaps, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Potter licks his lips, runs his hands along Severus’s thighs. Severus can’t help the groan, can’t help but rock his hips up. And Potter’s eyes fall to the swell in his trousers, before he lowers his head, mouthing along the hard line of Severus’s prick over the fabric.

“Potter—” Severus says, but there’s too much wanting in his voice, and Potter just smiles anyhow.

“It’s okay. You know you want this.”

And Severus does. So, he leans back, head resting against the sofa cushion because he cannot look at Potter. Not when his hands are at Severus’s belt, unbuckling it. Not when his fingers are tugging his zip down and slipping inside his trousers. And certainly not when he’s pulling Severus’s cock from his pants, curling his hand loosely around it.

“Fuck, Snape,” Potter breathes, lips just brushing against him. “I knew you’d have a gorgeous cock.” Then he drags his tongue along the underside of Severus’s prick before sucking him down.

Severus’s breath catches and his hand is on Potter’s head, fingers threading through dark hair as Potter’s mouth envelops Severus’s prick in wet, slick heat clear down to the bloody base.

“Christ…” Severus says, trying to hold still, trying not to thrust up into Potter’s perfect mouth or tighten his fingers in Potter’s hair and push him down.

Potter pulls back, lips sliding along the length of Severus’s cock, and his tongue circles the head, pressing against the slit as his hand is stroking and twisting and driving Severus absolutely mad. Fuck, Potter is good at this, and Severus doesn’t want to think about why he’s so good at this, about where he learned to suck cock.

“Shit,” he says instead, as Potter sucks him down again, lips stretched wide, mouth making the most deliciously wet noises around his cock. And Severus is already close, his bollocks tight and stomach muscles clenching, and—shit—this feels amazing. “Potter, I’ll come.”

He only smiles before dragging his tongue up Severus’s shaft again, swirling it around the tip, and then sucking him all the way in again. Severus tugs at Potter’s hair, but Potter puts a hand on Severus’s hip, encouraging him to thrust up into the wet tightness of his mouth. Severus does, feeling his cock start to spasm as Potter’s throat works, and then Severus is coming. “Fuck—” he grunts, voice strained as Potter swallows and swallows around him.

After, Potter sits back on his heels, wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s hard. Severus can see the bulge of his prick clearly, straining against the zip of his jeans.

Then he stands—thumb popping the button open, tugging the zipper down—and reaches into his pants to get his cock out.

Merlin, he’s perfect. Cock so hard it’s nearly purple and slick with pre-come—just from touching Severus, from sucking him off. The thought is nearly enough to make his own spent prick twitch.

“God, look at you,” Severus says, not caring how wrecked he sounds. “That really turned you on, didn’t it? Letting me come in your mouth.”

“Mmm…” Potter just groans, running his thumb down his shaft and back up again, smearing the wetness welling there, before taking himself in hand. He strokes himself slowly at first—almost lazily—and all the while, his eyes are fixed on Severus, clearly trying to drive him insane.

And Severus has watched someone wank before—he spent his adolescence in a boarding school dormitory, for Merlin’s sake. And, as a teenager, he had a few fumbling, exploratory, sexual encounters where he and his partner masturbated together for each other’s, their own pleasure. But Severus is certain nothing has affected him as much as Harry bloody Potter, standing here before him, with his hand on his cock. He groans, shifting against the cushions. His cock is already showing signs of renewed interest—it won’t take long, he thinks, and he’ll be fully hard again. Fuck, what Potter can do to him.

“You okay there?” Potter asks. He licks his lips. His eyes are dark behind his glasses.

“Yes,” Severus nods, watching Potter’s hand. Each downstroke pushing the swollen head out of his foreskin.

“Good,” Potter says, and he’s breathless. He swipes his thumb across his slit, pressing against it before tightening his hand around his prick again.

“Now do it faster,” Severus says. “Make yourself come for me.”

And Potter does. He pumps his fist faster, hips moving with each rough tug. And, fuck, but it’s devastating, watching Potter fuck his hand like this. “Is this something you’ve thought about?” Severus says, pleased his voice is steady, controlled. “Touching yourself for me? Letting me watch?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Potter breathes. “Wanted to do this for ages. This and sucking you off. Wanted to know what you taste like, how fast I could get you off with my mouth—oh—shit” he groans, hips stuttering as he starts to come, fingers clenching as spunk spills through them, splattering against the floor at his feet.

“Wow,” Potter says after a moment. He shakes his head, laughs softly. “That was—wow.”

Severus reaches out a hand then, brushes it briefly against the back of Potter’s and something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone before Severus can read it properly. Potter doesn’t say anything, just wipes his hand on his thigh and tucks himself back in his pants, does up his jeans.

For just a moment Severus thinks about pulling him down onto the sofa beside him. Asking him to stay. They can have another drink or order something from the kitchens and maybe, after, Potter will let Severus take him to bed. He wants to get him out of his clothes and see what it feels like to touch him properly, to make him come a second time.

But Severus isn’t the type of man who invites lovers into his bed, who wakes up beside them the next day. And he’s fairly sure Potter isn’t either. What would they do in the morning? Have breakfast together? Talk about their plans for the day? The idea is absurd, so he says nothing as Potter slips from his rooms.

But later that night, he lies in bed imagining what would have happened had he asked Potter to stay. Would he have fucked him right there—on all fours by the fire? Or would they have gone to his room, fucked in his bed, Potter on his back, legs wrapped around Severus’s waist?

He falls asleep remembering what it felt like to have Potter’s mouth on him. And, in the morning, Severus wakes so bloody hard that he can barely get his hand around his prick before he comes all over himself.

Jesus god almighty.

***

Two nights later, Potter is waiting outside Severus’s door when he returns from his lab in the evening.

“Tonight,” he says, eyes sweeping up and down the length of Severus’s body, “I think you should suck me.”

Severus will never get over the way Potter looks at him—hungrily and with clear wanting. Severus knows it’s not love or even affection that brings Potter to his rooms at night, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take what he is given. So, he nods, pressing his palm to the door, feeling the protective enchantments fall away. And Potter follows him through his office and into his quarters without another word.

***

Severus knows a lot of things. He knows that Harry still flies. He knows the boy runs, has seen him out in the grounds in dirty trainers, jogging pants and old Quidditch t-shirts. And he knows that, despite his recent predilection for haunting Severus’s dungeons, he does not shy away from the sun. Severus has seen him following it around the castle—when he has had to venture out to see Irma or Pomona or to head into the Forbidden Forest for ingredients. And he has watched him lounging in pools of warm light. Like a cat…or a bloody lion.

Severus, in comparison, feels muted and dim. Like the slimy things in the dark depths of the lake or pickled in the jars that line the shelves in his workroom. Pale and translucent, with clouded eyes and bloated skin.

Yet, for some reason, Potter keeps coming back. And, while Severus thinks Potter must hate himself for wanting him, he’s all right with that. Because, often, Severus hates himself too.

Severus knows part of it is a big fuck you to everyone who’s ever expected, demanded anything from Potter. Because, let’s face it, fucking ex-Death Eaters turned spies who are old enough to be your father is not exactly the type of thing proper Boy Heroes do.

But Severus also knows he does not care.

***

It’s a week before he sees Potter again. Severus spends his days in his lab or in the corridors, strengthening the protective enchantments, re-casting stabilising magic, and clearing out dark spellwork.

At one point, a half-dozen junior Aurors infiltrate the quiet of his dungeons. And, after approximately five minutes of incessant chatter and foolish wand waving, Severus has had enough. It’s satisfying how quickly they run for the stairs—and Severus doesn’t even cast any spells.

This earns him a visit from Minerva, but there is fondness behind her glare. “Severus,” she says, “the Aurors are here to help. Let them do their job.”

“I’ve taught third years with more sense than that lot. Besides,” he adds at Minerva’s raised eyebrow, “I can manage just fine on my own.”

“And yet, I believe Mr. Potter has spent rather a bit of time down here helping you.”

That doesn’t warrant a response and Severus turns back to his worktop, his cauldron. Still, Minerva makes no move to leave. “If there’s nothing else? This base is particularly time-sensitive and I—”

At that, she actually laughs. “Severus Snape, that base is for a standard pain draught, and we both know it would keep for the remainder of the day if left unattended.”

He scowls, but she’s holding up her hands, turning to go. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave you to it.” When she gets to the door, however, she stops. “Oh, and Severus, since you’re clearly now fully recovered, I’ll expect to see you in the Great Hall for some meals. Surely you can make it out of the dungeons at least once a day.”

***

Severus does go to the Great Hall for dinner, though he immediately wishes he had not.

In contrast to the relative order of meal times during term—where staff and students, at least, sit in their designated places—now, House tables are not honoured. The High Table is empty. And people are milling about everywhere, calling out to others, standing up—chicken legs or goblets of pumpkin juice in hand.

He spots Minerva, sitting with Arthur Weasley and the two eldest Weasley sons. Potter has said that Ronald took Shacklebolt up on his offer to join the Auror training programme and Ginevra, apparently, has been at the castle some this summer. She will be back in a few weeks’ time for start of term.

Severus sees other former students. Lee Jordan is standing with Anthony Goldstein and the surviving Weasley twin. And the Granger girl is here too, seated at one of the long tables with Potter and at least half a dozen Aurors. Potter sits beside a particularly obnoxious looking blond; he claps Potter on the back, laughing loudly at something he’s said. But Potter’s eyes are on Severus as he walks past to take a seat at the end of the table with Filius and Pomona.

The man frowns, following Potter’s gaze; it doesn’t take Legilimency to know that he’s wondering what Potter’s looking at. Then he sees Severus and his brow furrows in confusion. Severus can’t help but sneer, lip curling, and he quickly turns away.

Potter only smiles.

Filius greets Severus warmly. Pomona wants to talk about the greenhouses and, on the whole, the meal passes pleasantly enough.

Severus is nearly done when Potter stands, walks to their end of the table.

“Professors,” he says, and Pomona beams. “Harry, dear. How are you tonight?”

“I’m well.” His hands are in his pockets, his expression emotionless as always. “Just wanted to say hello.” His eyes are fixed on Severus, and Severus shifts, feeling uncomfortable, on display. But Filius and Pomona don’t seem to notice Potter’s scrutiny.

“Harry, mate,” the blond Auror appears behind Potter, one hand on his shoulder. “A few of us are going into Hogsmeade for a drink. You’ll join us?”

“Not tonight.” Potter takes a half step away and the hand falls from his shoulder. “I’ve got other plans.”

He goes to object but then sees Potter watching Severus. His eyes narrow. Before he can say anything else, though, another Auror is there. “Jacobs, come on, mate. We’re headed out. You in, Potter?” He grins, but Potter only shakes his head.

“Next time, yeah?”

“All right.”

The man is clearly disappointed, but he leaves, following the others out of the Great Hall.

Potter waits until they’re gone before bidding Filius and Pomona a good night. Then he’s looking at Severus. “I’ll see you later, Professor,” he says, before turning and walking away. Severus refuses to watch him as he leaves.

Filius wants coffee, so Severus takes a cup as well. And they sit for another fifteen minutes. Severus answers Filius’s questions about the residual magic in the dungeons and, somehow—in a moment of weakness, surely—agrees to help Pomona with her greenhouse inventories.

He half-expects Potter to be waiting for him when he leaves the Great Hall. But the foyer is empty, so he turns, heading to the stairwell leading down to the dungeons.

Potter is standing by the concealed entrance to the Slytherin common room. He’s got his palm pressed to the stone wall, his head tilted to one side as though listening.

“You had other plans, hmm?” Severus says as Potter turns, and Severus crowds close, backing him up against the wall, pressing against him.

“Yeah,” Potter breathes, leaning his head back, letting Severus lick a line down his throat, suck at his collar bone. “These wards are off, you know,” he says. When he clutches at Severus’s shoulders, Severus takes his hands in his, pins them to the wall. “They almost let me in. And all I did was say ‘please’.”

“Did they?” Severus mouths along Potter’s jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble against his lips, and Potter groans.

“Yeah. I might have been speaking in Parseltongue, but still.” He parts his legs so Severus can slot himself between them. “Not the best wards, you have there. If they open for anyone who hisses at them—”

But Severus doesn’t let Potter finish because he’s kissing him, tongue sliding over his lips and into his mouth and, Merlin. He keeps one hand on Potter’s wrists, holding them against the wall, and slips the other down between them. Potter is already hard, cock swollen and hot as he palms it over the fabric of his jeans.

“I want you to fuck me,” Potter gasps, breath warm against Severus’s cheek. The words pool like warmth, like want in Severus’s groin, and Potter pulls his hands free, tugs Severus closer, rolling his hips.

Potter’s not wearing a belt, and Severus slides a hand into his pants, cups his arse, strokes his forefinger along his crease. Potter’s hips surge forwards, cock pressing against Severus’s leg. Then Potter whispers a spell, and Severus feels the rush of magic between them. His hole is slick, relaxed, when Severus’s finger brushes against it, when he presses the tip inside.

“You could have me right here,” Potter says, voice breathless, strained. “Up against the wall.”

And, for a moment, Severus considers it. But he knows Potter will inevitably leave when they’re done, and Severus wants to be able to remember what he looks like naked in his bed. He wants to smell Potter's sweat, his come on his skin, his sheets when he wakes up alone in the morning.

“No,” Severus says, pulling his hand from Potter’s pants. “Not here.”

Potter follows Severus down the hall, into his rooms. Once in the bedroom, Potter strips, tugging his t-shirt over his head and kicking his jeans, his pants off to the side before climbing onto Severus’s unmade bed, sitting back against the pillows.

“You’re gorgeous,” Severus says truthfully.

“And so are you. Now come on.” Potter curls his fist loosely around his prick, strokes himself slowly as he watches Severus undo his cuffs, unbutton his shirt. He drops it on the floor beside the pile of Potter’s clothes and bends to take off his shoes.

Then he rummages in the bedside drawer for the oil he knows is there. “This is better than a spell,” he says, once he’s found it. He holds up the slender phial.

“I know. Now are you going to get me ready?”

Severus doesn’t want to think about the fact that Potter knows a wandless lubrication spell in the first place. Or that he knows unspelled oil is better for fucking, so he sits beside Potter and unstoppers the phial. “You are sure?”

Potter actually rolls his eyes. “It’s pretty much the only thing I think about when I wank these days.” He grins. “Well, that and doing it in your lab, of course.”

“Naturally.”

Potter reaches out then, splays his fingers across Severus’s chest. Severus is bony and thin. His skin is pale and scarred and he has never been an attractive man. But the way Potter looks at him makes him feel…desirable. It’s strange. Knowing Potter wants him—for this at least—and that he is here with Severus now when he could have anyone he wanted.

“You’ve thought about it too,” Potter says, “how much you want to come in me.”

Severus’s mouth is dry. “Yes.”

“Then fuck me.” Potter rolls over onto his stomach, settling himself atop the pillows, and Severus exhales shakily. Potter’s arse is glorious, but of course it is. He smacks it gently and traces a finger down the curve of his thigh, before pouring some of the oil into his palm.

Severus slides a slick finger down Potter’s crease, strokes it back and forth over Potter’s hole, and Potter hisses, his entire body shuddering.

“Right there, then, hmm?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Potter says, but his voice is light, breath uneven. “Just get your fingers in me.”

Severus does, working one finger into his arse, pressing it in slowly, past the knuckle, twisting it gently. Despite the charm Potter used in the hallway, his hole is tight. Severus tries not to think about how it will feel around him, otherwise he’s worried he might come in his trousers before he’s even got his cock out, just from watching his fingers in Potter’s arse.

He presses another finger in, and Potter groans. “Yeah, that’s good.”

Severus spreads him wider, opening his fingers, sliding them in and out. Potter moves his hips, lifting his arse higher. “Fuck, that’s—” He breaks off when Severus pushes another finger into him, runs his other hand up Potter’s side, over his ribs. Potter’s trembling now, and he’s beautiful.

“More?” Severus asks, twisting his fingers in deeper. And, fuck, the way Potter gasps, arches his back, clenches around him is enough to take his breath away. His own cock is throbbing, already wet and leaking into his pants. “Or, are you ready for me?”

Potter manages to nod. “Yeah, god, now.” And Severus slips his fingers free, strokes his thumb over Potter’s stretched, slick hole.

His hands only shake a little as he undoes his belt, his flies. His cock is heavy, aching, as he slicks it with oil, stroking his fingers lightly up and down. Even that sensation is nearly too much for him. “God, I want you,” he hears himself saying. “I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Yeah,” Potter laughs; it’s breathless and ragged. “That makes two of us, but I really don’t care right now. And, fuck, I want to make you come.”

Shit.

Severus knows this will end badly—it has to. But he’s too far gone and, like Potter, he simply doesn’t care. He needs to know what it feels like to have his cock in Potter’s arse.

Severus wants to flip Potter over, to have him on his back so he can see his face as he fucks him, but he thinks that might be too intimate. So, he positions himself between Potter’s legs, and Potter shifts, spreading his thighs wider. Severus drags the head of his cock over Potter’s hole and that feeling alone is enough to send a shiver of need through his body that tightens around his spine. “Christ, you’re perfect,” he breathes, lining himself up, beginning to press inside.

He moves as slowly as he can, but Potter is hot and tight and—oh, oh god.

Severus’s entire body feels as if it’s on fire as he sinks in deeper, and he knows he’s never felt anything as good as the way Potter’s arse feels around his cock. Potter’s head is turned, cheek pressed against the mattress, and his eyes are closed. But he moans—a positively beautiful sound—and he relaxes into Severus’s slow press.

Severus stills, cock nearly entirely inside and looks down between them. “Fuck, Potter,” he says, withdrawing an inch and thrusting in again. “Fuck.” His hands grip Potter’s hips, fingers pressing in hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t want to be rough, doesn’t want to hurt him, but Potter rocks back—hard—and Severus can feel Potter’s body contracting around him. He rolls his hips back, then pushes in again.

“Yes, there,” Potter says, bracing himself on his elbows. “God, Snape, your cock—” He breaks off in a groan. “Just fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Severus snaps his hips forwards. He wants to make this last, wants to fuck Potter all night, but he’s nearly gone already. “Do you want to be sore tomorrow? Feel my prick when you walk, when you sit down in the Great Hall?”

“Yeah, shit—”

“That ponce Jacobs will know I fucked you.”

“He already knows,” Potter is breathless, voice tight. “He’s known I’ve wanted you for weeks. Why do you—oh, god—think he was so narked?”

“Good,” Severus says, pushing in again. It’s foolish, of course. If anything, they should be discreet. But he doesn’t care. He wants that arrogant prick to know that he’s the one Potter let fuck.

Severus reaches beneath Potter to take his cock in his hand. It’s hot and hard and perfect as Severus wraps his fingers around it, makes a fist for Potter to fuck into. Then he leans down, presses a kiss to Potter’s shoulder, the back of his neck. Potter’s body is warm, damp with sweat, and Severus breathes it in, wants to map every inch of him. Catalogue every sound Potter makes, every sensation.

Severus withdraws almost entirely, slides back in with one smooth thrust. Potter lifts his arse higher as Severus snaps his hips again. The motion forces Severus in deeper, cock hitting a spot inside that makes Potter cry out. He clenches around Severus, and the pressure is almost unbearable, almost too much.

Don’t come. Not yet.

“There?” Severus says, pushing in, hitting that spot again.

“Yes—shit—yes.”

And Severus tightens his fingers around Potter’s prick, tugs him in time with his thrusts. “God, what you do to me…”

Potter’s gasping, fingers clenching against the pillow. “Do it, Snape. Make me come.”

Severus is so, so close. His bollocks tight, thighs trembling. “Shit—Potter—” Severus twists his hand; Potter’s cock is slick, dripping. And Severus can’t stop the roll of his hips. Each slide of Potter’s arse along his cock is amazing, has him right on the edge. Then Potter is tensing, body spasming around Severus’s prick as spunk spills over his fingers, onto the sheets.

That’s all it takes.

Severus thrusts into him one more time—harder than before—as his orgasm hits.

“Yes,” Potter breathes. “Yes.”

And Severus keeps moving, his hand on Potter’s come-slick prick, his hips rocking steadily until his cock stops pulsing, until he’s too soft to keep going.

He slips out, stretches out beside Potter on the bed, hand on his back, trying to catch his breath.

“Christ, Snape,” Potter says, turning to press his mouth to Severus’s throat. “You’re a good fuck.”

Severus laughs, boneless and spent and…happy. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He casts a mediocre cleaning charm. They’ll be sticky, but he doesn’t care. He slides a hand up Potter’s side and does not think about what’s going on between them. Tells himself it doesn’t matter—that it’s all right to have…whatever this is.

“Mmm…” Potter shifts, adjusting himself on the pillows. “Can I stay?”

Severus finds it’s easy to say, “Yes.”

Potter presses a perfunctory kiss to Severus’s cheek before snuggling down beneath the blankets. “Good.” He turns, side pressed to Severus’s, leg half a top Severus’s own. “You’re warm and I’m—” He laughs softly. “That was, just, fuck.”

***

Severus wakes to Potter’s hands on his skin. Potter’s palm is warm as it slides down Severus’s side, settles on his hip, and he murmurs softly, shifting closer, pressing his chest to Severus’s back. Severus can feel the hard line of his prick.

It’s not yet morning. No light filters through the window high above Severus’s bed.

Potter brushes the hair back from Severus’s neck, kisses him there. It’s gentle, tender even. But Severus doesn’t have time to think about how comfortable he is here with Potter in his bed because Potter’s hand is on his stomach, thumb stroking back and forth, and Severus’s cock is beginning to swell.

“Mmm…” Potter’s fingertip dips to trace the arch Severus’s hipbone, and down to the juncture between groin and thigh. Severus shivers, relaxing into the touch, and Potter moans.

Then his hand is between Severus’s legs, stroking him slowly, languidly, until Severus is practically aching with need. “I like how hard you get for me,” Potter says, breath warm against Severus’s neck. He takes his hand from Severus’s prick, draws it between them to smooth down Severus’s spine, and lower, fingers slipping between his arsecheeks.

Severus tenses and Potter stills before stroking softly, tentatively along his crease to brush against his hole. “This all right?” Potter asks, voice slurred with sleep but also arousal.

“Yes…”

And Potter groans, reaching out his other hand. “Good. That’s good.” There’s a whispered spell and the phial of oil—discarded somewhere hours before—soars into his grasp.

He’s gentle, patient, as he stretches Severus open. The sensation is strange, and Severus feels distinctly exposed. He’s had fingers in his arse before. His own. A partner or two. But it’s not a feeling he thinks he’ll ever be used to. And there’s a vulnerability here that Severus would typically shy away from. He is, after all, naturally guarded, untrusting.

But Potter’s fingers feel exquisite as he crooks them, twists them, opening him wider.

“God, you feel good,” Potter says, adding another finger, slowly but assuredly, stretching him, stretching him. “Will feel amazing when I’m inside.” He slides his thumb against the sensitive skin between Severus’s bollocks and now-stretched hole. “Do you need more?”

Severus’s cock leaks and he rocks back into the press of Potter’s fingers and says, “No.”

Potter slips his fingers free, leans forwards to press his forehead to Severus’s shoulder. His hand moves possessively over Severus’s stomach, and he takes a deep breath and then another, as though trying to steady, to ground himself. Severus feels Potter’s cock, a hot brand against his arse, and his fingers clench and his hips flex in one small motion that makes Severus shiver.

There is no pain, no discomfort when Potter finally begins to press in. But Severus did not really expect there to be. Potter, after all, is far from the reckless boy Severus once thought him. Still, it has been years since Severus has allowed—has wanted—anyone to do this to him, and the feeling of being breached, of being filled is overwhelming. But Potter’s hand, slick with lubrication, is wrapped around Severus’s prick in delicious counterpoint to the foreign sensation.

Severus takes a slow breath and relaxes against the push of Potter’s cock into his body.

Potter moves slowly, deliberately, sliding in inch by inch. And, finally, he is fully seated, hips flush against Severus’s arse. Potter’s breath is ragged, chest rising and falling. “Oh, that’s…” Potter starts, but he breaks off, hand squeezing Severus’s cock. “Shit.”

Potter doesn’t move—not for a long moment. He just stays there all the way inside, breathing, breathing. Severus already feels as though he’s perched atop some precipice. Feels stretched too thin, glass about to break.

“You okay?” Potter says.

“Yes.”

“Good. I just need a second.” Then, Potter shifts his hips back and rocks forwards again. Easy and slow, one smooth slide of his cock in Severus’s arse.

It’s perfect.

Severus feels as though it could almost be a dream. Here, in his bed, in the middle of the night with Harry Potter. Harry bloody Potter who is slowly but surely pulling him apart.

He finds a rhythm, sliding in and out, in and out, and the arm around Severus’s chest keeps him close, allows Potter to push in deeper with each measured thrust of his hips. “Christ, I could do this for days, Snape. Forget about everything. Just stay in bed with you.” Potter’s voice is rough, pulled tight with want, and it sends a rush of heat through Severus’s veins.

He closes his eyes, focusses on the press and slide of Potter’s cock in his arse, on the slick tightness of Potter’s hand around him as he strokes him up and down, up and down.

Then Potter is rolling him over onto his stomach without pulling out. His body is warm and solid on Severus’s back. He moves faster now, leaning forwards to drape himself across Severus, to rest his forehead against Severus’s back, to take one of Severus’s hands in his, pin it against the mattress as he fucks into him. Severus can feel Potter’s breath, warm and ragged against his skin, can feel the tension in Potter’s muscles—his forearms, his thighs—as he fights to keep some semblance of control. The filthy words that spill from his lips are nearly enough to push Severus over the edge.

Severus’s own cock is throbbing where it’s trapped beneath his body, and each snap of Potter’s hips rocks him forwards, presses it against the bed and Severus realises he could come like this, without a hand on his prick, just rubbing against the blankets with Potter inside him.

“I’m…shit, I’m—” Potter groans, and Severus can feel when he starts to come, shuddering as he thrusts in hard once more, cock spasming as warm wetness floods Severus’s insides. Severus grinds his hips down into the mattress chasing his own orgasm as his pleasure builds and crests. Then his cock is pulsing as he spends himself into the sheets.

After, they lie curled together, Potter’s head resting on the crook of Severus’s arm. And Severus tries not to think about how he could get used to this. To being with Potter. Instead, he listens to the steady sound of Potter’s breathing, draws small circles on Potter’s ribs with his finger.

“I haven’t done that since I was seventeen.” Severus isn’t sure why he’s saying this. Sex and sleep have left him loose-tongued. Potter stills, then shifts against him. Even in the darkness, Severus can feel him watching him.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Potter doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but still he’s looking at Severus. Finally, he relaxes again, head back on Severus’s shoulder. “I hope I made it good for you, then.”

Severus laughs because ‘good’ doesn’t begin to describe it.

“Who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Potter says.

It doesn’t matter. Evan Rosier has been dead for nearly twenty years. And, even then, Severus knew it wouldn’t last. As he knows now that this…liaison with Potter won’t last. He turns his head, breathes in the scent on Potter’s hair and resists the urge to run his hands along Potter’s lovely skin.

Potter reaches out, though, traces the thick, ropy scars on Severus’s neck, and Severus stiffens. It doesn’t hurt. The scars aren’t overly sensitive, but there’s a vulnerability there—that tangible reminder of Severus’s mortality, and of Potter’s magic. How he saved him. But Severus has allowed Potter…other liberties tonight, and he does not pull away. He lets Potter curl his fingers around Severus’s throat, press his palm to the fluttering of his pulse.

“I’d never healed anyone like that before.” Potter says the words quietly; Severus can hardly hear. “Not until that night. Not until you.”

In the morning, Potter is gone. Severus is not disappointed. Why would he be? He has work to do and he doesn’t need Potter underfoot. So, he showers and dresses, ignoring the not unpleasant twinge in his arse, and heads to his lab to begin the day’s brewing.

***

Four days later, Minerva asks for Severus’s assistance outside of the dungeons. He has not seen Potter since the night they fucked. The night Potter fucked him. Potter has not sought him out and Severus might be avoiding the Great Hall again. But he cannot decline Minerva’s request, so he appears at her office at the designated time. Potter is already there. As are Filius and three of the Aurors—including the blond prat, Severus notes.

Filius and Minerva are by the window, cups of tea in their hands. The Aurors are chatting…loudly. Severus has been here for less than a minute and he’s already annoyed. Potter leans back against Minerva’s desk, arms folded, listening to whatever no doubt idiotic things they are saying. But he turns his head when Severus walks into the room, and Severus cannot deny the look he gives him, eyes flicking up and down Severus’s body.

Jacobs follows his gaze, pursing his lips, narrowing his eyes, but Severus only sneers, and the man looks away again.

Potter smirks.

Then he uncrosses his arms and slides his hands into his pockets, the fabric of his trousers pulling taut across his groin. Severus can see the outline of his prick beneath the too-tight denim. Potter rocks forwards ever so slightly, eyes still on Severus. He knows damned well the movement accentuates the swell of his cock.

Severus ignores the way the back of his neck heats, ignores Potter’s raised eyebrow, and Minerva has begun the meeting anyway, so Severus forces his attention away from Potter.

It’s blood magic. Again.

Albus, in all his brilliance, with his endless stream of contingencies, and even—as Severus feels obliged to note—in the face of his certain and imminent death, failed to consider the sheer amount of magic in the castle that answered to him and, apparently, him alone.

The oversight has proved tiresome.

Luckily, though, Severus is very good at magic. He has more experience with blood magic than anyone should likely have. And he was also Headmaster—however briefly—so the castle, to some extent, seems to tolerate his magic in absence of Albus’s. Or, at the very least, Hogwarts allows him to work with some of the protective enchantments that were previously under Albus’s purview. As long as he does not try to unravel them, that is.

Once Potter understands what he’s doing, sees how Severus is able to manipulate the existing magic without attempting to dismantle it, he’s able to help—his own stabilising spells bolstering Severus’s. And Potter is strong. Severus knows this. Hell, the whole bloody world knows this. But casting alongside him as they layer new magic atop Albus’s existing ward work feels good.

And they’re making progress.

The Aurors are worse than useless.

Filius—just to get them out of the way—directs them to cast routine detection spells, identifying any residual magic that could interfere with the enchantments they’re working to set. Never mind the fact both he and Potter can sense such magic without wand or spell.

Jacobs is sensible enough to realise this and, while not foolish enough to complain openly to Filius or Minerva, is not best pleased. Severus finds his irritation amusing and enjoys, even more, the way he stares moodily at Potter while they work.

Potter pays Jacobs no attention at all.

When they break for a cup of tea, Minerva has the audacity to smile, to say she understands now why Potter has been helping Severus in the dungeons. “Your magic,” she says, “who knew it complemented each other’s so delightfully?”

Severus glares.

The look Jacobs gives is murderous.

Potter doesn’t seem to notice.

They work for several more hours and, by the time they stop for the day, Severus feels saturated by Potter’s magic. It thrums all around him in the way it had in the shack that night. The night Potter saved his life. It’s soothing and intoxicating and makes Severus want to take Potter to his bed, to keep him there for days.

But when Potter says, “I could use a drink,” Severus does not invite him to his rooms. He does not say anything at all. Instead, he watches Jacob put a hand on his back, grinning like an imbecile.

“Hogsmeade it is, then, yeah?”

Potter does not pull away as the man drapes his arm around his shoulders, but he does look at Severus. And Severus thinks there’s a challenge in his eyes when he says, “What do you say, Snape? Join us?”

It is not terribly hard to say, “I think not.” Severus ignores the nausea that churns in his gut as he walks past Potter, past Jacobs, to return to his dungeons.

***

It’s none of his concern, of course.

Severus doesn’t think Potter is fucking the blond Auror—is fucking anyone else—but he has always been a jealous man. And he can’t help but…dislike the way Jacobs looks at Potter. The way Potter, sometimes, looks back. It makes Severus feel ill.

They’ve said nothing of monogamy. They wouldn’t, of course. The idea that they would have such a conversation—sit down and discuss things like exclusivity and expectations—is laughable. After all, they are not in a relationship, and what Potter does in his free time is not Severus’s business.

But he still can’t help the intrusive thoughts that creep into his head once he’s three drinks in and alone in his rooms that night.

Severus shuts off the lights and goes to bed.

***

Potter finds him in his dungeons the following afternoon. He has just finished reworking the protective enchantments cloaking the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Whether they came undone during the battle or just over the years of students testing them with incorrect passwords or ill-cast detection charms, Severus can’t say. He stands, brushing the dust off his trousers, and turns to face Potter. The boy’s leaning casually against the wall, watching him.

Severus isn’t sure why, but suddenly the sight of Potter—positively dripping with magic and effortless charm—makes him angry, and he really doesn’t want to do this now. “Did you have fun last night?” he says, harshly. “Did Jacobs—how did he say it—show you a good time?”

“Yeah,” Potter says simply, not giving Severus the satisfaction of being angered by his tone or the clear implication in Severus’s question. “I did have a good time.”

Severus turns back to the now-blank wall masking the common room doorway, though the spellwork is complete. He takes a deep breath and then another.

“Are you jealous, Snape?” Potter says then. Severus hears him take a step towards him. “Because,” Potter laughs, “I think you are and that’s—” He laughs again. “That’s really fucking hot.”

Severus whips back around, anger and something else spiking through his veins. “I’m not—”

“Of course not,” Potter says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Of course you didn’t lie in your bed last night wondering if I let him fuck me.” Potter presses his lips together. “Though, Jacobs strikes me as more of a bottom, don’t you think?”

“Enough!” Severus is practically shaking and Potter—Potter is standing too close. Severus wants to hit him or kiss him and he really should just walk away.

“I didn’t fuck him,” Potter says, leaning in, words soft, barely a whisper against Severus’s skin. “I didn’t even let him touch me.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, you do. But it’s all right because I don’t want him.” Potter is so close now Severus can feel the warmth from his body, the spark of his magic, and Severus’s fingers itch to reach out and touch. “I just want you.”

Severus doesn’t think. He just grabs Potter’s arm and drags him across the hall to a deserted classroom, kicking the door shut behind him and pressing Potter roughly against it. Then, in the dim light, he kisses him—greedily, open-mouthed, and eager. Fuck, it’s been less than a week, but Severus has missed this. Has missed Potter. And he would be scared at how much he wants—no needs—him, if he had time to think. If Potter weren’t kissing him back so hard he can barely breathe.

Potter’s fingers clutch at Severus’s shirt, tug him impossibly closer, and the anger, jealousy, and desire all roiling in Severus’s gut make him dizzy—make him take him by the shoulders, walk him backwards, push him up against the worktable. Potter’s eyes go wide behind glasses and, even in the near darkness, Severus can see the hunger, the want there. It burns like fire down his spine and makes his cock harden. Potter lifts his head, licks at Severus’s scar, and Severus shivers.

“I didn’t fuck Jacobs,” he repeats.

“No?”

“No. Didn’t even want to.”

Severus spins him around, pinning him between his body and the table, and presses up against him. He rocks his hips forwards, and Potter curses, feeling Severus’s prick—hard against his arse—through the layers of fabric.

“This is what you want, then?” Severus manages. His voice is too rough, too strained, but he grinds his hips against Potter, leans over to suck at the tendon of his neck, while Potter braces himself against the worktop.

“Yes,” Potter says, pressing back against him. “Yes.”

Severus unclasps Potter’s belt, unzips his jeans. Potter already hard, and he groans, rocking back against Severus again when he takes him from his pants, strokes him.

Severus gets his own trousers open, slides them down his thighs just enough to get his cock out. The head is damp, sticky as he drags it along Potter’s crease, over the pucker of his hole, and Potter hisses, rocks up onto his toes. “I don’t have any lube,” Severus says. “Not proper at least.”

“That’s all right.” Severus hears the whispered incantation, feels the faint pulse of magic between them, and Potter is looser, slicked.

It’s not as good as oil. Thinner, won’t last as long. But Severus’s thumb slides in easily enough, past the ring of muscle, and Potter moans, pushing back into the press. He feels amazing, and Severus’s stomach clenches in anticipation of having his cock inside.

“No fingers,” Potter says. “I’m good. Just get your cock in me.”

Fuck.

Severus pulls his thumb out and spits in his palm, smearing saliva over his cock in two quick tugs. It’s filthy and not enough, but Potter is telling Severus to fuck him, so he lines himself up and begins to push in, shuddering as the tip of his prick slides into Potter’s arse. Potter is tight…so tight, and Severus tries to go slow. He really does. But Potter widens his stance, is pushing back, bearing down, and it’s so, so good.

“Potter…” Severus says, and his voice is tight. He grips Potter’s hip, worried he might come before they’ve hardly begun, before he’s even all the way inside, and he wants to enjoy this. But Potter just arches back into him, and Severus slides in deeper until he’s in to the base.

They stand there for a moment connected, their breaths coming loud in the quiet room. Severus flexes his fingers against Potter’s waist and fights the urge to pull out and slam back into Potter’s gorgeous arse. Instead, he slides out in an excruciatingly slow movement until only the head of his cock is still inside, and thrusts in again. Potter cries out, hole clenching around Severus’s cock, and smacks his hand against the surface of the table.

“God, just fuck me, Snape. Like you mean it.”

“Yeah?” He hardly recognises his own voice.

“Fuck, yeah—”

Severus does. Hips snapping against Potter’s arse as Potter pushes back into his thrusts. It forces him in harder, deeper still, and Severus groans.

“Careful,” Severus warns. “You’ll do yourself damage.”

“I don’t care,”

“I do.” Severus tightens his hold on Potter’s waist, keeping him still as he fucks back into him. He’s doing his best to keep his movements measured, controlled, so he doesn’t lose himself in this. But Severus’s pulse is pounding and his balls are aching, and—Christ—he wants Potter to feel him when he moves tomorrow.

Potter curses under his breath, jerks his hips back again, and all Severus can think about is the slick, warm slide of his cock inside Potter’s body. He reaches for Potter’s prick. It’s thick and hard and wet with pre-come, and Severus strokes him in time with his thrusts.

“That’s right, Snape,” Potter says, “Get me off. Make me come while you’re inside me.”

His hips move faster now; his rhythm is off. The pleasure is razor sharp as Severus pushes in again and, fuck, he wants.

He hears voices down the corridor and, distantly, Severus thinks they haven’t put up a privacy or silencing charm. Haven’t even locked the door. But he doesn’t care because Potter is fucking back into him again so hard the table is rocking beneath them, thudding up against the wall. “God, I’m close,” Potter groans, and Severus twists his wrist, tugs his cock faster as his hips slap against Potter’s again and again.

Potter is panting now, and the lubrication spell is wearing off. But it only makes each slide of Severus’s cock more intense, more— “Fuck, I’m going to come in you now, yeah?” he says, and Potter moans, tightening around him.

“Yes—”

Severus comes hard, hips pumping as he spends himself in Potter’s arse.

“Goddamn, Snape,” Potter is saying, still moving, thrusting into the tight loop of Severus’s hand. “So, fucking, hot.” And then he’s shuddering beneath him, as his come splatters against the stone floor. Potter slumps against the table, Severus’s now-softening cock still half-inside his arse, his spunk seeping out around it.

Severus feels raw, hollowed out. He’s never had sex like this before, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get enough of Potter.

“Harry? Harry?” The voice pulls Severus from his thoughts. It sounds like Granger. “Are you down here?”

Potter groans, shifting so Severus’s cock slides out of his arse. “Fuck,” he breathes, as the girl calls out again. Closer now.

And the door isn’t locked.

Severus tugs up his trousers, fingers fumbling at the fastenings. Potter is still bent over his lab table, jeans around his ankles, but he waves a hand, and the bolt on the door slides into place just as someone tries the handle from outside.

“Fuck,” Potter says again, pushing himself upright. He looks positively well-fucked. Cheeks flushed, temples sheened with sweat, hair in disarray. Severus sees a faint bruise on his hip, the shape of Severus’s fingertip. Potter pulls up his jeans, zips them just as someone tries the door again.

“Well, that’s odd. Why would it be locked?”

Potter leans close, brushes his lips against Severus’s cheek. It’s the faintest of touches, but it makes Severus flush, nearly makes him forget about the people outside. Until Potter pulls back with a wink and walks over and opens the door to the confused faces of Granger, Arthur Weasley, and—fucking hell—Minerva.

“Oh, hey,” Potter says, walking past them and into the hall. “I was just taking a break.”

But Granger’s not looking at him. She’s looking back into the classroom at Severus. Severus who is still standing by the worktable, his shirt untucked, his trousers undone and wrinkled, Potter’s come surely evident on the floor at his feet.

“With Professor Snape?” she asks, clearly not understanding.

“Yeah,” Potter says. He offers no other explanation.

Arthur catches on more quickly. His pale eyes going wide, then narrowing accusingly at Severus.

Potter doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. “So, is it time to set the protections beneath the North Tower?” he asks, before turning to walk down the hall towards the stairs.

***

“I got you pardoned.”

Severus glares. “I know.” He received word this morning. There will be trials—the Ministry holding cells are filled with Death Eaters awaiting their time in court—but Severus will not be brought before the Wizengamot. Shacklebolt announced his list of official pardons, and Severus has been fully exonerated. “I never asked that of you.” And he didn’t. After the battle. After Potter defeated the Dark Lord and Severus should have been dead, he’d been content to let them take him away. Let them throw him in Azkaban and banish the key, or hand him over to the Dementors, to the Kiss. He didn’t ask for Potter’s impassioned defence of him to Shacklebolt. Or Minerva’s or Filius’s statements for that matter. Or Albus’s curated memories. He didn’t ask for any of it.

Potter’s eyes narrow but then he smiles. “No, you didn’t, but come on, Snape. Even you can’t say you’d prefer to spend the rest of your life rotting in Azkaban.”

No. Severus can’t bring himself to say he would. Nor can he say he’d rather be dead—though sometimes he thinks that would be preferable. So, he says nothing.

Potter tilts his head to the side and looks at Severus for a long moment.

Severus can’t tell if it’s want or nausea that twists in his gut.

“Want to suck me off?” Potter says.

They end up in Severus’s rooms, Severus on the sofa while Potter stands before him. He’s got his jeans pushed down and, fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Severus grabs Potter’s hips, pulls him closer, his fingers pressing into perfect skin. There will be bruises there—Severus wants there to be bruises. “Look at you,” Severus says, voice rough. “So beautiful, and so hard for me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now make me come.”

***

Sometimes Severus swears he hears Lily’s voice.

‘Isn’t it sweet, Severus? Fucking the boy you used to hate. The boy who’s young enough to be your son.’

“He’s your son, not mine. And,” Severus finds it easy enough to admit, “I haven’t hated him for a long time now.”

‘True. People will talk though. You must admit it’s rather unseemly. You wanted me but couldn’t have me. So now you have him.’

“People always talk. And I didn’t want you.” The “Not like I want him” goes without saying, but Severus says it anyway.

‘You loved me though, and I can’t say he’ll ever love you.’

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter.”

‘No. I guess not.’ Severus can see her sad smile.

Lily is still beautiful, and she is still gone.

***

The next time Severus goes to the Great Hall for dinner, Potter sits down beside him.

He’s already there when Severus arrives, standing with Granger and Lee Jordan, George Weasley and Hannah Abbott. But as soon as Severus takes a seat by himself at the end of the long table, Potter joins him.

Granger hesitates for just a moment, then follows, sitting beside Potter, across from Severus. “Professor Snape,” she says, “I’m glad you’re well.”

He nods and serves himself from the platter of meat and veg that appears before them. Granger spoons some roasted potatoes onto her plate, takes a chicken leg, some greens. Potter just looks at him, says nothing. And, if Granger didn’t already suspect—didn’t already know—they were fucking, it would be clearly, painfully obvious now that they are.

***

Severus isn’t sure what’s come over him, accompanying Potter and several others into Hogsmeade.

But when Potter stood up from dinner, said he was going to get a drink, Severus couldn’t stand the idea of him off with…other people that are not him.

So now he sits, nursing a pint, and marvelling at the fact that Potter is…flirting with him. The Aurors are here. Jacobs sits across from Potter, drinking gin and looking downright miserable. At one point, Potter puts a hand on Severus’s thigh, leans in too close.

It’s apparently more than Jacobs can stand.

“Seriously, Harry?” he says, slamming his drink down; it sloshes over the rim of his glass. “You let this guy fuck you? I mean, you know who he is, yeah?”

Severus takes a deep breath. He really doesn’t want to deal with this arsehole now. But Potter doesn’t react. Doesn’t seem to care at all. Instead, he takes a sip of his beer, looks Jacobs straight in the eye, and says, “Dunno, mate, did you ever consider it’s me who fucks him?”

Jacobs practically chokes on his drink, face going an unbecoming shade of red.

Severus hides his smile behind the lip of his pint glass.

***

It’s indecent, really, Severus bent over the arm of his sofa while Potter stretches him open. But he finds he doesn’t care—not with the sounds Potter makes as he watches his fingers sliding in and out of Severus’s arse. Not with the way he groans as he slicks his cock, the way he must steady himself, one hand on the small of Severus’s back, the other gripping the base of his erection tightly as he takes one deep breath and then another. And then the quiet curse as he finally pushes inside.

Afterwards, they sit on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. They aren’t touching, but Potter is close enough that Severus can feel the warmth of his body, smell the sweat on his skin.

Severus’s chest is bare, his shirt discarded, his trousers undone. They are wrinkled and no doubt stained with his own spunk and Potter’s.

But Potter is naked and Severus can’t help but look at him. He’s got his legs stretched out before him and his head tilted back, dark hair against the cushion. Severus wants to run his tongue along the column of his throat.

“I’m not like that, you know,” Potter says.

“Not like what?”

“Not the type that fucks all sorts of people.” He looks sideways at Severus. “If you thought I was, that is.”

Severus doesn’t say anything. He has no right to care about the men Potter has been with, the things he’s done with other partners, lovers. And anything he does say will come out wrong—as though he’s jealous, or insecure, or petty. And Severus, of course, is all of these things, but Potter does not need to know this.

Potter laughs softly. “Before you, I’d only ever slept with one other person. During the war.” He shakes his head. “We met in a pub one night and, well, he wanted me. That much was obvious, and I—I was going to die, Snape. So, it felt like something I should do, yeah? Have some fun. Live a bit. And he was great, really. We saw each other a few times—but it was while we were on the run. Searching for Horcruxes. Couldn’t stay in one place very long and… Well, it obviously wasn’t going to last anyway.” He looks down, hair falling into his face. “Can I stay tonight?”

Severus finds himself saying, “Yes” without hesitation.

Potter nods, reaches out to place a hand on Severus’s knee. “Good.”

And, while Severus knows there is nothing like affection between them—there is loneliness and dysfunction and, yes, there is wanting—he also knows that he likes having Potter in his bed and in his rooms.

Surely, Potter is depressed. Severus is too, has been for half his life. And they have found themselves together not because they belong or because they can make each other happy—though, Severus has found himself contemplating that emotion at times, lately—but because they are broken and their jagged pieces seem to align when they are here alone together, fighting or fucking or just…being.

But Severus realises he doesn’t care about any of this. “Good,” he says, echoing Potter. “Good.”

***

“Severus,” Minerva catches up to him as he leaves the Great Hall. “Do you have a moment?”

Severus wants to say no, wants to retreat to his dungeons and his whisky and the possibility of Potter at his door. But Minerva knows him as well as anyone, so he nods and walks beside her through the halls to the spiral staircase leading up to her office.

Minerva takes a bottle of scotch from the shelf behind her desk, pours a glass for herself and for Severus. Severus takes it but does not sit down. She takes a sip of her drink, looking at Severus over the rims of her spectacles. “It’s about Harry.”

Severus does not respond, keeps his expression entirely neutral. He’s had years of practice, after all, concealing his thoughts.

She sighs. “I know you are close. That you have become…involved, to some extent.”

When he says nothing, she sighs again and prompts: “Severus.”

“I won’t deny it.”

Minerva is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Severus, he’s returning. For his eighth year.”

Something cold unfurls in Severus’s stomach. He wants to sit down but does not. He looks down at his hands; they’re clenched tightly around his glass. “I didn’t know.”

Minerva frowns. “The boy shares your bed and you didn’t know he intends to return to finish his schooling? That he will be your student again?”

The alcohol sours in Severus’s stomach. “He must not have thought to mention it.” His voice is curt. “And I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t—” She stops, takes a deep breath. “All right.”

Severus does not say that they do not talk, that he has better uses for Potter’s mouth because that would be crude.

And it would be untrue.

Because despite what Potter may or may not mean to Severus—what Severus may or may not mean to Potter—Severus knows now that there is more to their time together than sex.

And they do talk. More and more. Late at night when the castle is asleep and Potter has not returned to his tower.

They just don’t talk about the future. About what comes next. Because to do so Severus would have to acknowledge, to admit that there could be something next for them. That something could exist outside of this brief moment in time, suspended between the war and the after.

And Severus would have to admit that he would like that.

“I don’t think he intends our liaison to continue past summer.” Severus keeps his tone neutral, his face carefully blank. Still, the words cost him something.

***

“Minerva knows we are…involved.” Even this innocuous comment feels strange, as though Severus is acknowledging something that he shouldn’t. Or that he’s putting too much weight on…whatever it is that’s going on between them. Because they’re not together—not really. There is no relationship. They’ve never spoken of commitment or made plans for the future. That thought is laughable, isn’t it?

They’re in Severus’s lab. Severus retreated here after his disquieting conversation with Minerva, and Potter, as expected, appeared at his door—even though it’s late. Now he’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, one knee drawn up. He’s making clouds of multi-coloured confetti appear in mid-air before him, only to disappear again before it flutters to the ground.

“A lot of people know, Snape,” Potter says, unconcerned. “We haven’t exactly been discreet.”

“No. But she said you intend to return as an eighth year, complete your schooling?”

Potter looks up at him, face blank. There’s some purple glitter in his hair. “You know I’m not joining the Aurors.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else I would do requires mastery. Or, at least, NEWTs.”

“And you can sit for your exams,” Severus says carefully. Merlin knows, Potter could pass them in his sleep. “You don’t need to return to Hogwarts to do so.”

“I could. But I’d like to do things properly.”

“Then you understand Minerva’s concern about our liaison.”

Potter shrugs, a burst of green and pink exploding from a fingertip. “Not especially. It’s no business of anyone’s, really, what two consenting adults do in their spare time.”

Severus takes a steadying breath. “I know you’re not this obtuse. Come September, I will, once again, be your professor. A continued relationship will be improper.”

Potter smiles, but the twist of his lips is cruel. “Come now, Snape. I’d say it’s already rather improper. Or, at least, it’s not the type of thing one discusses in polite company.

“Perhaps not, but there are rules—”

At this, Potter’s expression turns mulish. “I thought you used to love my rule-breaking. Made you feel important. All those detentions.”

Severus glares. Potter only narrows his eyes. “Just don’t mention being my professor again or I’ll hex you.” But then he sighs. “I did everything they ever asked of me. You did too, for that matter. And more. So, excuse me if I just can’t bring myself to care much about school rules at the moment.”

“Still, it doesn’t mean Minerva will be able to ignore it, to look the other way.”

Potter looks at him for a long time. Finally, he says, “I guess not. Does that bother you?”

Severus opens his mouth, closes it again. Potter can be infuriating. “Does the prospect of being brought before the governing board for indecent behaviour with a student bother me?”

Potter looks at him blankly as though it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Of course, it bothers me!” Severus clenches his fists, feels the press of his nails bite into his palms. Potter never fails to get him on unequal footing. When he doesn’t respond, Severus takes a breath, forces his voice to calm. “I would lose my job. My sole source of income. I—” He trails off, not sure what else to say. What Potter wants him to say.

But Potter is only watching him, expression unreadable. After a moment, he stands, dusting bits of confetti off his jeans. “All right. If that’s how you truly feel about it.” Then he walks from the room, shutting the door behind him.

***

Three days later, Potter breaks things off. Officially, as though, perhaps, they were in a relationship after all. It’s midmorning, and Severus has just returned to the castle from the greenhouses. Potter is standing in the foyer and, by the looks of it, he’s been waiting for him.

Potter is young. He is attractive and he’s the sodding hero. Severus always knew it wouldn’t last, that he’d move on.

And, he practically demanded they end things anyhow.

Still, Severus hadn’t expected it to hurt quite like this.

And later, when he passes Jacobs in the corridor leading to the dungeon stairs, he doesn’t miss how he snickers, his face haughty and practically triumphant. Severus is rather proud of his restraint, that he doesn’t hex the man right there in then. Instead, he pushes past and returns to his rooms, imagining all the spells he could have cast.

***

Term starts in less than two weeks.

Severus has lessons to prepare and potions to complete. There are staff meetings to attend, and Severus spends an entire afternoon with Jonathan Monroe, the new Defence hire, reviewing his plans and answering questions. Reconstruction is thankfully, for the most part, complete. There are no more junior Aurors or spare Weasleys wandering about at all hours of the day. And the castle corridors, the Great Hall have taken on that temporary calm, amplified by the absence of the students that will so soon be filling their spaces.

Potter leaves Hogwarts the day after their…conversation, presumably to return to his godfather’s house in London.

And that…is that.

After all, you cannot lose something you never had. And, when Potter returns, he will be Severus’s student again—as he was before. Severus tells himself this is good because there won’t be any confusion as to what Potter might mean to him. What he might mean to Potter.

Severus does not think about what it will be like having Potter in class. Having to look at him each day, treat him like anyone else while knowing what it’s like to have him stretched out beneath him in bed. Knowing what his skin tastes like and how it looks with bruises the shape of Severus’s fingertips on his hips, or scratches from his nails along his back.

And Severus does not wonder what Potter’s classmates will think. How many of them will have heard, will know the things they did together, to each other these past two months.

Such gossip spreads like Fiendfyre around Hogwarts and—when it involves Harry Potter? Frankly, Severus is surprised there hasn’t been a Prophet article.

Christ, what was he thinking?

But it’s all right because Severus doesn’t care. Not really. Students and staff and the wizarding world in general have long said far worse things about Severus Snape than that he took the Boy Hero to bed.

***

The evening of the Welcoming Feast, however, arrives far too quickly, and Severus is…nervous. It’s not a feeling he’s used to; it’s not a feeling he likes.

And while he tries to remain calm—tries not to think about Potter at all—his pulse is racing by the time the students begin to arrive, crowding into the Great Hall.

Severus takes a deep breath, curls his lip into a suitable sneer. He is always Occluding—old habits are difficult to break—but even so, he fears the entire hall must know what he’s thinking. Or suspect it, at least.

He keeps his eyes on his Slytherins as they take their seats, carefully avoiding looking at the Gryffindor table. Still, he knows the instant Potter steps foot through the door, and he wonders if he is as…aware of Severus, of his magic, as Severus is of him.

But Minerva appears then, Sorting Hat in hand, the cluster of nervous first-years gathered around her, and Severus forces his thoughts away from Potter. But once the new students are in place before the High Table and Minerva has welcomed everyone back for start of term, Severus feels Potter watching him. The back of his neck prickles and he flexes his fingers against the tabletop. He picks up his goblet, takes a slow sip of wine and, only then, does he allow himself to look around the Great Hall, eyes sweeping over each table in turn before landing on Gryffindor.

Potter is looking directly at him.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Severus looks away again, down at his hands, into his glass, anywhere but Potter.

The Sorting begins.

What does it matter if Potter is staring at him? Everyone is watching the new students now and not paying any mind to whom Harry Potter is looking at.

But Severus knows.

Claire Anderson sorts Ravenclaw and Theodore Burgher, Hufflepuff. Potter props an elbow on the table, rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. His expression is cool, impassive, but still he’s watching Severus. Another student goes to Ravenclaw, and then Severus gets his first new Slytherin. He nods once at the boy, watching as he takes his place with his new housemates. They greet him cordially, showing a far more appropriate degree of restraint than the raucous celebrations taking place at the tables around them. And still, Severus knows Potter is watching him.

Finally, when Aoife Edwards becomes the first new Gryffindor, Severus allows himself to look at Potter again. Potter raises an eyebrow, and Severus glares, but Potter only smiles, a half-twist of his lips. Granger’s beside him and she turns, putting a hand on his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. He frowns, shakes his head, says something under his breath, and Granger’s eyes narrow. Her lips are pressed in a tight line as she looks up at the High Table, up at Severus. Ginevra Weasley is watching Potter now too, from where she’s seated across the table. And a few other Gryffindors have clearly noticed…whatever exchange has taken place between Potter and Granger. They are looking at Potter, and up to the High Table and—

Severus does not bury his face in his hands. He takes a rather large gulp of wine and focusses on his Slytherins. He doesn’t care if half of Gryffindor—hell, if half the student body—knows he spent the summer fucking Harry Potter. He is used to scrutiny, to people talking, to his students thinking all sorts of unpleasant things about him. And, being with Potter—unlike countless other choices he’s made before—is not something he regrets.

The Sorting ends, and the feast begins. There are platters of meats and veg, tureens of soups and sauces, bowls of mashed and boiled potatoes, and towers of warm bread, soft cheeses, and assorted pasties filling the tables.

There is no uprising at Gryffindor table, no confrontation between Potter and his mates. Whatever Potter has said—or hasn’t said—is none of Severus’s concern. And, aside from the usual pointed glares that Severus would receive—regardless of Harry Potter—the meal progresses. His colleagues chat around him, discussing their new students, sharing last minute lesson concerns, and—as they have done for years and years—ignoring Severus’s questionable behaviour.

And, there is no longer anything going on between himself and Potter. Minerva knows they ended things, knows Severus would not touch a student under his charge. So Severus cuts his meat, drinks his wine, and does not look at Gryffindor table again.

***

But that night, well after curfew—after Severus has checked on his Slytherins one last time, has seen that his first-years are tucked into their beds, has confirmed that all Firewhisky, smuggled in or procured from the kitchens, has been cleared from his common room—there is a knock at his door.

Severus knows it’s him—of course it is. He considers not answering, pretending that he doesn’t want to see Potter. That would be the proper thing to do, the reasonable thing, after all. But he can’t stop himself from getting to his feet, from opening the door, from letting Potter into his sitting room.

And just the sight of Potter, with that familiar and infuriating smirk on his charming face, makes Severus want to lash out. He finds himself hating himself, hating Potter for still affecting him the way he does. But he knows that being hateful, saying all the things he wants to say—but does not truly mean—will accomplish nothing. And lashing out because he wants Potter so badly is low even for Severus.

Severus will not give him the satisfaction. “What are you doing here?” he asks, voice low but calm.

“We broke up.”

“I know. Hence the question: What are you doing here?”

“No one thinks we’re together,” Potter says slowly, as though Severus is a particularly dense first year. “Honestly, they had trouble—no offence—understanding to begin with. Assumed I was just…going through some things after the war. But now? No one thinks we’re together, Severus. No one knows. No one even suspects.”

It takes a moment, but Severus starts to understand. Realises what Potter has planned, what he has done.

He takes a step closer to Severus, shakes his head. “Christ, tonight in the common room? Well, no one really likes you much—but we can’t say they ever did, now, can we? So there’s that. But seriously, I’ll plead temporary insanity to my friends. And what’s that word Muggle psychiatrists use? Confirmation bias? It’s perfect. They don’t want to believe we were together. Can’t imagine we would have been. So—” He shrugs. “For the year only, though, okay? After that, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”

Severus’s head is spinning. “This is…what you want?”

“For months after the war, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want anything again. But then with you?” The smile is back, a genuine curve of pink lips. “Yeah, I want you.”

“Did you wear your cloak?” Severus finds himself saying, because he’s not sure he can say anything else.

“I don’t need it. I’m pretty good at disillusionment charms these days.”

Severus has done many a foolish thing in his life, but this—this doesn’t feel foolish at all. “We’ll need to be discreet.”

“So no snogging in the corridor outside the Slytherin common room or fucking in the Potions classroom—without a proper privacy charm in place, that is.” He nods, eyes bright. “Got it.”

Severus does not laugh; he pulls Potter forwards, into his arms, kisses his forehead, over his scar. And Potter tilts his head up, presses his mouth to his, kisses him properly. Then he says against Severus’s lips: “Don’t worry, discreet I can do.”

Yes, they can be discreet. After all, Severus was a spy and Harry is…Harry Potter.