Resilience

Waking up, he thought that the chair had become really uncomfortable. All his limbs were stiff. Snape lifted up his head and glanced groggily around the room. It was already dark. The one and only window in his quarters was as dark as everything inside and outside. He must have fallen asleep. Fumbling for his pocket watch, he waved his hand and light spilled from the ceiling. He started blinking furiously. Waving his hand again, he set the light to be much less blinding. He checked his watch and his hand shook. It was too late. He was not back yet. At 11.06 PM. Snape felt his stomach contract. It wasn't good. It was late. And if he was not here yet it could mean very bad news. He drummed his fingers nervously on the surface of his desk. No, he would have received an owl if anything had happened. His stomach, however, did not accept his logic.

Routine kicked in. He inhaled deeply and straightened his back. A few more deep breaths and he wasn't much calmer, but undoubtedly more awake. His hand sneaked into his pocket. 11.09 PM.

Snape had tried to reason with him that the job was dangerous and he was too occupied with his life outside Hogwarts. Which was more like an attempt on emotional blackmail than a fact having real grounds. He wasn't spending that much time away, and he was usually gone only when the Potions master was working. Quite often, it was Snape who would work until late, checking homework while he would be reading in front of the fireplace in the room adjacent to the office. Every now and then he would show his head through the door and ask if Severus wanted tea or maybe something to eat or anything else. It often took Snape a lot of effort not to throw the homework to the floor and answer the longing gaze. The time they spent together were enough to compensate for the hours they spent apart. But it just couldn't counterbalance the tension deepening with each minute of waiting. Working as a teacher posed no danger. Well, no mortal danger, unless Neville Longbottom had decided to spawn at a very young age and would send his offspring to Hogwarts.

Fingering the chain of his watch, he decided to steal another glance to check the hour. 11.21 PM. He needed to occupy his thoughts with an interesting topic. He was decidedly one of the most interesting ones, but Snape dismissed it. His disquiet didn't intensify, since the idea of Longbottom, the owner of more than one frog, spawning eased the strain in his stomach a bit. He licked his lips. They felt dry. Some tea would be nice idea. He almost turned to the door expecting his head to appear and ask if Severus wanted something to drink. He fingered the chain of his watch. Tea. Snape got up and treaded to the small kitchen. The beverage that house-elves called tea did not deserve this name.

The room was small, but there was enough space for a table, chair, a few cupboards and a stove. The other chair had been squeezed in - an act which acknowledged that these quarters were inhabited by more than one person. Snape was eating his meals with the rest of the school. He was eating at work. Or they were eating out in Hogsmeade. The uneasy feeling in his stomach signaled that this train of thought was not the best one. He reached for one of the mugs, a present on the occasion of the last Weasley graduating. It nearly slipped out of his sweaty hand. His grip tightened, the mug was put softly on the tabletop. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Wiping his hands on his robe, he reached for the kettle and filled it with water from the tap. He put the kettle on the stove and tapped his wand twice against the surface. The heat began to radiate from underneath. He turned back to the cupboard and reached for the box with black tea. His hand met with nothing. Snape glanced around the kitchen. He hadn't put it back again. Irritated, he grabbed the box spilling its contents all over the floor. Shakily, he decided to put the box away, returning it to its rightful place in the cupboard. Tea didn't seem that good of an idea any more. He tapped his wand against the stove once and strode back to his office.

Homework. His glance swept over a stack of parchment rolls. Due for tomorrow. Arching his eyebrow, he felt some satisfaction at the prospect of staining the rolls with angry lines of red ink. But, first the time. 11.36 PM. He groaned.

Sitting behind his desk he thought, that maybe they both should give up on their work and move somewhere together. Then again, by the end of the second week of their last holidays they were ready to bite each other's heads off. Snape was restless, since back at Hogwarts he had research to continue. He was tense having too much time on his hands.

11.43 PM. He put the watch back into his pocket. And took one of the rolls of parchment. First year Slytherin by the name of Silvan Mackenzie. One of his worst students. Scowling he grabbed his quill and watched fascinated as the red ink splashed on the parchment and slowly trailed down, looking like a long bloody cut on somebody's pale skin. A wave of nausea hit him and the room swam. The long red trail became an angry red blot on his white shirt. Clenching and unclenching his fists he tried to regain control over his quickened breath and queasy stomach. Hastily he got up and trod to the adjacent room. The fireplace was cold and empty.

A tumbler of whisky stood on the table in front of the fireplace. It was half-empty. Half-full, Severus. Soft laugh seemed to reverberate against the walls. He poured himself a generous shot. And then another one. Warmth spread around his body. It didn't alleviate the feeling in his stomach, but allowed him to lessen the tension. 11. 57 PM. He slumped into his armchair. The other, similar one, standing on the opposite side of the table was newer, but more dilapidated.

A soft knocking. His heart stopped and then resumed its work pounding inside his chest, threatening to explode. Again, this time the knocking was stronger. He tried to move but his limbs did not respond. And again, much stronger.

'Severus, are you there?' Dumbledore sounded concerned. Left leg, right leg, left, right, left, right. There would have been an owl first. An owl, feathery creature which would have brought him a message he would never read. Not an old, white-bearded coot, who too often popped by to share one rumour or another.

He opened the door and stared at the older man. 'What?' he snapped.

'You don't look good. You should lie down and try to sleep.' Dumbledore knew he wouldn't be able to do so. He wanted to see him come back safe.

'What do you want? I don't have time for an idle chitchat,' he said scowling at the other wizard.

'I just remembered that I hadn't told you about the staff meeting tomorrow.' The older man shot him an apologetic grin.

'You told me a week ago. I remember. Good night.' Snape gave the headmaster a glowering look. It was really a feeble excuse to check how he was coping with waiting.

'Now I remember. Yes, yes. Good night, Severus.' Albus smiled at him. So he slammed the door in the older man's face. 'Don't stay up too late! He's going to be back.' He heard from behind the door. He turned furiously on his heel and strode to his desk. He pulled out his watch. 12.13 AM. Folding his arms on his chest, Snape thought what to do to occupy his thoughts. To appease his apprehension.

Door opened. He felt himself straighten. Closing his eyes he enjoyed the tranquillity that came together with the young man. He steeled himself not to make it easy for him and slowly turned round.

'Potter.' He scowled.

'Severus.' Yawning, Harry went through the office to the adjacent room.

'You're late!' Snape called in that direction and decided to follow. The fire was blazing merrily, warming up the surroundings.

Sitting in his armchair Harry replied, 'a wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to.' And he glared at the older man cheekily, who hardly managed to stifle a groan.

Snape quirked his eyebrow. 'I'm not taking it back, you are late.'

The younger man sighed, looking down wearily. 'Yes, I am.' His stomach grumbled audibly. He smiled apologetically folding his hands on his lap.

'And hungry?'

'That, too.' Harry sniffed. 'I should like to eat something.'

Snape leaned against the doorframe and glared at the other wizard. 'And drink something?'

Harry pouted. 'Tea would be nice.' He gazed at the older man expectantly through half-closed eyes.

'You don't think I'm going to prepare a meal for you and bring it here?' Snape asked him sarcastically, his eyes narrowing slightly.

'I think you will.' A big grin spread on Harry's face.

'What. Makes. You. Think. So?'

The icy tone made the other man's eyes widen. His face dropped. 'Never mind. I'll do it myself.'

'It's quite enough to say "please".' Snape's voice stopped the younger man from rising more than a few inches.

'Please,' Harry answered softly, not looking at the older wizard, who almost felt sorry.

Snape turned round swiftly and strode through his office to the small kitchen. Fumbling with kettle, mugs, plates, and trying to find something edible he didn't hear Harry follow him. He almost dropped his mug when he felt arms sneaking around his waist and the warmth of Harry's body against his back. A soft murmur somewhere around his neck made the corners of his lips twitch upwards. He put down the mug and interlaced his fingers with Harry's.

Harry sniffed and added softly, 'but you could think of washing your hair from time to time.' Snape was rather glad that the younger man couldn't see the smile that spread on his face.