Look Closer

Look Closer

Nothing felt the same after the war.

To Severus Snape, returning to Hogwarts was like stepping backwards in time. Remarkably, the school had remained almost unchanged. The scorch marks on the castle turrets blended easily into the weathered stone, and the mindless chatter of students filled the halls. The age-old traditions of a new school year resumed as though the battles and bloodshed were nightmares easily forgotten in the light of day.

The familiar surroundings only gave Severus a prickling sense of discomfort, as though he was a snake trying to crawl back into a molted skin.

His classes were filled with new names and faces, but their roles were always the same: the know-it-all, the beauty, the clown... Long ago, Potter had seemed just as easy to peg. Severus spent the day half-expecting to see a head of unruly black hair each time he turned the corner, or green eyes that bared him to the bone every time he glanced up from a book. Of course, Potter had moved on and would never return, and Severus ruthlessly suppressed the pang of disappointment which accompanied the thought.

Other than a thick layer of dust, his dungeon looked the same as ever. Even the potions ingredients had remained in their neat, alphabetized rows, from acacia leaf to zedoary root. Severus selected a handful of vials, lit a fire with a flick of his wand, and began to brew a Sleeping Drought. Not because Pomfrey required any, but because he desperately needed the solace brought about by the routine. Unfortunately, the familiar motions did little to stave off the train of thought he was trying to avoid, and his mind inevitably wandered back to Potter.

When Harry Potter first stepped into Hogwarts, others had seen a boy, a protégé, or a legend. Severus Snape only saw the spitting image of James Potter. It did not take long for Potter to acquire his father's trademark arrogance, and Severus was gratified the first time Potter had looked at him with loathing. As with any specimen, he had examined and labeled this new Potter, and set him in his proper place.

Nothing had contradicted his perceptions until their Occlumency lessons, when Severus had been shaken by how closely Potter's memories resembled his own. Despite the Muggle trappings, the currents of emotion that ran through Potter's childhood were painfully familiar. Misery, envy and a nameless yearning for all that life denied him. It was almost a relief to toss Potter out of his class after the Pensieve incident, and to let simple rage bury the uncomfortable stirrings of sympathy their previous sessions had inspired.

During the boy's sixth year, Severus had watched him more closely, and was surprised to discover that Potter possessed qualities such as intelligence and humility. Perhaps, Severus was forced to admit, they had always been there and he had simply not chosen to see them. Day by day he had watched Potter grow up, looking less like his dead father and more like himself.

Then the war had finally broken out, and close living quarters made it impossible not to see entirely too much of Potter. He began to notice the grace in Potter's young limbs, to learn the vocabulary of his body. The clenched fists when Potter had been pushed too far and the quirk of Potter's mouth that meant he was trying not to laugh. He had seen Potter rejoice and suffer and grieve, had watched over and over as the young man was beaten down and got back up again. It became difficult to think of Potter as an insolent brat or a vain-glorious hero, the boy had become entirely too complex and human for such categories.

And through it all, Potter had watched him right back.

A tap of his wand reduced the flame and set the potion to simmering. Severus moved away to his workbench and began dicing valerian roots, and his memories followed.

Then there had been the kiss. If Severus owned a Pensieve, he would have banished that damnable memory from his mind and never retrieved it again. Just before the final battle, Potter had walked up to him, placed both hands on his face, and kissed him. Kissed him with a warm mouth and fierce passion and everything he had to give. And in that single moment Potter shattered every pre-conceived notion he had ever held about the boy. He was no longer a hero or a pupil or even a Potter, he was simply Harry.

What bothered Severus was not the kiss itself, but the way it haunted him. In his most cynical moments, Severus thought that this was the surest sign that Potter had never expected to survive the battle. Yet even that didn't stop his lips from tingling at the mere memory of Potter's mouth. The few times Severus had been intimate with another in the past, he had permitted himself to proceed by slow, careful degrees. Love, he reminded himself, was not about leaping off of high cliffs, and only fools and Gryffindors thought otherwise.

It had not been difficult to avoid Potter after the war. Severus had simply stood aside, and let the hordes of Potter's well-wishers form a human wall between them. Yet Potter's eyes met his every time he glanced up, filled with possibilities that Severus dared not acknowledge.

The potion gave an irritable hiss and Severus looked down. Instead of the purple liquid he had expected, the contents of the cauldron were inky black. A quick glance at the clock and around the room showed him why. The perfectly chopped valerian stalks still sat on the workbench, ten minutes after they were supposed to be added. Severus scowled and pulled out his wand, ready to banish the potion and its contents with a wave. A soft knock interrupted him, and as though summoned by his thoughts, Harry Potter stepped into the room.

"Hello," Harry said, hesitating just inside the doorway.

Severus felt his breath quicken. "Why are you here?" he asked, more curtly than he had intended.

"I needed to see you again," Harry said simply.

"That's not an adequate answer Mr. Potter," Severus crossed his arms to hide the trembling in his hands and retreated behind the comfortable armour of sarcasm. "You are no longer my student, and unless you are here for a legitimate reason, there is no need for you to inflict your presence upon me."

Harry mouth quirked as he stepped further into the room. Perhaps Severus wasn't the only one who had learned to read body language during the course of the war.

"I can give you lots of legitimate reasons. I'm here because there were too many things I didn't get to say before, because you're one of the few people who actually see me when you look my way, and because some time last year I finally realized that you weren't such a bastard after all." Severus was tempted to say something caustic in reply, but Harry continued on before he had a chance. "I'm here because you kissed me back," he added softly.

And so softly that it was no than a whisper, "Can I stay?"

"Harry," Severus began, his voice hoarse and unsteady. To invite Harry into his chambers, into his life, was to unleash a landslide of emotions that he could never hope to control. It would be infinitely safer to send the boy away with a single word or a withering look, and return to his life of ordered solitude. Severus opened his mouth, and the word that emerged was "Yes."

Harry gave him a brilliant smile. Before Severus could remember to offer him common niceties like a seat or a drink, Harry closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him. Severus felt like a diver standing on a precipice, gazing into the thrilling and terrifying depths. His own arms came up awkwardly, and held Harry too tentatively, almost afraid that the boy was an illusion which would vanish at his first touch. Harry did not disappear, but stayed a warm and solid weight in his arms. After a moment he leaned into Severus, and slowly let his lips graze along Severus' neck. Severus shivered and clutched Harry a little too tightly, and felt those lips curve into a smile against his cheek.

"Kiss me?" Harry's mouth was so close to his own that he could feel each puff of breath against his lips.

Severus closed his eyes and let himself fall.