Remember the Tinman

"Remember the tinman found he had what he thought he lacked..."

--Tracy Chapman

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Twenty-two years have passed since my days as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and for each of those years has been a Hallow's Eve Reunion I've refused to attend. What purpose would it serve? I have no desire whatsoever to reacquaint myself with imbecilic former classmates or to make the acquaintance of other Hogwarts alumni. Any witch or wizard with whom I wish to associate--and let me assure you, those are few and far between--know where and how to contact me if the necessity arises.

Perhaps I ought to put an end to this ridiculous annual tradition. I am, after all, Headmaster of the school. Not only is preparation for the reunion a tremendous annoyance, to say the least, but my absence from the event only serves to put me in a rather negative light. In Dumbledore's days, the Headmaster always presided over the reunion festivities, and of course McGonagall would have done the same, had she lived to accept the title of Headmistress. But surely no one in attendance tonight would hold in high regard a Headmaster who thinks his time is better spent in the dungeons, far from all the nostalgic hullabaloo.

"To hell with all of them," I mutter to myself, turning my attention back to the resumes laid out on the desk before me.

The sooner a new Potions Master can be hired, the better; I have been working double duty as Headmaster and Potions professor these past three years. Experts in the field are difficult to come by, of course, and living up to my personal standard of excellence is in itself a near-impossible trial of endurance. But perhaps that standard might soon have to descend a few notches, or else the insolent brats that haunt my classroom may finally drive me to madness.

Only one resume remains unreviewed. Out of habit, I skip over the name at the top--a pathetic attempt to remain unbiased about the candidate's prospects of employment--and instead begin to review the candidate's employment history. The resume reveals a six-month internship at the Ministry of Magic, followed by two years spent working under acclaimed Mediwizard Daniel Mulgeon, Director of Medical Potions at the Ministry, who has provided a lengthy letter of recommendation for the candidate in question.

I have to admit, I am mildly impressed.

My eyes next scan over the candidate's N.E.W.T. scores, another fairly remarkable bit of information--top marks in Charms, Muggle Studies, Arithmancy and, refreshingly, Potions.

Perhaps there does exist another wizard worthy of the position after all....

"That'll be Hermione's, I'd imagine."

My eyes shoot up from the parchment to glare at the infuriating source of my disruption, who I hope will pay no mind to the fact that my mouth has involuntarily fallen open at the sight of him.

It isn't as though I haven't lain eyes on the boy in all the time since the war ended, but it has never been like this, never in this proximity. And, of course, the only true contact we have shared has been through letters. Or rather, the boy has sent letters--dozens of them--while I have stored them all away, praying to deities I no longer believe in that the words on all those parchments are part of some cruel practical joke. Judging from the half-dazed, gaping expression that now presents itself in my doorway, they are not.

"I beg your pardon?" I say after a brief struggle to find my voice, an eyebrow raised as per usual.

He nods to the parchment in my hand. "The resume...is that Hermione's?"

I glance at the name for the first time and immediately recognize the loopy, feminine signature as that of one Hermione Granger-Weasley. Impressive, indeed.

"Go away," I snarl.

The boy does not move, but chuckles. "Ever the antisocial bastard, I see."

"And you are what, Mister Potter?" I reply with half-hearted exasperation. "Ever the insolent annoyance put on this earth to plague me?"

I return my gaze to the parchment, hoping like hell that it will be possible this evening to feign indifference. Perhaps that will be enough to drive away Harry Potter once and for all. But if nothing has worked thus far....

The aversion of my eyes does nothing to stop me from seeing the lopsided grin that appears on his face as he saunters into my office. Only when I glare up at him again, now furious, does he finally stop dead in his self-assured tracks.

"Why didn't you come up?" he asks meekly, fussing with the cuff of his sleeve.

I huff. This isn't going to be as simple as I hoped. "Never do," I mutter. "And why, may I ask, did you come down?"

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes. "Don't be daft."

Unrelenting whelp. Does the boy--No, I remind myself, man now, twenty years old--never give up? Surely the unreturned letters would have been enough to deter him. I play them over again in my mind:

Whether you will admit it or not, the war has changed us both, Severus....

...I know this may be difficult for you to understand, but the more I think on all you have done for me, all you have sacrificed, the countless times you've saved me from God knows what, the more fully I come to realize how much I love you....

...I never thought I'd be saying this, Severus, but I want nothing more than for us to be together. We deserve this, you and I, because we have both seen our share of pain and suffering in this life. What better reward than a love like the one we could know with one another....

The very thought makes me shudder inexplicably for what must be the hundredth time.

"If you've come again to beg for either my love or compassion," I say in the most even tone I can manage, "then I am not the daft one."

Harry shakes his head somberly. "I'm not here to beg."

"Well, then," I snap, "I do hope you're here to explain yourself, because there are far too many parts of this whole sordid affair that I do not understand and, quite frankly, many of which I'm not sure I care to understand. Why me, Mister Potter?"

He gazes at me for a long moment, chewing hard on that full bottom lip as has always been his habit, his brow slightly furrowed. The man has once again become the boy. Not the Boy Who Lived, mind you, because Harry Potter has never truly been that at all, but rather the lovely little urchin that roamed these halls in the company of friends in years best forgotten.

Breathing deeply, he rounds my desk.

"Do you know what it's like up there?" he asks me softly.

I can recognize an attempt at subject change, but perhaps it's for the best.

"As I have never attended a Hallow's Eve Reunion, I do not," I reply stiffly, refusing to meet the gaze of those damnable sparkling green eyes. "But I'm sure you stand poised to inform me."

Another deep breath, and Harry leans himself against the desk next to me, staring now at his folded hands. "It's been three years since I killed Voldemort," he begins slowly, "and I still can't go anywhere without being mauled or praised or.... You'd think after so long, people might stop seeing me as the goddamned Boy Who Lived and just leave me the hell alone."

I hear the sadness in his tone, and for some reason it's strikingly familiar. No, not "for some reason"...for one very obvious reason; I spoke similar words to Albus Dumbledore almost twenty years ago.

"I'll let you in on a little secret." Immediately I regret opening my mouth at all but, I know the words are inevitable now. "I gave up my position as a true Death Eater at the age of twenty and joined the Order of the Phoenix in their efforts against Lord Voldemort. Doing so has meant great sacrifice and great risk, all for the preservation of the wizarding world as we know it. I am now forty, and I still receive letters from 'concerned witches and wizards' who do not want their children taught by a murderous dark wizard."

Something akin to sympathy crosses Harry's face, softening his masculine features and breathing new, beautiful life into his more feminine ones. He refuses to hide his emotions from me as he would have in years past; he has opened himself. The thought is vaguely frightening. Even more frightening is the thought that I cannot open myself to him.

But most frightening of all is the realization that I would even want to do such a thing.

"They've already formed their image of you," I tell him, lowering my eyes. "Get used to it, or stay away from it."

At the sound of Harry's snort, I snap my head up once more to glare at him, only he's now meeting that glare with one of his own, and I must admit it's a bit disconcerting. "Stay away from it?" he echoes. "You mean like you do? Avoiding any and every person possible, even those who truly know you and love you?"

Must he keep using that preposterous word? It may soon be enough to drive me mad.

"Why did you come here?" I snap. "To have that bleeding heart of yours broken?"

"Maybe I did!" he retorts, his eyes glowing with a sort of fire I might call passion if I were ever inclined to recognize such an emotion.

I scoff at him. "You're a fool and a masochist," I mutter. "You're confusing love with pity. You feel gratitude toward a man who did a great many things for you because it was his duty. But it should be no different than what you feel for half the wizards and witches upstairs. They did a great many things for you as well, and I don't see you fluttering about with any romantic notions regarding them."

"Listen to me!" he says sharply, banging a hand against my desk for emphasis. "Because I'm only going to say this once!"

I repress the urge to remind him how unlikely a prospect that is. If Harry has a knack for anything, doggedness is certainly it. I'd imagine he could beat life back into a dead horse if ever he had the chance.

"I don't want them!" he hisses, eyes wide, one finger pointed upward to indicate the witches and wizards celebrating above us. "I want you, Severus. I would rather stay down here and listen to all the mean, nasty things you have to say to me than to go up there and have people feed me pretty lies and exaggerated truths about myself. The things you say to me are real, and that's what matters! That's why I love you!"

I cannot help but scoff again. "You love me because I hurt you?"

Harry shakes his head. "I love you because you give me the one thing I need, no matter how cruel or painful, the thing that no one else will give me--the truth."

The slow, languid movement of his head must have me wholly absorbed, because I fail to notice that he has climbed into my lap. Only when I feel the pressure of his hands against my chest do I become aware of our proximity, and I remember....

We have been this close to one another once before. Only once--the night of the Final Battle, in a tiny alcove within the Chamber of Secrets.

Dumbledore had fallen in the main room only minutes before under Voldemort's Killing Curse, and although neither Harry nor myself had been in plain sight of Voldemort then, we had seen the ordeal unfold. When Voldemort and Pettigrew Disapparated from the scene, Harry and I had scampered into the aforementioned alcove to hide. In retrospect, our actions strike me as cowardly, but at the time....

Killing is no easy task, even when the safety of the wizarding world depends on it. Harry knew what had to be done to kill Voldemort; I knew even then that he would not fail. But for the time being, I allowed him his moment of manic anxiety.

Once inside the alcove, Harry Potter cried the tears of a boy that had been too long restrained by the man he longed to be. I alone bore witness to this tragic display of frailty, and deep within me was a stirring that I might have called affection if I fancied myself capable of feeling such a thing for another human being.

"I don't want to die!" Harry sobbed, and he launched himself at me with full force, wrapping those long, lanky arms around my neck. "I'm so afraid!"

I never stopped to wonder what had come over him in that moment, but whatever madness it might have been was wholly excusable and understandable. War had reduced him to something so fearful, so fragile, so vulnerable, so...human, that any thought of what I might have said or done in response to this outburst had been cast aside. He needed this, needed to know that this panic was no sign of weakness on his part, and who better to show him than the man who had struggled to understand that very thing every day of his life?

"It's alright, Harry," I whispered into his hair then, holding him tightly to my chest. Had I ever called him by that name before? "It's alright to be afraid. But you can do this, I know you can. You know you can. I'm here, Harry. It's alright, it's alright...."

I didn't know what I was saying. The words came in a kind of incoherent babbling, pouring from my mouth to envelop him like a blanket of verbal reassurance. I was not accustomed to comforting another. Nor was I accustomed to being comforted by another, but I realized almost instantly that that was precisely what was happening. Harry's presence was indeed a comfort to me.

"You can do this," I whispered again. "You know what it takes. You have what it takes. I believe in you."

And I did believe in him. The strong steady beat of his heart against my chest filled me that night with a kind of faith and hope I had never felt before.

Much like it is doing now.

His fingers are threaded through my hair--Didn't I overhear him calling it greasy once?--and his face is so close that if I shift my eyes just slightly I can see them reflected in those infernal spectacles.

"Harry, I--" I start to say, not entirely certain where the sentence is going, but I am instantly silenced by a mouth pressed to mine.

For a moment, it seems my heart has forgotten the mechanics of beating, and then it remembers. My pulse comes fast and hard and throbbing in my chest and...Gods! Did I make that noise? I don't care, really. My hands reach up to tighten around Harry's arms, and I'd fear crushing him if I didn't know he was strong enough to handle the brutality of the act. His tongue, sharp as an arrow yet impossibly tender, darts between my lips, seeking out my own, exploring, as if learning the taste and feel of me. It's almost as if...as if he's making love to my mouth. And what's more astonishing, I'm returning the act with just as much, if not more, vehemence.

It's just as well that he's the one to pull away from me; I don't know that I ever could have brought an end to our delicious tangle of lips and tongues. His forehead is pressed now to mine, and breath comes in warm, rapid puffs against my mouth, which parts involuntarily, gasping for breaths of its own.

"Tell me you don't want this," Harry whispers as one quivering hand sliding down my chest. "Look me in the eye, tell me you don't want me, and I'll leave, simple as that."

I close my eyes and chuckle, but it's a humorless sound. "I don't remember you ever being so self-possessed as a boy. You were insolent, yes, and most definitely reckless and audacious. You were brave, even, when you had to be. But--"

"I grew up," he says plainly.

With obvious reluctance, he lifts himself off of my lap and settles back against the desk. It's all I can do to supress a small whimper at the loss of contact, but Severus Snape, fearsome Headmaster and unfeeling git, does not express outright weakness or yearning of any sort. Severus Snape expresses nothing.

"Harry," I sigh, "even if we were to...be together...I could never give you what you deserve. Twenty years as an Occlumens has--"

"I know all about that," he interrupts again, his eyes widening hopefully. "I had Remus research it for me."

It takes a few long seconds to process his words, and then finally my mouth drops open in horrified realization. "You told Lupin about your...feelings...for me?"

Harry shrugs his shoulders as if it had been the only sensible thing to do. "Who else was I going to talk to about it?"

Understandable. Who would Harry have spoken to? Who would have understood? Dumbledore is dead, and Mister Weasley and the former Miss Granger have been far too wrapped up in their newly established state of marital bliss to pay any mind to the thoughts or feelings of anyone else. Selfish children.

But back to the matter at hand....

"Lupin despises me!" I exclaim, slightly aghast still at the thought of all the things the werewolf might have said in response to such news.

"He doesn't," says Harry very matter-of-factly. "Actually, he's always been rather fond of you."

I snort. "Could have fooled me."

At this, Harry smiles. I don't find that action nearly as insufferable as I once did. Happiness is one thing with which I have very little experience, but Harry seems to have enough for both of us at this moment.

But then, as quickly as the smile came on, it fades again as Harry assumes a more somber countenance; I know he has more to say.

"Do you know how I destroyed Voldemort?"

I shake my head. "I do not."

Of course I do not. The precise plans for Voldemort's demise were known to no one in the Order, excepting Dumbledore and Harry himself, obviously. And, of course, damned Peter Pettigrew had held me under the influence of the Cruciatus Curse while the final face-off between Harry and Voldemort occurred. That sort of pain leaves little room for comprehension outside the throbbing microcosm of one's own aching body.

"After you..." Harry begins, staring at his hands again, then stops to rethink his words. "After our Occlumency lessons failed in my Fifth Year, Dumbledore took it upon himself to continue my training. You see, Voldemort played upon and fed off of human emotion and memory. But the one thing he could never understand was love. So, Dumbledore taught me to shut out all thought and all emotion with the exception of love."

I make a small noise of understanding, and Harry lifts his eyes to my face once more.

"As we expected, Voldemort tried to possess me that night in the Chamber of Secrets. Now, whether you know it or not, possession and Legilimency are a lot alike in theory."

I nod. "Yes, I am aware. Both require the victim's thoughts and feelings to be channeled, although not necessarily for the same reasons."

"Right," says Harry. "So, when Voldemort tried to do that, to channel my thoughts and feelings, I filled my mind with only thoughts of love. Like I said, love was something he couldn't understand, the only emotion he couldn't feed off of. My thoughts weakened him, so much so that the Killing Curse that couldn't kill him before was able to finally destroy him."

Clever, really. I'll assume that this was Dumbledore's plan and not the boy's. Gryffindor House does not, after all, pride itself on cleverness.

I sigh before speaking. "And what, might I ask, does this all have to do with me, with--?"

I almost say "us," but I have no wish to lead either Harry or myself to believe that there could truly be an "us." Wishing for such a thing seems like nothing more than a cruel exercise in futility.

"Remus explained to me that the circumstances are similar," says Harry.

I furrow my brow as if to indicate that I do not understand, for I, in fact, do not.

"You have trouble...processing love," he explains, "for lack of a better term, or any emotion for that matter, because of the effects Occlumency has had on you. There is love inside you; you can feel it deep within, but you can't bring it to the surface, can't express it outright. Remus suggested that maybe I could use the same methods I used to destroy Voldemort--minus the Avada Kedavra, of course--to break the barrier Occlumency has created."

Silly fool of a boy...man...damnable creature....

"And what makes you think there is love still inside me?" I whisper, head hung to deliver the words to my lap. "I do not know that there ever was."

One hand, steadier now, reaches to gently cup my chin and lift it. Harry is smiling once more, damn him. "Why else would you care so much about giving me what I deserve?"

I did say something to that effect, didn't I? Damn me, too.

Harry kneels at my feet, placing his hands reverently on my knees, and gazes up through impossibly long lashes.

"Listen to me, Severus," he says softly, trailing the fingers of one hand up the length of my thigh and...Merlin! If he keeps doing that I will surely fall apart. "That night in the Chamber of Secrets, when I cried, when you held me in your arms, it was like the pieces of a puzzle clicked into place inside of me. It felt...I don't know...right. And even though I was indeed grateful, and I felt somehow safer knowing you were there with me, the rightness I'm talking about wasn't anything that simple. It was all tied up in something much more complicated, something I know now was love. And I think you know it--felt it, too."

I did. Yea Gods, I did! I felt it...I still feel it...buried so far beneath the surface, just as he explained, creating an almost painful warmth inside me. I want nothing more now than to free that warmth, to let it pour out of me like a river of new life.

"As reluctant as I am to admit it," I murmur, "Lupin's theory does make sense."

Harry flashes a brilliant smile, holding it for a long moment before leaning his head affectionately against my knees. "We can try to fix this," he says, "but it's entirely up to you. You know what I want. I love you, and I want to be with you. Is that what you want?"

"What if it doesn't work?"

Slowly, Harry tilts his head up to look at me again, then lifts himself off the floor, still bent slightly over me. There are knuckles against my cheek. I lean into the touch and hear myself sigh shamelessly.

Harry's next words are like the gentlest caress: "I won't stop loving you."

I ought to wonder what good loving me would do in such a case, but I don't care. Suddenly, I can see the warm comfort and satisfaction in unconditional love. When did I start believing in such a thing? Does it matter? Harry is too beautiful for words, and I'm too desperate to bother worrying any longer.

"Let's give it a try."

Harry nods his head before pressing a kiss lightly upon my forehead. I know what must be done. I stand and pull my wand from within my robes and point it at Harry, who has resumed his position on the floor at my feet, eyes trained on me, concentrating, focusing.

"Legilimens!"

I feel him open to me, his mind unfolding like the petals of a flower. But rather than receiving the maelstrom of memories I would expect, the images are presented as if I were travelling through a long, bright tunnel. His thoughts are concentrated, centered. Only thoughts of love, he said.

An eleven-year-old boy is gathered at Rubeus Hagrid's side, smiling jubilantly at the man who has come to save him from the neglect and abuse he has known his entire childhood, the man who will guide him into the world to which he truly belongs....

A frail, ragged Sirius Black suggests that Harry might come live with him once his name has been cleared. Harry beams at the possibility of a real home, in the care of a man who will want Harry with him, who will love the boy as he has never been loved....

Fourteen-year-old Ronald Weasley bobs, bound and unconscious, beneath the lake. Whatever argument ensued earlier is long forgotten. What would Harry's life be without his dearest friend? Ron is indeed "the thing he'll sorely miss." Merpeople or no, Harry knows what he must do....

A circle of ghostly figures surrounds him, his wand locked with Voldemort's. The phoenix song rings in his ears, more beautiful than anything he has ever heard. Hold on, Harry.... You fight him, boy.... Don't let go, now! Lily Potter emerges from the tip of Voldemort's wand, lovely as she ever was. Your father's coming. Hold on for your father...it will be alright...hold on.... And of course, James Potter does come, instructing his son, the boy he will never see become a man....

Harry, sixteen now, stands before a mirror in Grimmauld Place, tears falling from his eyes. Sirius died for you, he thinks to himself, cracking a sad, feeble smile. Sirius died loving you, and that is the greatest gift anyone can give....

It's alright to be afraid...It's alright...I'm here.... I recognize this voice, for it is my own. Harry is enfolded in my arms, weeping unashamedly. I watch as his face screws up for a moment, and he soundlessly mouths the words "I love you"....

The memories dim, and all is black, for how long I cannot know.

When I open my eyes again, I am lying on the floor, panting heavily. I must have fallen, I think to myself. Harry is crouched over me, a hand idly tracing the line of my jaw. He smiles down at me as I attempt to focus. In the haze, it seems as though a bright light emanates from him, and I wonder if it is only illusion.

"Harry," I sigh, aware that I am now smiling as well.

"Did it work?" he asks hopefully.

I close my eyes against Harry's blinding radiance. "I...I don't know," I breathe.

Did it work? I cannot tell, and how can I know if it did? Inside, I feel the same deep, near-painful warmth, but there is something...different...about it now. It seems to pulse, strongly at first and then with weakened intensity as it...what? Dissipates? No, it isn't dissipating, merely unfolding.

I am opening to him.

There is a delicious pressure against the right side of my body, and I turn my head to find that Harry has lain himself out next to me on the floor. I feel the smile on my face stretch to impossible proportions and then relax as Harry comes closer. A slow, aching brush of lips against my jaw, and then Harry's mouth is sealed against mine, and I know I have never been kissed this way, with this kind of incomprehensible sweetness and sincerity.

"What about now?" Harry whispers against my lips.

"What's that?" I murmur, barely aware of anything past the sensation of his fingers ghosting down the length of my arm.

Harry chuckles softly. "Does it feel any different now?"

"What I needed wasn't to feel different," I tell him. "I just needed to feel."

"And?" says Harry, hand lifted now to slick my hair behind my ears. "What's the verdict?

I smile wistfully; Merlin, have I ever smiled this many times in such a short period? Have I ever smiled this many times in all my life? And then, it occurs to me; that's the sign I've been looking for. That's the difference.

"I do, Harry," I whisper before pressing my lips to his once more. "Indeed I do."

FIN