The war is over.
No matter how many times I say it to myself, it seems too good to be true. It’s almost like one of the many dreams I’ve had, where you keep on falling and you wake up, roll out of bed, fall, wake up, roll out of bed, fall...
I’m tired. Exhausted, actually. I’d like nothing better than to return to my own familiar dungeons and sleep for a month or two. I’m still trying to catch my breath, and as I take another gasping lungful of air I turn to look at Potter. Potter. What an extraordinaire and a mystery all at once, an ethereal bird dancing out of my reach.
“It’s over,” Potter says, voicing what I’ve been thinking for the past few minutes, hours... time’s been blurring so fast, “the war’s over.” His robe clings to him like a second skin, perspiration completely soaked through. He can’t believe it, apparently. Neither can I.
I don’t say anything, just make a soft sound of acknowledgement that I’ve heard him. Potter has always had an exceptional quality for stating the obvious, and now is no exception.He’s also had many other exceptional qualities, but I don’t say this. He looks at me with bright, eager eyes, wanting any words of praise I might decide to give him, but I don’t say them.
“We’re going to be heroes,” he says softly and adjusts his glasses. He doesn’t sound excited or anxious, just... thoughtful.
“You will be,” I say, because I know he will.
“You’re forgetting about yourself, aren’t you?” Potter looks at me, face curious and open. The bridge of his nose is smudged with dirt. For a moment, I have the urge to reach forward and wipe the black spots away with my thumb, but I don’t. I don’t, I won’t, I can’t.
“It depends on who you are,” I say, wondering if he understands. Does he? Heroes are beautiful, achingly so, like Potter. I’m not a hero, but Potter is.
“Maybe,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t have done it without you, though.”
At this, I gaze at him openly. I’m not sure why he says what he’s saying. There’s no need for Potter to speak to me like this, and yet he does. His voice reminds me of sunshine, low and warm and gold. He’s looking at me, lashes lightly shadowing the eyes I’ve been staring at for so long that I can’t even remember. “Noble to the last,” I say quietly. He captivates me. Does he know? He intrigues me, annoys me, frustrates me to no end. His stubborn Gryffindor pride is my fascination and my downfall.
I kiss him then, so gently that it almost makes me weep. It lasts for less than a few seconds, just a brief meeting of lips so soft, so electric that my skin tingles. I know he feels it, too. When he pushes me away, slim hands lingering on my chest, my eyes fly open. I stare at him, and he stares back. I don’t understand why I just did what I did. I suppose my body moved faster than my mind, but that’s certainly no logical explanation. “You don’t even like me!” I see the words roll from Potter’s lips, uncontrolled. I’m amazed by the deep rose colouring his cheeks. I wonder if his skin is as hot to the touch as it looks.
“‘Friendship is present in all things but love,’” I quote. I can’t say what I mean, though, and somehow words are harder than a kiss at the moment. Potter’s pupils dilate to encompass widening irises.
“You don’t like me,” Potter whispers, “and I don’t like you,” and his hands fall from my chest as I hear his name being called by Minerva, Ron, and Sirius. I watch him as he gathers up his soaked robes, stumbles to his feet and runs, runs like the wind and a cheetah and Forrest, as fast as his legs can carry away from him. Away from me. I see the back of his ebony head all the way down the corridor and I still see it when he rounds the corner, and I always knew he would be my downfall, but I never knew it could hurt this much.
Dinner in the Great Hall is quiet, thankfully. I eat mechanically, drinking only to wash down whatever happens to stick in my throat, and all the while I’m thinking, Potter, why are you here? He’s been busy, appearing to receive his Order of Merlin and Ribbon of Merit, signing Quidditch autographs for screaming girls and making cameos with his handsome friends. I went to see every one of his events, allowed myself a glance each time. I always saw the back of Potter’s silky hair. Sometimes I thought I felt his eyes on me, too, but when I looked again they were never there. I ruined everything with a simple kiss, a simple quote, destroyed things so badly he hasn’t even shown his face (at least not to me) in fifteen years. He’s back here now, though, and he’s staring at me. Why are you doing this?
I look out of the corner of my eye and watch him as I eat, just like he’s watching me. The knot in my stomach tightens when I see his chin jerk sharply as he talks to Lupin, in my direction. I know Potter’s talking about me now that he’s seen me and remembered. He’s talking about the kiss that happened so long ago, the kiss that was supposed to remain clandestine. No, now it’s out in the open, the bastard Severus Snape’s desperation for the world to see and for Potter and his friends to laugh at.
I leave half my food on my plate, my fork tongs sliding over the gold-rimmed edge until the paint begins to chip away. I’m tired of having Harry staring at me openly, talking about me, so finally I raise my head and meet his eyes. Whatever I expected Potter to do, I didn’t expect him to fasten a liquid gaze on me that causes my throat to constrict. I look away. Coward.
I wait for a reasonable time to leave and force myself to move calmly as I exit the Great Hall, taking the other entrance so I don’t have to walk by Potter. When I’m outside, I let my shoulders sag, just a little. I don’t have to be so rigid when I’m alone. Sometimes, it just makes my back hurt.
I hear footsteps behind me, getting closer. They stop suddenly and the voice I’ve dreamed about every night rings out. “Professor!”
I pivot sharply. “What do you want, Potter?” A sneer twists my lips. Can you feel my condencension, Potter? I hope you can collect it like rain in a water glass.
It’s not really condencension, though. It’s anger and pain and frustration, all mixed into a delightful little cocktail. He visibly cringes. Good.
“To talk,” he says, his voice strangled, “just to talk to you. For a moment.”
Your moment’s up. I lean back against the wall, folding my arms across my chest, and speak dryly, icily. “Talk, then.”
“I haven’t seen you in a very long time,” he begins hesitantly, twisting his robes. Oh, Potter. Spit it out. Don’t insult my intelligence and waste my time by attempting to squander both.
“A pity to ruin things now,” I interject flatly. He winces again and I wonder how many times I can cause him to physically withdraw every time I say something. Hundreds, probably thousands.
“Lupin—” He corrects himself quickly. He should have called me Severus earlier, but didn’t bother to correct himself then. Why? “Remus says you’ve settled your differences. Now that I’ll be working here, we should settle ours as well.” He’s fumbling. I can feel his anxiety. I do nothing to soothe it.
“There is nothing to settle.”
Harry’s eyes dart to his feet and then up to me. “Do you still hate me, then?” he asks quietly, his voice quavering just the slightest bit, and some of my frustration melts away.
“I have never hated you, Potter,” I say, and that is the absolute truth.
“Could have fooled me,” he says softly, a pained expression upon his face, and at this my anger dissolves completely.
I sigh defeatedly, a low breath that probably illustrates how old and dried up I am, miserable old shell of a man. “I have never hated you. I have disliked you and resented you. I have, on rare occasion, respected you.”
“On rare occasion,” Harry repeats, rolling my words on his tongue. “That was all I ever wanted, you know. Your respect.” Brutal honesty, Potter. Something else that had always intrigued me.
“We rarely get what we want, Potter.”
He struggles with his frustration, fists clenching as he tries to speak, but when he does it is with articulation. “I believe that I deserve your respect.” Quite calmly, too. Admirable, Potter.
“We rarely get what we want, Potter,” I repeat and watch his brows draw together, “whether we deserve it or not.” His eyes search my face. He’s trying to read me. Quietly, controlled, “but I will concede. Your conduct in the Last Battle proved to me that you were worthy of my respect.”
Potter looks bemused. His eyes flicker behind his glasses. “Thank you,” he says finally, and after a few moments’ hesitation—well, that didn’t take too long, now did it, Potter?—“but you didn’t get what you wanted.”
“I suppose I didn’t deserve it,” I say bitterly. What more do you want from me, Potter? You have my respect and you had my attention five minutes ago, but now that’s rapidly declining.
“Maybe not then,” he responds slowly and I want to throw my hands up in utter frustration. I know I didn’t deserve it then, Potter. Truth be told, I didn’t deserve much. I nearly unleash my fury when his eyes slide to the floor. I forget what I’m about to say as I watch him nervously shift his weight from one foot to another. My anger is like a phoenix when I’m around Potter, dead and born again in the span of mere seconds. “Do you still want it?”
“Does it matter any more?” I say flatly because I will not allow myself to hope. Hope is mankind’s downfall—no, actually, make that stubborn Gryffindor pride. “‘I have loved badly; loved the great too soon, withdrawn my words too late.’” I have, though, and the truth rings clear through my quotation. They always made much more sense than I did.
“—and eaten in an echoing hall, alone and fromed a chipped plate, the words that I withdrew too late,” Harry finishes. Surprising. I didn’t know he knew. His arm moves and his thumb slides over the curve of my knuckles. I don’t touch him in return, but I don’t move away. Instead I dare to hope, to breathe, and meet his eyes and feel a strange burst of warmth inside me at what I find there.
“It’s not too late,” Harry says softly, and I think that I finally, finally understand.