Commonplace Magic (1/3) by sinick and ac1d6urn (HP/SS, AU, NC-17)
Authors' Note:
We began Commonplace Magic last November when ac1d6urn was working on Chapters 8 and 9 of The Price of Magic. Sinick suggested taking a break from all the gloom and apocalyptic plots and writing something a bit more light-hearted: “no doom of the wizarding world hanging in the balance, no tragic premature death. Just Harry getting inside a solitary man's defences, by not really trying.”
At the time, the Dusk til Dawn Wave X AU challenge (Not here, not now, no magic) was just announced, and although we didn’t sign up, Acid couldn’t get the following image out of her mind, where in Chapter 9 of Price Severus imagines Harry the ghost as a normal person:
My mind drifts to the memory of a waiter from The Cheshire Cheese - the young man who looked so much like Harry - and for a few brief seconds I allow myself to dream. I imagine Harry working in that pub, stumbling into the tables because he forgot to bring his glasses to work that morning, grinning at the visitors, and perhaps even flashing me a tentative smile. It’d disappear, of course, when he realised exactly who was sitting at one of his booths. He’d be much more subdued and cautious about smiling at customers in dark corners after that.
That throwaway comment was the seed from which Commonplace Magic grew. This story takes the main characters of Price and puts them in an entirely Muggle setting. There are some references to places, items, and people, that might seem familiar to those of you who are following Price, but Commonplace Magic is a standalone story. As we discussed it and worked on it over the following months, it acquired more scenes and an established plot and grew into something larger than we expected.
We've spent so long immersed in The Price of Magic that it was only a matter of time before it branched off its own AU. This story is a present for everyone who might have read the following excerpt, and wanted, like Snape, to see a little more of that vision.
I think of Harry again, at the entrance to the Cheshire Cheese, not paying any attention to me as he walks out. But this time I stop him before he passes me and disappears down Fleet Street: I call out his name and catch his eye and I do not let him look away. I walk closer and closer until his back is against the brick wall of the alley and he has nowhere to go. Then I lean forward, reaching out, keeping him there, keeping him still, and without thinking twice, without any idea of what’ll happen afterwards, I grab his shoulders, press my mouth against his, and taste the warmth of his lips, on pure abandon, just as he would do. Just as he has already done. I picture us without repercussions in a world a thousand dreams away.
ac1d6urn and sinick
Commonplace Magic
*
In London, an unobtrusive court led off Fleet Street, and in that court, a round sign hung over a dark, panelled door, declaring it to be “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese - Rebuilt 1667”. Harry worked there; if you went at the right time of day it wasn’t hard to find him, hurrying to and fro across the creaky wooden floors and past the dark oaken booths and tables. Sometimes he stumbled against a corner of a table, rattling the crockery (“Oops ... er, sorry, ma’am!”) Usually that happened because he forgot his glasses in his hurry to smack the alarm into silence and pull a fresh T-shirt over his head. He never had time at lunch to get his glasses from his flat: not after spending all morning staring, bleary-eyed and nearsighted, at the Uni lecturers and scribbling down nonsense. Anyway, he didn’t bump into things often enough to get his manager angry, just enough to earn a few stern glances once in a while.
Harry usually worked in the Chop Room: where long ago Charles Dickens habitually dined at the largest table, and where even longer ago Samuel Johnson had dined often enough to have his own chair and, years later, a portrait on the wall. Opposite that historic table, there was a row of smaller tables and benches that were rather less popular with the tourists. But in an inn as historic as the Cheshire Cheese, ‘less popular’ was a relative term.
Even the quietest table, the one in the corner, had its regular visitors, like the old man who always sat on the furthest bench from the door. Like most regulars, he was a creature of habit: he always ordered either the ploughman’s lunch (£5.75), or the soup of the day (£3.50), or simply a pot of tea (£1.55). He never ordered more than five or six quid’s worth and didn’t leave much of a tip, but Harry didn’t mind. The old man never left crumbs or spills for Harry to clean up, and most of the time he blended into the background quietly with his bony fingers curled around a hot cup of tea and his hair hanging black and stringy round his face. Unless his plate was empty, Harry didn’t notice him at all.
Until the time he did. The old man was reading a book over lunch; that was nothing new, but as it happened, for once Harry had remembered his glasses that morning. Harry was surprised to recognise the book from just a glimpse of its cover: Evgeny Onegin. Harry’s literature assignment was due tomorrow and he didn’t have a copy yet. He wasn’t rude enough to bother a customer, but he hoped the old man would remain in the corner, reading, until four: when Harry’s shift would end, and he’d be free to follow him out the door and ask.
The old man stayed, turning pages and sipping slowly at his tea, making it last. And so, when he left, Harry followed, into the alleyway and onto Fleet Street. He hadn’t really planned to take so much trouble about finding this one book, but the deadline was tomorrow and the library hadn’t had any copies returned any of the other times he’d asked, and he was out of money for the month so he couldn’t afford to buy a copy. Harry was really rather desperate: desperate enough to keep following, if not quite enough to stop the old man in the middle of the street.
This is so bloody awkward, Harry thought. How the hell am I supposed to ask a complete stranger for a favour? As Harry continued to trail along after him, his mind churned with entreaties and explanations, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that didn’t sound completely mental. So he just kept thinking, kept walking, all the way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, too absorbed in his own embarrassment and desperation to really notice the path covered with dry brown leaves as it wound amid the bare-branched trees. Until the man abruptly sat down on a bench and pulled the book out of his pocket, settling down to resume reading. All at once, Harry found himself staring down at a total stranger, and he still couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. Did I really follow him this far?
“Um. Hello. I, er. Saw your book and I thought...” Harry swallowed. “Can I borrow it? Please? Not to keep, just a loan. Not for long. I’ll give it back, promise. S’just, I’ve got to read it for a class. And the library’s out of copies.”
The man arched an eyebrow; he looked unimpressed. Seeing him for the first time under the sunlight of the last warm day of November, Harry realised he wasn’t quite as old as Harry had thought: middle aged, no more. “Might I suggest another library?” he enunciated sternly.
“Er.” Harry looked away; he hadn’t thought of that.
“The essay is due tomorrow, I presume?”
Bloody git! Harry hated people who pretended to read minds, especially if they did it in such an insulting way, but he needed that book. “Yes. You don’t have to... maybe if you could just tell me how it ends...”
Amusement quirked the man’s mouth for a moment. “No.”
“...then I’ll stop bothering you.” Harry blinked. “What? Why not?”
“I won’t allow my opinion of Onegin to be plagiarised in some last-minute shoddy excuse for a paper.”
Harry squinted. The man scowled; it made his beaky nose stick out even further. Even his nose looked offended. “D’you teach Lit then?”
“I do not. Don’t make assumptions merely because I can recognise irresponsible behaviour and own a work of classic literature.”
“Um, sorry.”
“Apology accepted. And it’s Chemistry, not Literature. Former Professor.”
Ha! I was right, he was a teacher, Harry smirked inwardly, but whatever he does for a crust now, he’s still an utter git. I bet he was sacked ‘cause he failed half his class every term! But outwardly, all Harry did was nod: safest not to tease. “Oh.”
The man didn’t give him another look; he seemed to be fully immersed in his reading.
“Er. Sorry to bother you. I’ll, I’ll just go.”
After he’d made three leaf-rustling steps onto the footpath, Harry heard an abrupt “Wait.” Maybe he’s had a change of heart, Harry thought, if he’s even got one to change. “I’m finished. You may borrow it.”
Harry cautiously came closer and reached for the book, subconsciously expecting a trap: that the book - or the man - would bite him or do something else nasty. He was oddly disappointed when that didn’t happen. “Thank you!”
“The address is inside the back cover. I trust you to return it, when you’ve finished your essay.” The man looked up. No, Harry thought, he’s definitely not that old after all: somewhere in his forties. There were almost no wrinkles around his eyes, just tired, deep shadows.
*
At midnight, when all the lines started to blur together and Harry found himself reading the same stanza for the fifth time, he flipped the rest of the pages idly, merely glancing at the text until he discovered the address written in narrow, angular handwriting in faded black ink. Severus Snape, it said above it. Severus? Harry wondered, What the hell sort of name is that? Poor sod! Still, I suppose it’s not his fault his parents were obsessed with Romans. He’s sure as hell got the nose to match.
*
Three days later, Harry set out to find Severus’ flat. He’d never ventured that far north of Camden Lock Market, and after a good hour of searching through the labyrinth of streets, he finally tracked down the right one. It ran parallel to the train tracks coming from King’s Cross, and ended at a block of flats: a brick building that looked positively ancient. He climbed up the dingy, echoing stairwell, hearing bits and pieces of arguments and conversations behind the closed doors - not all of them English: they sounded Polish or Russian. The air was stale with old cigarette smoke. On the third floor he spluttered and batted away a large moth; its wings fluttered wildly against his chin and mouth and made him sneeze and spit out the taste of wing dust for a good ten seconds afterwards. At last the correct number was right in front of him and Harry was glad he didn’t have to climb the narrow stairs any further.
As Harry knocked on the battered door, he felt awkward as hell, with his hair in disarray, his worn trainers and his jumper sleeves frayed and too short. I hope he’s not at home, Harry thought, That way, I could just drop the book in the mailbox with a thank you note, and leave. He kicked himself mentally. Why the hell didn’t I think of that in the first place? Maybe it’s not too late to do that.
Then it was too late because the door squeaked and swung open.
“What do you want?”
Harry blinked and held the Onegin in front of him like a shield and tried to get his eyesight adjusted to the darkness of the flat. Luckily, it was the same man from the Cheshire Cheese and Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Harry twisted the book anxiously in his hands, then turned it over so that the title was visible, just in case. “Er. Here’s your book.”
“I see,” The reply sounded a bit surprised. Did he think I wouldn’t bring it back? Harry thought as he held out the book silently. But the man didn’t take it; instead he glanced up the stairwell - where high-pitched, accented voices and descending footsteps could be heard coming closer - before he frowned and stepped aside. “Come in.”
Harry hesitated and glanced up as well. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Now!” Severus insisted. The second Harry was in the flat the door slammed shut behind him, effectively cutting off the source of the noise. Harry jumped at the bang. “Gossiping old bats,” Severus muttered in place of explanation, or apology.
Harry just blinked. He’d never had any trouble with his neighbours. The lady in the flat to the left sometimes gave him a stern look if he turned up the telly after hours, and the newlyweds in the flat to the right were too busy yelling at each other to even notice him. Severus’ neighbours seemed like they had too much time on their hands. Either that or the man was paranoid, which was more likely.
Severus Snape led him through a narrow corridor, past a doorway showing a dark room with loads of books and candles on the floor, and on into the kitchen. It was like stepping into a different world, a world years older than Harry. A train passed and Harry blinked at the rattle of glass in the window pane. Papers covered in red marks were scattered all over a scratched old kitchen table. The air was savoury with the steam from some sort of stew, bubbling in a pot on the stove; a ladle and a still-steaming bowlful of the same stew sat on the edge of the table. Harry took a deeper sniff, trying to decide what was in it. That broke the silence.
Severus had been standing in the middle of the kitchen with a lost look in his eyes, but at the sound of that sniff he raised an amused eyebrow. “Hungry?”
What kind of question was that? “Er...”
“Did you eat anything today? Here,” he took out a second bowl, ladling out some more of the stew.
“You don’t have to feed me!”
“Nonsense. I have more than enough. It’s my chance to offer you food, for a change.”
Severus brushed aside the scattered papers and pulled a second chair from under the rickety table. Since he put it like that, Harry couldn’t really refuse the strained hospitality. It seemed awkward to turn it down, especially since he knew the offer wouldn’t be repeated. He sat down. The stew tasted horrible: bland and overcooked, not enough salt and hardly any spices; but Harry thought it’d be rude of him to say anything. Besides, he was hungry.
He emptied the bowl in no time. Severus sat across from him, eating his own stew at a much more leisurely pace as he made occasional corrections on a sheet of paper. They didn’t talk and it seemed awkward not to, but it seemed even more awkward to ask him anything.
“What are they?” Harry asked anyway, nodding at the papers. “For school?”
“For publication. Articles,” Severus replied without looking up, “I’m on the editorial boards of some research journals.”
Afterwards Severus took Onegin into the candlelit room to put it back in its place on the tall shelves. Harry tagged along after him. The room looked as if Severus had raided a library. There was a couch and a leather chair and what looked like the corner of a bed hidden behind a row of bookshelves, but mostly it was filled with books and newspapers and magazines.
“Wow,” Harry breathed, standing in the doorway to stare around in shock. The shock was mostly at the candles scattered everywhere amid the disarray, the candles that had evidently been burning for hours. How the hell does he manage not to burn the place down?
Severus must have misinterpreted Harry’s cry, because his expression softened and he regarded Harry with something akin to pride. Harry noticed that look, and to keep it there he played along, moving carefully through the candle-cluttered room toward the crowded shelves. He skimmed the rows, reading a few titles as he ran his fingers softly along the spines of thick tomes. The subject matter seemed completely random: Nomenclature of Inogranic Chemistry was directly above Oscar Wilde’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol.
When Harry was escorted to the door, he paused on the threshold. It didn’t feel right to walk away without at least saying something. He’d turned in the essay on time and the stew wasn’t that horrible. If Severus had been a co-worker or a fellow student, it would’ve been much easier to express his appreciation. “Thanks,” Harry muttered anyway. And added before he had time to change his mind, “Can I buy you a beer? Sometime.”
“No, thank you.” Severus looked surprised. “I don’t drink,” he said with the same wince Harry said ‘M’trying to quit,’ when someone offered him a cigarette.
“Oh. Me neither.” Harry shrugged. “Not often anyway.” And that was all he could say, really.
“Wait,” Severus stopped him. “What’s your name?”
And so Harry stuck his hand out and told him.
Severus’ grip was firm and steady, squeezing quickly and letting go. “Harry,” he repeated, and somehow, even though it was just a common name, it sounded official and serious when he said it, like his first grade English teacher’s ‘Mis-ter Potter’. “You’re welcome to return if you’d like to borrow any more books.”
So Harry did.
*
Harry was just as ordinary as his name. Dark, short hair perpetually sticking up every which way, glasses, inquiring eyes paler than they should be for his complexion; all enthusiasm and awkwardness and sudden smiles and more curiosity than was good for him. Severus never expected him to come back.
Therefore he was surprised at the tentative knock on the door three days later, surprised to see Harry standing there and grinning from ear to ear.
He was even more surprised at the constant stream of questions that came out of Harry’s mouth. He really should dedicate that curiosity of his to more useful things, Severus mused, like studies or reading. Of all people, I’m hardly worth all that energy.
“So, you live alone?” Harry asked, poking around Severus’ flat. It wasn’t much of a flat, just a bedsit really. One room separated into two by the bookshelves, a tiny bathroom and a narrow corridor in between leading to the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“Any family?”
“No. My mother was the last; she passed away last spring.”
Harry winced, sympathetic and embarrassed. “M’sorry.”
“Don’t be.” More than the funeral, he remembered himself the afternoon he heard the news, sitting in his empty Chemistry classroom, head in hands; and a week later, walking away from it all without looking back. The classroom door had slammed shut behind him and the corridor was empty at that late hour. He sent his resignation notice in the mail shortly afterwards. Even months later, sometimes he still wondered if the school had ever received it; they’d certainly never replied. He found it strange that he never missed the place at all. Although he’d spent years teaching there, after months of not seeing it he still despised it.
“What was she like?” Harry asked.
“People said I looked like her. She wanted me to teach.” An image flashed through Severus’ mind. He was five. His distant aunt or cousin or something or other was bending over him, cooing and trying to coax a response out of him with sweets. “What are we going to be when we grow up, precious?” Severus hated sweets and he hated adults who thought children could only understand childish simpering. “A teacher,” his mum answered for him at once. There was never any argument about that, not with Mum.
“Right, you taught Chemistry, didn’t you?” the brat grinned. “I hated Chem at school; all that lab work. We had a terrible teacher.”
“Where did you go to school?” Severus asked. He hoped that Harry hadn’t been part of the inevitable, ever-changing gang of bullies, thugs, and layabouts that had lurked in the back of his classroom every year. That would just be too awkward.
“St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys,” Harry answered, and chuckled when Severus raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Not really, but s’what my aunt and uncle told everyone. I sort of liked the name so I started saying it too.”
“You have a strange sense of humour,” Severus observed dryly.
“Yeah, I reckon,” Harry beamed. Severus had to recall his own words, just to make sure that he did say ‘strange’ and that he didn’t compliment him by mistake.
“What about your parents?” he asked, trying to shift the attention from himself.
“Died in a car crash when I was small,” Harry shrugged. “I don’t remember them. I lived with my aunt’s family till I came here.”
Severus hmphed and decided not to say anything else about Harry being an orphan. I hope he’ll return the favour and not ask any more questions about my family, Severus thought. I probably shouldn’t worry anyway. Harry’s already satisfied his curiosity; he’ll be out of my life in no time.
Severus was surprised at how much he disliked the thought of Harry being gone. He tried to chase it out of his mind like an annoying insect buzzing in his ear. I really shouldn’t care at all, he told himself. What do Harry and I have in common? Nothing but a mutual dislike of Chemistry classes.
*
So Severus doesn’t have any family either, like me, Harry thought. Don’t reckon my aunt and uncle really count as family. It’s not as though I’ve ever been back to Surrey since I turned sixteen. Most of the time not having family doesn’t matter, not really. Who needs family when you’ve got friends? Friends are a thousand times better ‘cause you can pick people you really like to be your friends, but family, well... Sometimes you get stuck with arseholes like the Dursleys for family. I’m well off out of that lot. Harry looked around the room and smiled to himself, as he sat cross-legged in the middle of Severus’ floor, surrounded by stacks of dusty books. Aunt Petunia might be family but she’d never let me rearrange her things like this. And no way in hell would Uncle Vernon have ever said I’m welcome to come back and read his books any time I like!
He dug up a tome of Shakespeare’s sonnets and started paging through it, mumbling under his breath whatever lines caught his eye. “Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts ... Hm. Or In the old age black was not counted fair. Hmph. If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head ... Huh. Definitely not that one.” He needed to find something to read in class by tomorrow. He flipped another couple of pages and was ready to give up on Shakespeare when he noticed Severus standing in the doorway, staring at him with a truly pained expression.
“Give. Me. That.” Severus covered the distance between them in three long strides and plucked the book from Harry’s grasp with a grand sweeping gesture.
Harry winced and let go of it at once, wondering What’d I do? Can I fix it?
There was a twist of a smile on Severus’ face even as he gave Harry a mildly exasperated look.
All right, Harry thought, maybe he won’t kick me out ... this time.
Severus stepped back, eyeing the book with the relieved expression of a man who’d just rescued a family album from the hands of a three-year-old with a crayon. He flipped a page and read aloud, his voice deep and his eyes dark and gleaming.
“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun ...”
‘Read’, Harry soon realised, was an understatement. When Severus read, he put his heart and soul into each line, bringing the archaic words to life. Harry’s teacher had always urged them to ‘feel the poetry’, although Harry never really knew what that meant before now. He picked just the right sonnet for his voice, Harry thought. He really suits it. He sounds cynical and strong, mocking all those rubbishy romantic poets, as though he’s already lived what they can only try and imagine.
Harry had never heard someone create such an impact with simple words and phrases: the same ones Harry had read, although he knew he could never speak like that, not in a million years. He could only listen to the cultured cadences of Severus’ velvety voice. Until the concluding lines.
“And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare,” There was such yearning in Severus’ voice as he read the line. Briefly he glanced down to look at Harry, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward when he saw his audience’s reaction. “As any she belied with false compare.”
Silence rang in Harry’s ears. He had no words. He simply stared, unable to take his eyes off Severus. I shouldn’t be so shocked, Harry thought, but just when I think I know him, he goes and does something like this and it’s bloody brilliant!
Severus snapped the book closed and offered it back to Harry with a triumphant flourish.
Harry could only blink. “Wow!” he finally managed. “You should be teaching our Lit class! Are you sure you taught Chem?”
“Yes, I taught Chemistry,” Severus parried, his lips twisting into a satisfied smirk, “But I read literature.”
Harry shifted a stack of books on his lap and they slid apart all over the floor, the dust and the smell of old paper and ink tickling Harry’s nostrils. He took a deep breath and tried to say something important in return, like how good Severus was at reading said literature, but instead he breathed in too much dust and sneezed twice.
“I always knew you’d find Great Literature something to sneeze at.” Severus hmphed. “Impossible brat.” And then he went on about how literature was the field ‘widely disparaged by those proud of their ignorance’.
He makes it sound like witchcraft or something, Harry thought, tuning him out after a while. Instead Harry kept hearing the way Severus referred to him: impossible brat. It almost sounded affectionate.
Harry decided to read Chaucer instead for the assignment. He knew he’d never manage to read Shakespeare with Severus’ intensity.
*
Having a stray Uni student proved to be more trouble than Severus expected. Harry tracked in mud from outside and left his mittens or his hat in odd places for Severus to find - a few minutes after Harry left his flat - and to hold out wordlessly when Harry remembered and ran back up the stairs for them. Every time Harry left, Severus grumpily eyed the disarray Harry had caused amid his books and papers, but all the same he never mentioned it the next time Harry showed up at his door.
Severus realised early on that his idea to turn Harry into a connoisseur of classic literature was a lost cause. Harry liked reading, but apart from Lit assignments he only read what he wanted to, from Grimm’s tales to comics in the newspaper to the diagrams in Severus’ recent stack of articles, and ignored or yawned through the rest. After a week or two Severus gave up trying to fill the gaps in Harry’s education, and instead listened to Harry natter about his day, the customers at the Cheshire Cheese, or the lecturers at Uni. Harry never ran out of things to say and Severus unexpectedly found himself willing to listen.
It was seldom that he found someone who didn’t make him want to put arsenic in their tea after a few minutes of listening to them talk. The time spent rearranging his belongings back into order or making an occasional cup of tea (poison-free every time) was a small price to pay in exchange for that.
*
Harry hurried down the familiar road from the tube station to Severus’ block of flats. He raised his collar and lowered his head, hoping the collar would help shield his ears. The wind seemed determined to turn him into an icicle. For the millionth time he wished he hadn’t quit smoking. He glanced longingly at the cig ads in an off-licence window, but instead he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept on walking, making faces to spite the weather. To take his mind off the cold, he tried thinking about the hot cuppa he’d have as soon as he got in. They talked a lot over tea nowadays. Severus made it dark, a deep warm colour, so dark Harry could see his own reflection in the cup. Severus would wrap both of his hands around the cup and bask in that scarce warmth until even his eyes didn’t look so dark any more. They looked warm, the colour of his tea.
Harry hoped Severus had the kettle on already, and started walking faster. Soon he’d be inside, and he wouldn’t be cold anymore. Just imagining it, he could feel warmth spreading inside him, as if he’d already drunk a hot cuppa with Severus, sitting together at the rickety table in the comfortable quiet of his kitchen. When he visited Severus, Harry never ran out of things to say, or to do.
*
“That would end with a checkmate in two moves.”
“Fine then.” Harry muttered and surveyed the board again.
“And that one would cost you your queen.”
“You’re doing it again!” Harry cried, ready to sweep the figures off the board in frustration.
“What?” Severus was a picture of calm, the git.
“Trying to read my mind! Stop it!”
“It’s not difficult to tell what you’re thinking. You have remarkably expressive eyes,” Severus drawled as he slid his bishop to take Harry’s pawn.
“Oh,” Harry looked down and tried to hide his embarrassment by cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. Concentrate, he told himself. It’s not that hard. But the figures on the board didn’t make sense; every time Harry thought he’d worked out the right move, the pieces seemed to have shifted, just a bit, and ruined his plan. He narrowed his eyes and tried to remember the last time they’d done that. “Oi! Hang about, wasn’t your bishop over there?”
“Which bishop?” Severus’ tone was so distinctly bored and nonchalant, that it doubled Harry’s suspicion.
“That one!” Harry pointed out the stray piece that should’ve been right next to Severus’ king.
“It took your rook. Three moves ago.”
Harry furrowed his brow and tried to recall the move. “No it didn’t!”
“Yes it did,” Severus deadpanned.
“Bollocks it did!”
Severus arched an indifferent eyebrow. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep track of the moves.”
“Oh, don’t give me that! You cheated! At chess! I can’t believe it! If it was something like cards I could understand it, maybe, but you just don’t cheat at chess!”
He expected Severus to deny it or get angry but Severus merely smirked. “Prove it!”
You bastard! “That’s it, we’re starting over!”
“Fine,” Severus frowned, glancing at the clock. “But don’t tell me you haven’t thought of moving my pawn back a square when it was about to reach the back of the board.”
Harry glared. He really hated it when Severus pretended to read his mind. Either Severus was really good at it or Harry was more transparent than he wanted to believe. “But I didn’t, did I?” he groused as he started setting up the new game.
*
The clock in the corner showed ten past one by the time Harry managed his first hard-won stalemate. He yawned and stretched and tried to get rid of a crick in his neck by twisting it, and only then did it dawn on him how late it was. “Oh sodding hell, I’ve got class at eight tomorrow!”
“Pity,” Severus drawled, still sounding put out ever since his dispute of the validity of the last score didn’t turn out the way he wanted. “I do hope you manage to catch a train back. Must be freezing outside, and it’s raining already. You really ought to carry an umbrella with you. I’d lend you mine, only I don’t give my things to someone who accuses me of cheating.”
Harry hadn’t brought an umbrella. He hadn’t even worn his warmer coat, but Harry didn’t care about that at the moment. He was too busy cursing inwardly at Severus: him and his bloody-minded petty stubbornness and his childish urge to win at any cost.
He was still grumbling, even after he’d curled up on Severus’ couch, along with a flat, lumpy pillow and a grey woollen blanket that had been tossed his way. His eyelids were heavy and his thoughts kept swimming and mixing up in his brain, like all the chess moves and the fastest tube route from here to Uni, that he’d have to take next morning.
He kept waking up during the night. He wasn’t used to the noise of the trains: so sudden and startling, rattling the window glass and cutting the fragile silence of the room into shreds. The light was still on in the kitchen, and Harry wondered exactly when Severus managed to sleep. Sometimes he heard the rustling of a newspaper, or uneasy, quiet footsteps: in the kitchen, in the corridor. Once, in that blurry state between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he heard Severus at the doorway, but when he looked it was empty, and the kitchen light was still on, spilling a rectangle of dull yellow glow across the floor. Harry was determined to stay awake until Severus turned off the light and stopped doing whatever he was doing, but the next time he opened his eyes it was morning already and Severus’ bed in the corner behind the bookshelves looked just as untouched and empty as it had always been. That explains a lot then, Harry thought, he’s a robot! He just sticks three fingers in the kitchen socket and recharges his batteries overnight.
Severus wasn’t in the kitchen when Harry looked there, although he did find bread and butter set out on the table next to a freshly brewed pot of coffee.
When Harry left he wondered if he should lock the door, or find out where Severus went first. Then he heard Severus’ voice a few flights of stairs above talking to someone: a woman with a high-pitched voice. They weren’t speaking English. It sounded like Russian or Polish. Harry thought about going up and asking Severus where he learned to speak it - rather fluently it seemed - but then he glanced at his watch and ran downstairs instead, taking two steps at a time. He arrived just in time for the end of his eight o’clock lecture, and his teacher gave him a glare that rivalled one he’d got from Severus last week, when Harry’d accidentally knocked over a stack of his newspapers.
*
Harry thought he saw a familiar black-clad back emerging from the alley into the crowds of Fleet Street: Severus, leaving. I knew I should’ve come to work earlier today! Harry thought, too frantic to wait for the traffic lights; he jumped out in front of an oncoming lorry and sprinted across the street. By the time the angry driver honked his horn at Harry, he was already on the other side. He searched the crowded footpath frantically for another glimpse of black coat and black hair. Where’d he go?
A hand gripped his shoulder and dragged him a foot away from the road and onto the footpath. “Idiot!” Severus hissed in his ear. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Hi,” Harry smiled sheepishly. “Good to see you too.” He straightened out his jacket and tried to pretend that nothing was amiss and he dodged traffic like that on his way to work every morning.
Severus hmphed. “How are you,” he asked, his expression still stern. “Apart from playing lorryador?”
Harry spluttered surprised laughter; Severus’ annoyed mask was cracked by the smallest possible smirk. “Good,” Harry grinned up at Severus. “Loads better now, thanks.”
Severus eyebrow twitched. “Oh? That’s ... good.”
“Er. Look,” Harry sobered abruptly, glancing at a large clock a block away, “I’ve got work in three minutes. Sorry.”
Severus’ expression went neutral, indifferent. “Of course. Go.”
“I’m really sorry!” Harry repeated. I knew I should’ve showed up earlier today, he thought miserably, then I would’ve had a chance to sit down and ask him about Russian or Polish, or whatever it was, while he ate. He wouldn’t’ve minded.
Then Severus asked “What time do you finish working?” and Harry smiled.
“Five.”
“Then, unless you have anything else planned ...”
“Great!” Harry chirped, “See you then.”
It was settled. Harry was only a minute late for his shift and that really was as good as ‘on time’. Or perhaps it was just his blissful smile that spared him from a talk with the manager.
*
Waterloo Bridge was five minutes’ walk away. Harry dragged Severus there: down Fleet Street, past the shop fronts on the Strand, and onto the riverbank. It was dark and windy and he was frozen to the bone and blinded by the lights of the bridge against the black sky, but even with the lights there was still all that water and all that dark space underneath and that tremendous sense of depth and the heart-stopping feeling he always got when he was standing on the edge: as if he’d slipped and fallen over the rail, and kept falling, diving through the air but never quite reaching the dark water below. The rush of it always sent his blood racing. Harry reckoned that was why he loved this place so. Every time he saw it, it was always different, whether at night or in the daytime. But this particular time it was dark and mysterious with the black water breathing cold air at him and yellow electric highlights dancing on the waves and the scattered reflections of city lights stretching along the riverbank. The railing vibrated ever so slightly when the cars zoomed by and Harry wondered whether, if he could somehow climb down underneath the bridge, he’d hear the waves echo.
“Brilliant, innit?” Harry grinned. “It’s even better in the daytime. D’you want to come back tomorrow? Or I can come to your flat.”
Severus stared pensively at his folded hands on the railing. “Harry, don’t you have other things to do? I don’t want to take up all of your time.”
“What things?”
“Whatever people your age do. Hang about with friends, take your girl out.”
“I don’t have a girl right now,” Harry shrugged and watched a sliver of the moon appear in a cloud gap, low above the horizon. “The last one I asked out left me after the second date.”
“I see.”
“They’re always like that,” Harry waved his hands, drawing vague shapes in the air, “Second date and wham! They either leave you, or they want commitment and then they leave you; y’know?”
Severus shook his head. “Not particularly.”
“Oh,” Harry said. Adding anything else to that ‘oh’ was rather difficult, even when Severus looked away, down at the river. Sometimes, Harry thought, he’s just as hard to work out as trying to see past the Thames’ surface into its depths. He gathered his scattered thoughts and tried again, murmuring diffidently, “Have you ever been serious about someone?”
Severus gave him a level look. “I am almost invariably serious around everyone.”
Harry snorted. “Y’know what I mean!” He thought he saw a slow, sly smirk but it was too dark to tell for sure.
“Perhaps… What I don’t know is why you’re suddenly so interested in the topic.”
Harry shrugged. “Just ‘cause. I never had any luck. Did you?”
Severus moved his head in a gesture so small it might just as easily have been a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.
Harry made a guess anyway. “You didn’t?”
“Not ... long enough to learn the finer points of commitment.”
Know what you mean, Harry thought, I never had a chance to learn those either. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s something I’m doing wrong. If it’s the glasses, the way I dress, or talk, if I’m too clumsy, or something.”
When Severus answered, his voice was soft and low, his face shadowed by the long strips of black hair hanging down the sides. “If you start changing yourself to suit the world’s expectations you’ll never stop. You’re fine just being who you are. If others don’t see that, it’s their loss.”
Harry listened to him speak, latching onto the sound of Severus’ voice, deep and intense, and for a moment it was Shakespeare all over again and it made Harry think of the black, icy river below, and all the dark, empty spaces in the world and how they could be filled with just the sound of one particular voice, resonating through them.
“What?” Severus glanced sidelong at him.
Harry jumped. I should probably stop staring. “Nothing. It’s just ... that’s the best advice I’ve had in ages. Thanks.”
Severus arched an eyebrow at that. “There is something you could change,” he added, tentatively.
“What?”
“Try to eat better meals, and get more sleep. You don’t look rested.”
Harry laughed then, thinking I must really look a mess today, if even he noticed.
*
Before his exam week Harry didn’t get out of his flat for three days in a row. On Tuesday night he decided that if he had to read another page of rubbish, he’d throw his textbooks out the window, ten storeys up. Or maybe throw himself instead. On Wednesday he went to see Severus, an hour earlier than usual.
Severus greeted him with a worried look. “Anything happened?”
“Not a lot,” Harry shrugged. “Why d’you ask?”
“No reason,” Severus shook his head. “Come in.”
Harry nodded. It felt awkward not to see Severus on Monday like he usually did. Severus narrowed his eyes at him. Harry blinked and hoped Severus hadn’t noticed his bloodshot eyes and the shadows underneath them.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” Harry exploded. “M’fine!” He realised too late that he must’ve sounded like a berk. “Chess game?” he asked then, trying to make his voice calm and mature.
Severus raised an eyebrow and remained standing in the doorway, blocking it.
Harry gave in. “S’just exam week,” he sighed, “Nothing serious.” He hoped that’d be the end of that.
But it wasn’t. “Nothing serious?” Severus frowned. “You should be at home with your books and your notes! Have you had time to study?”
I’m sick of studying! Harry frowned. “Not today. Just one exam left.”
“Which one is it? Literature? Do you know what books are on it? Let me see if I have them here. If not ...”
“Look, I’ll be fine. I’ve got my textbook. Just ...” stop worrying so much! Harry wanted to say but stopped himself; in a way, it was rather nice that Severus was worrying. Instead Harry adjusted the book bag on his shoulder and slipped past and into the flat, before Severus could change his mind and lock Harry out.
I just need to sit down and close my eyes for a second, Harry convinced himself, crashing onto the couch while Severus looked for some book or other that was supposed to help. Just a couple of minutes, he thought, staring at the now familiar wall of books and the unlit candles scattered here and there.
The next thing he remembered was being woken up with a tentative nudge on his shoulder. A strong smell of coffee was coming from the kitchen and the clock showed four. Still half asleep he chugged two cups of coffee, scalding hot and bitter. Afterwards Severus handed him his book bag and sent him home with strict instructions to study before the exam.
Harry never knew he could memorise things so well if he did his reading before noon. One of the questions on the exam asked about Shakespearean sonnets. Harry chose Sonnet #130 and wrote half a page more than required.
*
Harry spent that year’s Christmas alone. He certainly didn’t want to see the Dursleys. Severus and he never actually talked about it, but the man probably had other plans, other friends. Harry didn’t want to intrude. He didn’t want to meet anyone else for Christmas either. So he celebrated it alone in his flat as usual: he’d done that since he turned sixteen and first came to London, only this time it didn’t seem quite right.
He awoke on Christmas day from a dream of Severus.
Severus was dressed all in black, like a vicar or a priest. He had a quill and was writing something on a parchment scroll. It made Harry think of the monks who spent years rewriting old texts in cramped, angular handwriting: very much like the way Severus wrote, now he thought of it. Severus looked up and stared at Harry. He continued staring, silently, and Harry couldn’t look away from that dark gaze. “What?” he finally asked. “Have I got something on my face?”
Severus smiled, that lopsided, wry half-smile of his that wouldn’t really be a smile on anyone else’s lips. “Remarkably expressive eyes,” he murmured. Harry could see his mouth never moved, but his soft voice was clear inside Harry’s mind all the same.
Harry woke up panting, his heart pounding as if from a nightmare or from the other kind of dreams that sent his blood racing, though he wasn’t aroused, just overwhelmed by the clarity and the strangeness of it all. Severus’ deep voice, breathed somehow into his mind, more intimate than a whisper to his ear, kept Harry awake for the longest time.
Harry leaned on the windowsill and looked outside: an old habit during his infrequent bouts of insomnia. Far below he could hear the rush and hiss of traffic. The council housing estate he lived in, Ampthill Square Estate, was pretty close to the city centre: three grey concrete towers with bright trim, blue, yellow, and red. Harry had lived in the red one for the past two years.
Harry thought he was rather normal. He went out with girls, got dumped after a few dates, kept chatting up the cute, freckled girl next door. He never had a chance with her, of course, but Ginny was a good sport, she just flashed him a smile and never really chased him away. But that was before he met Severus. And it seemed like Severus did something to him, affected him in some way - by a single word, a glance, by making Harry dream - and Harry felt different, reacted differently to the strangest things. Sometimes when Severus looked at him, his eyes dark in his harsh-planed face, Harry could almost hear that deep voice in the back of his mind, whispering something frantic and intense on and on, saying words Harry couldn’t quite comprehend yet.
*
He wondered sometimes if Severus could read his fortune by looking in Harry’s eyes, the way gypsies saw it in the lines on people’s palms. He didn’t want to picture Severus as the lonely monk from his dream, so instead he thought of him as a gypsy, in a world where girls with hair and eyes as dark as Severus’ wore colourful skirts and shiny coin jewellery, and danced round fires to guitar music: wild rhythms or weeping ballads. A world where Harry could replay the darker music of Severus’ voice in his mind as much as he wanted, where his growing interest in an older man would attract no notice. A world where the card tricks were so elaborate they seemed real, and magic was as commonplace as love.
Continued in Part 2