And so it begins... Harry Potter fic, Severus Snape/Harry Potter
After all this time, I've finally, at long, long last, gotten around to making something of this journal. So here we go!
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Title: Harry
Word Count: 619
Disclaimer: Hats off to J.K. Rowling and her magnificent world, alas that I, myself, could never be the recipient of nearly so many hats if only by stint of the fact that... I can derive no such benefits herein as the characters and related paraphernalia belong solely to the aforementioned authoress.
Summary: What's in a name?
A rose is a rose, a violet, a violet. Be they red or be they blue. A name is a name. But never do you call him by his own. Instead, you've given him others. Others that nevertheless render well your affections. However, when he looks you in the eye and asks you, ‘May I call you Severus?’ you are pleased that his grammar has improved, if only through osmosis, and you reply, ‘You may, Potter.’ Mainly to irritate him. But it is thus that he forever asks of you, ‘Why won't you call me Harry?’ Your only response, however, is a heavy-laden silence. While your reasoning is so overly convoluted that it would be easier to pull teeth from within your tightly-pressed lips than it would be to put those reasons into words.
For quite some time now, you have been a part of who he is; his counsel, his guide. Although you are no longer his teacher, from you he still learns, and you hope, with a sincerity you rarely display that ‘til your dying day shall he continue. The many magical arts for which you pride yourself, you pour into him, hoping to the Gods, and any deity that might listen that he will be filled to the brim with this knowledge; knowledge enough to get him through. Alive will do. Alive you can work with. Dead... It is not a thought you can bear. Nor is it one of which you would dare even let yourself ponder a moment, lest you break, or falter in his wake as he moves on forward, to a destination where you cannot follow. You wonder sometimes would he look back, with fondness, if at all.
But when the time comes, you let him go. With nary a word said, instead his hands on your face traversing its harsh and haggard planes that for some reason you can’t explain have become quite dear to him. They continue on their path, and there within you bubbles a laugh at fate that unexpected gave you such a gift as this. And suddenly those hands are at your hips, pulling you closer, even as you brush your lips against his and your noses bump gently, as if they too wish to kiss. And you feel a tenderness you knew not that you had well within you.
But then you part, and you think to yourself that never have you known a distance so small to feel so vast, only to have it disappear in the blink of an eye, at the command in his voice as he says to you, ‘I love you, Severus.’ Your name attached, because he can. And all you can do is look, and drink, and be drunk in his beauty, and filled with delight that has escaped you now for quite some time.
But that he must still go, and leave you so, returns in a flash to your burdened mind. So in response your lips press tight and a scratchy ‘Goodbye’ slips through in spite of your desperate desire to hold it in. You do not wish to bid him goodbye, as if this is the last time. But the last time for what, that you know not. Still, as he kisses you once more, you think forevermore shall you be lost in this moment.
It's only after he's gone that your mouth takes form and you finish the thought that embodies who you’ve become, and to whom you belong, and as words of such import oft do it simply echoes and echoes and echoes and echoes, ringing in your ears, your mind, your soul.
‘Harry.’
And you ask yourself, who are you really without him?