Fic: Terms of This Conflict (2/2)

[lemondropseven]

Title: Terms of This Conflict
Author: lemondropseven
Giftee: serpenscript
Word Count: ~20,100
Rating: R
Pairing: Severus/Harry
Warnings: Slavery, violence, torture (there is a hopeful/happy ending)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Left angry and bitter after the war, Harry’s whole focus is now on exacting due punishment on the guilty. Unfortunately, only one man is within his reach, and Harry is intent on making Severus Snape pay.
Author’s Notes: Some dialogue taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It’s safe to say I wouldn’t have even attempted to write this story, much less finished it, without the wonderful hand-holding of my beta, whitecotton. Thank you so much. Also, thanks go to torina_archelda and accioslash for encouragement and read-throughs. serpenscript, I took your second prompt and kind of ran with it, I hope you enjoy it. Happy Snarry Holidays!

Part 1

The nightmare woke him, Ginny’s soundless death and the screams of the Death Eater following him from sleep into the darkness of his room. Wincing, Harry leaned over the edge of the bed, dry heaving, spasms clenching his empty stomach. Razor sharp cramps rolled through his aching muscles in waves, reminding him of the fight with Snape. His sleep-fuzzy brain cleared in an instant.

Snape!

He’d left him, unconscious, on the library floor, beaten half to death. Harry had never thought himself capable of that kind of violence-cold and cruel-not caring whether he killed or lived or died. He’d never been this way before…Not before the war.

That moment…when he’d wanted nothing more than to snap Snape’s skinny neck. Recalling it now-the longing to hear the crack signifying the end of it all, the taste and smell of blood, his own and Snape’s, the pure thrill of dominance and victory, hatred and joy mingling together-he wondered who he was. Had he changed so much?

What the fuck had he done? He could’ve…Snape could be dying now, or dead. The panicked thought had him retching again. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Harry got to his feet unsteadily, wincing as the movement sent pain screaming through his muscles and joints. If he felt this bad, Snape must be in agony.

Thoughts of Snape were almost as painful as his injuries, bringing to mind his argument with Dumbledore. Dumbledore. He couldn’t believe his portrait was alive, that was enough of a shock, and then to learn that he still thought Snape was loyal to him. How could he trust the one who’d killed him?

Shaking his head in confusion and denial, Harry groaned at the sharp pain the movement brought, and realized he had a killer headache to go with everything else.

Dumbledore ordered me to kill him; he had been cursed and was dying.

Snape’s words from the trial suddenly slammed into him and he gasped at the almost physical sensation. No. It couldn’t be true. Dumbledore said there was something he should know about the night he died…but that couldn’t be it.

He’d talked to Snape when he was Headmaster, though. There was no way he would… maybe Snape had fooled Dumbledore. Lied to him after his death, making it sound like killing him was the only way to keep his position as a spy in Voldemort’s ranks. Dumbledore would give anything-even his life-to defeat Voldemort.

He would give anything...maybe even an order…but that would mean…no. No! Snape was a liar and a murderer, he knew that for a fact, and deserved what he’d got-and more. And Harry had been so angry when he left Dumbledore’s office last night, it was no wonder he’d lost control.

It wasn’t really his fault, but he could-needed to-do something.

Carefully making his way down the hallway, he glanced into the library, taking in the overturned chair and the dark brown stains on the floor. The absence of Snape told him that, apparently, he was alive and well enough to move around.

Holding his head with one hand, Harry slowly limped down the hall to Snape’s room. He stood in the doorway for a long minute looking at the still figure on the bed. Snape was lying on his right side, facing the door, and Harry flinched when he saw the damage he’d done.

Snape’s face was almost unrecognizable.

Both eyes were swollen shut and turning purple, blood was crusted below his nose and fresh blood seeped from a cut on his forehead. The slow rise and fall of his chest was reassuring, though the wheezing, gurgling sound was not.

The unknown chill from last night reappeared, swirling through his gut, this time bringing with it a name: disgust. He had done this. He had done this. It didn’t matter that Snape deserved it; this wasn’t, couldn’t be, who he was now.

Harry silently approached the bed and ran a standard diagnostic spell, sighing with relief when the result came back negative for a punctured lung, which had been his biggest concern given Snape’s labored breathing. The minor concussion, bruises, fractured ribs, two dislocated fingers, cuts and general aches were all injuries Harry had experience healing.

Blanking his mind from the fact that he was the cause of the mess, Harry worked swiftly and efficiently, ignoring his own twinges of pain. Snape grunted and his eyelashes fluttered for a moment as if waking when Harry healed his fingers, the sickening pop of a joint sliding back into place obviously uncomfortable even when unconscious.

Harry had no potions for the pain, but with most of the injuries healed and the others mending quickly, it should lessen considerably.

Snape sighed in his sleep, shifting deeper into the blankets, already resting easier and slipped from unconsciousness into regular sleep. Like Harry, he hadn’t undressed or even slid under the covers. Though his black shirt didn’t show the blood stains, Harry knew they were there, so he cast a cleansing spell.

The tingle of magic swept over Snape’s healing body and his eyes slowly opened, struggling to focus. Finally, he honed in on Harry’s wand.

Harry watched the blood decorating Snape’s face and fists lighten, growing fainter, until there was nothing left but a trace of fear in Snape’s black gaze.

Traces always remained.

Snape jerked back instinctively as Harry moved suddenly to put away his wand, his face wrinkling in confusion when very little pain accompanied the abrupt movement. Harry froze, wand in mid-air, not knowing what to do, what to say. Snape’s wary eyes finally lifted from his wand to his face.

Ever so slowly, Harry lowered his arm and stood there, accepting Snape’s intense scrutiny. The black eyes scoured his face, tracing every line, every plane, before finally hesitating in the vicinity of his cheekbones. Not hesitating in the least, Harry dipped his knees to bring their eyes into alignment.

Snape was startled, but held the eye contact confidently, seeking the answer to a question he hadn’t asked. The dark brows drew together in concentration, then shot up, clearly surprised at what he’d found. His face relaxed infinitesimally and with a sigh, he closed his eyes, not completely at ease, but certainly more so than he should be with his attacker in the room.

Harry was at a loss to explain Snape’s actions. Or the reaction they’d caused.

A constricting tightness in his chest that he hadn’t known was there loosened just a bit. And Harry could breathe. Stumbling back to his room, he eased out of his clothes and collapsed into bed, naked and completely drained.

Harry didn’t think about meeting Ron in three days, or Dumbledore’s portrait waking up, or Snape’s shocked face after the first punch landed, or how good it’d felt, or how horrible it’d felt, or how worried he was that he was losing his mind. No, he didn’t think at all.

He just breathed.

~~~

Harry tapped his fingers on the table, casting Tempus for the fifth time in twenty minutes. It was just breakfast. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to be nervous about. He and Snape always ate in the tiny kitchen since Snape obviously couldn’t go to the Great Hall, and Harry preferred not to.

Snape was always up first and had breakfast waiting-cold cereal and toast with jam. Occasionally, and in no discernable pattern, a full, traditional breakfast would replace their usual fare. It was probably some of the Hogwarts house-elves’ doing, since he didn’t keep the pantry stocked that well, and of course, Snape had no access to anything outside the rooms.

Mentally shrugging, Harry looked over the fried eggs and bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms he’d asked for and cast another warming charm. It wasn’t because he felt guilty. It was just breakfast.

Snape shuffled through the doorway, rubbing his side, and froze when he saw Harry. Looking away quickly, his gaze landed on the mound of food and he glanced back to Harry, eyes narrowing in speculation. Harry flushed and shifted in his seat, unable to meet the black stare.

Muttering to his toes, Harry said, “It’s just breakfast.” He looked up, the defensive glint in his green eyes challenging Snape to make a big deal out of it. Snape stood staring for a long moment as if he didn’t recognize him, and Harry held his breath.

“Why did you heal me last night?” Snape asked, every line of his body sharp and edged with tension.

Harry’s breath released in a puff of surprise and his heart leapt into his throat. He wished Snape had asked “Why did you beat me last night?” which would’ve been much easier to answer. He had been grieving for Ginny and was angry, and he’d lost control. These were all reasons for a violent outburst and understandable, if not easily forgiven. But this… Snape had gone straight to the heart of the matter.

The answer to this question was much more complicated.

Harry fidgeted a little, toying with the hem of his shirt. He didn’t want to-didn’t know how to-answer him. His forehead wrinkled in confusion. He was such a mess right now that it was impossible to sort through his motivations. It had been the right thing to do, he knew that…but so many things about this situation were far from right. He couldn’t say why this was different, he just knew that it was.

Unaware of Snape’s intense gaze, Harry’s eyes and face revealed every thought, every struggle. He opened his mouth to say something-anything-to end the bloody awkward silence, but Snape raised a hand to stop him.

Snape searched his face and, like last night, Harry allowed it, hoping he could see what Harry couldn’t say. The tightness around the black eyes eased and he took a deep breath, his face more open than Harry had ever seen it.

“It’s just breakfast,” Snape said cautiously, with the tentativeness of someone expecting rejection.

Surely it couldn’t be that easy? The Snape he knew would never-Harry stopped mid-thought. Maybe he didn’t know Snape.

Harry looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time in…well, since before Dumbledore’s death. He saw the ugly, greasy professor from school, the cold-blooded killer from the tower, and the scared slave fighting against his master’s anger and strength.

He had seen that Snape before. This time there was more.

He saw the bullied boy from the Pensieve, the repentant Death Eater grieving the loss of a friend and an illusion, and the tortured man offering comfort and sympathy. He saw Severus, the person.

Severus straightened his shoulders, obviously uncomfortable as the silence stretched between them.

Realizing he was staring, Harry cleared his throat. “Yes, just breakfast,” he agreed, relief evident in his tone.

Severus nodded slightly, joining him at the table without another word. Harry shot quick glances at him while they filled their plates, trying to reconcile his new understanding of Severus with his old prejudices. Taking a sip of coffee, his eyes were drawn to him again; this time, black met green briefly before slipping away.

“Why haven’t you healed your injuries?” Severus’ gaze drifted over Harry’s black eye before focusing on his mouth.

Harry felt the split lip throb now that his attention was drawn to it. He probed the cut gingerly with his tongue, puzzled when Severus’ eyes snapped back up to his then slid away quickly, faint color in his cheeks.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was important at the time, I guess.” Harry shrugged absentmindedly, trying to decipher Severus’ sudden unease. But the moment passed and Severus was composed once more, returning to his breakfast.

They sat sipping coffee long after their plates were clean, both reluctant to break the truce by leaving-as if their ability to be civil was limited to the breakfast table.

~~~

Harry was sprawled on the couch in front of the fire he’d built to dispel the chill that permeated the castle in winter. One leg was slung over the back of the cushions, the other bent at the knee, his book slowly drifting down then jerking upright as he fought the warmth luring him to doze. Finally he gave in to the heat, the mystery novel landing softly on his chest.

He was fast asleep by the time Severus emerged from his library an hour later, and so didn’t see him stop by the hearth, watching him for a moment. He wasn’t aware of Severus’ eyes trailing over his messy hair and skewed glasses, lingering on the straight line of Harry’s nose and the full, slightly parted lips. When Severus sighed, then silently approached the sofa to crouch down beside him, Harry didn’t even stir.

Severus reached out and gently removed Harry’s glasses, set them on the coffee table, then removed the book from Harry’s slack grasp. He froze when Harry finally shifted, rolling onto his side. But he simply settled deeper into the soft cushions, and so Severus breathed again, setting the book next to his glasses.

Harry was tumbling into a dream of pale golds, ambers and soft shades of grey when Severus raised his hand, then hesitated. Shaking his head, Severus slowly pulled back his arm and stood, looking down at Harry’s peaceful face and smiling sadly.

“Sleep well, Harry.”

And Harry did.

~~~

Harry returned from lunch in the Great Hall exasperated by McGonagall’s interrogation. She was worried he wasn’t eating enough, wasn’t moving past the war, and was spending too much time in his rooms. Basically, everything he did was subject to other people’s approval. It had always been that way and he was tired of it.

Striding into Severus’ library he was drawn up short by the sight of Severus playing chess-regular chess, not the wizard’s version-against himself. He watched as Severus debated moving the black knight, his hand hovering over the piece, head tilted to the side. Finally he decided, swiftly placing the knight on the board near the white queen. He lifted his hand off the piece a bare inch, then picked it back up and set it to the side. The queen took its place.

His frustration melting away, Harry snorted in amusement, startling Severus who turned quickly, on edge, then relaxed.

“Would you like to play against someone who doesn’t know your next move?” Harry didn’t realize he was going to ask until the words were out of his mouth.

Severus’ eyebrow rose skeptically. “Are you any good?”

~~~

Tonight he was meeting Ron. He didn’t think he was going to make it through the day, the hours seeming to drag, and Harry wondered if eight o’clock would ever come. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t even think.

He’d flown for hours on his broom that morning, circling the grounds and darting around the towers of the castle. Halfway through lunch, he noticed he wasn’t actually eating, just pushing the food around on his plate. Giving up on his lamb chop, he decided to wander the hallways instead. However, nothing seemed to burn off the excess nervous energy surging through him.

Tea. Tea would help and it was about that time anyway. Harry busied himself with the routine process, pacing the small kitchen as he waited. He didn’t know what Ron was going to say-didn’t know what he was going to say.

What reason or explanation could he give, really? It was his fault Ginny was dead.

Preoccupied with the ache in his heart, Harry made two cups of tea without thinking about it. Staring in surprise at the cup prepared exactly the way Severus liked it, he wondered when he’d noticed his preferences.

No sense wasting perfectly good tea, and Severus always forgot to eat and drink when he was absorbed in his notes. Shrugging mentally, Harry picked up both cups and carried them to the library.

It was the first time he had seen Severus smile.

~~~

Harry slouched in a corner of the Hog’s Head, keeping an eye on the entrance and trying to avoid being noticed by the crowd. Friday nights were busy for the popular establishment, and he saw many people he recognized but would rather not talk to at the moment. The door swung open, letting in the bitterly cold wind and a light dusting of snow. Ron and Hermione stepped in hurriedly, laughing and brushing the white powder off their coats.

Butterflies invaded his stomach, flapping their mean little wings. Harry took a deep breath. He could do this. He raised an unsteady hand to attract his friends’ attention, not even attempting to smile through his nerves. He just had to remember that Ron was his best mate, and even though they’d had fights through the years, some quite bad, he’d always been there for him.

Hermione saw him first and smiled, dragging Ron in his direction. Harry swallowed hard to keep his insides from jumping up his throat. Standing, he ran a hand through his hair and waited for Ron to see him. When Ron finally looked to see where Hermione was leading him, he froze, jerking her to a stop by virtue of their clasped hands.

The teasing smile dropped instantly and Ron looked like he’d seen a ghost. His face went slack with shock at first, then rapidly tightened. His mouth flattened, the corners drawing back in disgust, and his nostrils flared.

Hermione’s eyes darted back and forth between them. She chewed on her bottom lip, her brow wrinkling.

Harry raised a hand toward his best mate, mutely pleading for…what, he wasn’t sure. A chance to hear him out, maybe. It was obvious Ron hadn’t known he was going to be here, so the note must’ve been Hermione’s idea, and he’d deal with her later. He couldn’t think about that now, not with Ron looking at him like a complete stranger. Or worse-an enemy.

Hermione tugged on Ron’s hand hard, shooting him a pleading look. Ron’s glare softened a bit as he turned to her and he let himself be led across the last few feet of distance between them. Harry watched the wordless exchange, feeling a pang in his chest as he remembered all the times he’d been a part of those shared looks. He missed it.

“Hello, Harry.” Hermione smiled, patting his arm like she always did-as if they had spoken yesterday, not more than a month ago-but there was tension around her eyes and she couldn’t hide her worry and concern.

“Hello,” he said and tried to smile back, sure he failed miserably. Turning to the silent Ron, he met the carefully blank stare, thinking that Severus wore that exact expression when he was overwhelmed by emotion. A sudden dread that this would not end well stabbed him in the gut.

“Hello, Ron.” Harry couldn’t keep the quaver out of his voice, but Ron made no move to acknowledge him or it. Gathering all the courage he’d never thought he’d need again after killing Voldemort, Harry tried again. “Ron… I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything, but I-I tried to get to her. It just happened so fast! I couldn’t-there was nothing I could do to stop him. It was too late. I’m sorry-so sorry. It was too late.” Harry whispered the words that haunted his nights, hoping Ron would understand.

Hope, he knew well, was dangerous. It sucked you in, brought light into darkness and then, just as you started to believe in it, plunged you back into pitch black despair. Despite knowing this, Harry still stood, waiting for the light.

Ron’s blue eyes pierced him and he said the heart-crushing, breath-stealing words that Harry would never forget. “It’s your fault, you know? You were supposed to watch out for Ginny-you were supposed to protect her. And now she’s dead. It’s your fault.”

He vaguely heard a gasp and remembered Hermione’s presence. The grief and rage in Ron’s voice, and his own doubts echoing the cutting words, drowned out all sound. It was his fault. He’d promised.

“I miss her too, Ron,” he rasped. “I miss them all. I know what it feels like-”

Ron’s face lost the mask and twisted in anger, his hands clenching. His voice so low Harry had to strain to hear him, he snarled, “You don’t know how I feel, or what it feels like to watch my mother start sobbing in the middle of dinner because there are empty seats at the table.”

“Ron…I…”

There was nothing he could say to that. He’d known from the beginning there was nothing he could say. The light of the last three days left him, his whole world slowly going dim, like he was dying.

Ron turned to Hermione, taking a breath before he spoke. His voice much calmer but still rough, he said “I need to walk for a bit. Will you be okay getting home by yourself?”

Eyes wide and gleaming with tears, Hermione leaned up to kiss him on the chin. “Sure, call me when you get home.”

Ron nodded, then he was gone.

“Harry…he’ll come around. You know he always…”

Hermione trailed off as Harry simply walked away and out into the cold night.

In a daze, his thoughts swirling like the snow around him, Harry let the despair and darkness consume him. There was no point in fighting it anyway. It always won. It had taken so much from him already-and now Ron.

It wasn’t fair.

The full moon lit the well-worn path, fresh snow crunching under his feet and the crisp air turning his breath into puffs of smoky clouds. Harry didn’t see the beauty in the long, solitary walk to Hogwarts.

By the time he reached the castle grounds he was spoiling for a fight. Stalking through the halls towards his rooms, he felt a twinge of regret for what he was about to do, but it wasn’t his fault. Ron wasn’t being reasonable, and he couldn’t-didn’t want to-fight with Ron; he was his best mate. Not Severu-Snape.

Snape looked up, startled, when the door slammed open.

Harry stood just inside the room, shaking and breathing hard, conflicting desires immobilizing him. He wanted to smash Ron’s-the Death Eater’s-Snape’s face. He wanted to hurt Ron-Snape like they’d hurt him. He wanted to show Snape the last three days changed nothing. But something had changed, and he didn’t want to-didn’t know what he wanted.

Snape stood, putting his book down on the couch, looking at him with concern in his eyes. The same concern he’d seen on Hermione’s face-the concern for a friend-and Harry couldn’t move. This was her fault anyway. Hermione always thought she knew everything, obviously thought she could fix him and Ron, but she was wrong. And so was Snape; they weren’t friends.

Harry ignored the voice inside his head calling him a liar.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” Snape asked quietly.

Harry’s face contorted into something ugly. “No, of course not. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s just fucking fine.” He threw his hands up, arms tense, legs restless.

Snape went very still; his instinct for danger functioned perfectly and he had no trouble recognizing the mood Harry was in from three days ago. Face and voice modulated to placate, he raised both hands, palms up, in the universal sign for peace. “Sir. Calm down.”

Growling, Harry stalked Snape, slowly getting closer, watching the subtle shift of expressions as he backed up. “Don’t tell me to calm down. You can’t tell me to do anything. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand. I am not trying to give you orders; I am merely trying to help,” Snape said evenly and slowly.

Now within striking distance, Harry’s hand shot out and latched onto one of Snape’s wrists, pulling him forward. “You can’t help me,” he hissed in Snape’s face, “no one can help me. It’s too late.”

Snape didn’t resist the biting grip, didn’t pull away. He stood in Harry’s hold, their faces inches apart, and Harry saw pity in his eyes.

“I don’t need your help and I don’t need your pity!” Spit flew in Snape’s face, though he didn’t blink.

Harry shoved him away roughly, clenching his hands into fists. He was losing control-he didn’t want to lose control-then suddenly it morphed, this desire to let go, and he wanted to provoke Snape, make him lose control. It wouldn’t be enough this time to simply take out his anger on him.

Snape stood motionless, appearing relaxed, but his eyes were alert, tracking every movement Harry made.

Reaching into his pocket, Harry pulled out Snape’s broken wand and watched his face carefully, but there was only the slightest twitch of his eyelids, nothing else. Snape had been a spy for twenty years; breaking him wouldn’t be easy. And Harry wanted to break him-badly.

“You’re as useless as this wand, you know that?”

Harry sneered as he hurled the broken pieces of wood at Snape, where they bounced off his chest harmlessly. Snape’s expression remained serene, his composure never faltering; not even a flinch, damn it. There had to be a way to get under his skin.

Frustrated, Harry started to pace, shooting glances at Snape who was watching him calmly, as he always did.

As he always did.

Stopping mid-step, Harry stared at him. Snape was always watching him. From the corner of his eye, from across the room, sometimes Harry caught him staring. And Snape would look away quickly, almost guilty, or... embarrassed. Memories of the last three days, and even some from weeks ago, flooded his brain and something clicked. Harry’s jaw dropped.

Snape was attracted to him.

The signs were there if you looked for them: offering comfort and understanding after a nightmare; surprising complacency with his situation almost from the beginning; jerking his hand away when they’d accidently touched as Harry handed him tea, faint color in his cheeks; forgiving him easily for beating the shit out of him; and always-always-the black eyes followed his every move.

Snape might even be half in love with him.

And what a revelation that was. Hot and smug, impending triumph filled his chest and a wicked grin curved his lips. Snape shifted, looking uneasy for the first time.

Using his sexuality as intuitively as he did magic, Harry strolled towards his stone-still slave. Stepping in close enough to touch, he let only his body heat cross the mere inches between them. Snape’s eyes widened and he backed away, almost stumbling over the coffee table.

Harry matched him step for step until he couldn’t go any further, his back against the wall.

Placing one hand beside Snape’s head, he leaned in close and felt the tension between them coil like a spring, ready to snap. His lips almost brushing against the pale skin of Snape’s jaw, Harry lowered his voice in a mockery of a lover’s whisper.

“How could you ever think that I would want you?”

Harry felt Snape shudder.

Victory. It screamed through him, scorching and silky, and he laughed.

His hot breath hit the side of Snape’s neck and he delighted in the sharp intake of breath Snape couldn’t control. Thrusting his free hand into the black hair, much cleaner now than it’d ever been, Harry cupped the back of Snape’s head and dug short, blunt fingernails into his scalp. Snape jolted but remained silent, biting his lower lip.

That wouldn’t do at all. Harry wanted to hear him, to make him beg... then deny him.

Tangling his fingers in the smooth strands, Harry yanked Snape’s head back, exposing the long line of his pale neck, and then lowered his lips to within centimeters, hovering over Snape’s Adam’s apple.

“You know you like it,” he whispered, “don’t deny yourself the pleasure-let me hear you,” and he bit down, hard enough to leave a mark but not break the skin, just above the collar glinting in the fire light.

Snape’s entire body stiffened and he stifled a groan in the back of his throat, the sound never reaching Harry’s ears. But he felt it, felt the vibration against his lips and teeth, and he smiled around the flesh in his mouth. Yes. That was better, but not good enough.

Harry pulled back slowly, letting Snape’s skin scrape through his teeth. Determined to rip the sounds from Snape’s iron control, he moved up to his ear and sucked the lobe into his hot mouth, wrapping his tongue around it. Snape gasped.

The whisper of sound didn’t satisfy Harry. He wanted-needed-more.

Letting go of his ear, he blew over the wet skin, smirking when Snape shivered. “Did you think about this? About how it’d feel? Did you imagine us together, here, alone? Did you think about what you wanted to do to me? About what you wanted me to do to you?”

Harry’s voice was deep and soft, rubbing over Snape like velvet. Snape flattened himself against the wall and turned his head, trying to escape Harry’s overwhelming attack on his senses. His breath came faster now, but silent, noticeable only in the rising and falling of his chest.

“Oh, no, Snape, you can’t ignore this, can’t ignore me.”

Blood racing with the challenge, Harry moved suddenly. Removing his hand from Snape’s hair, he placed it on the wall beside his head, caging him. Falling forward to rest on his elbows, he landed with a soft thud on Snape’s cushioning body.

Shifting slightly, he molded them together, no space-no air-between them. Burying his face in the hollow of Snape’s throat, sucking the sensitive skin hard, Harry thrust his hips forward.

Snape moaned loudly, and satisfaction struck Harry like lightning. He grinned.

“Do you want me to fuck you? Is that it?” Harry purred, fire flashing through his veins as images flooded his mind. “Like the feel of a cock up your arse, d’you?”

Leaning back far enough to see Snape’s face, he rolled his hips again, this time feeling the growing hardness there. “Is that what you want, huh? Is it?”

Snape gritted his teeth, glaring at Harry, his nostrils flaring with every breath and his whole body trembling, but he refused to answer. Pushing straight out with his arms, Harry separated their bodies, and Snape jerked, instinctively trying to keep the contact, before he slammed himself back against the wall.

Smirking at the proof of Snape’s desire, Harry took a few steps back and lowered his hands to his waistband. Hot, black eyes followed the movement, landing on his crotch and staying there. Harry’s heartbeat thudded in his throat. It was the thrill of power affecting him. That’s all. Nothing else. He must keep control.

But he couldn’t look away from the enraptured, pained expression on Snape’s face.

Harry undid the top button and reached for the zipper. The tension spiked as Harry slowly opened his trousers, revealing his flat stomach, sharp hipbones, and a line of dark hair leading into shadow. Snape’s harsh breathing was loud against the backdrop of the crackling fire.

Sliding a hand into his trousers, Harry gripped his cock, already half-hard. “I know what you want.”

He watched Snape’s tongue dart out to lick his lower lip, fingers curling. Harry pushed his trousers down to hang precariously off his hips, around his thighs, the bulge in his briefs completely on display now.

“But you’ll have to beg me for it.” Dark pleasure unfurled through him at the thought, sending an unexpected jolt to his cock. Harry grunted and gripped himself tighter, stroking once or twice before becoming impatient with the cloth barrier.

Pushing his briefs to his thighs, Harry lazily pumped his cock to a full erection, staring at the flush creeping over Snape’s cheekbones and nose. Snape swallowed hard, taking a step forward then visibly restraining himself, hands clenching, jaw tense.

Snape’s obvious arousal sparked a reluctant fire in Harry. It was an incredible rush to know that Snape was getting off by watching him, to look at his mouth and imagine what it’d feel like wrapped around his aching cock.

Grinning, Harry half-teasingly, half-seriously said, “All you have to do is say please and you can have what you want…” He rubbed his thumb over the leaking head of his cock; then, sighing with pleasure, he added, “Maybe.”

Grabbed, turned, and slammed against the wall, Snape switched their positions so swiftly Harry had no chance of stopping him. Gripping Harry’s shoulders, Snape leaned into him, thrusting a thigh roughly between his legs. Harry groaned as his hand was trapped between his cock and Snape’s thigh, the pressure and heat delicious.

“And what you want? If I say please, will you get what you want?” Snape’s dark voice licked over Harry’s sensitive nerve endings.

Snaking a hand between them, Snape brushed Harry’s hand aside and wrapped long fingers around his cock. Harry couldn’t think; he could feel-only feel. He felt Snape’s warm hand stroking him, felt him thrusting against his thigh, felt his hot breath on his neck and face, and it felt… right.

No.

Harry grasped his ragged control and answered Snape’s question, his voice gritty and hard-edged. “No.”

It was just hormones. It was… the thrill of having Snape in his power, of being the one to do this to him-bring him to this. But what he wanted? No, he never got what he wanted.

“No!” he said again, louder.

The second denial, stronger than the first, was accompanied by a burst of magic, throwing Snape to the ground. Breathing hard, hands clenched and cock pulsing, Harry’s gut was a swirl of arousal and anger as he stared down at Snape. Neither man moved, desperate to regain the control that lay shattered between them.

Finally, Snape began to sit up, wincing from the impact with the stone floor. Harry carefully pulled up his briefs and trousers, not bothering to try and zip them over his stubborn erection. Snape’s question rang in his ears.

What he wanted-so many things-but-

The anger drained from him as quickly as it’d come, the blackness of despair sinking deep into his soul. Defeated, Harry shrugged and offered Severus one of the small smiles he’d started giving him over the last three days as an apology: it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I never get what I want.”

Harry looked at him for a moment longer then turned away, leaving Severus on the floor for the second time in three days.

Black eyes followed him.

~~~

“Sir, this came for you while you were out.” Severus stood in the doorway of the library, holding out a folded piece of parchment, as Harry walked into the rooms.

Harry crossed the main room to take the letter, hesitating when he recognized the writing on the front. It was from Ron. Startled, he glanced up at Severus, seeking… he wasn’t sure what he was looking for, yet he found it in the calm eyes and the slight nod.

Warm fingers brushed his lightly as he took the note, the light contact sending heat up his arm and down to his groin. The last week and a half had been filled with “accidental” touches. After that night, Severus started standing closer than necessary, brushing by him in doorways, leaving Harry’s entire body tingling, and somehow he always managed to get his hands on Harry in a completely innocent way.

The heat spreading through his body was easily understood. Having touched Severus, tasted his skin and felt the lean, hard body against him, Harry had to admit the man was incredibly sexy. That wasn’t a problem-he could be sexually attracted to an enemy.

It was the ache in his heart that troubled him-the need to be near him, hear him speak, and see him smile. These desires worried him.

With a quick half-smile, Harry retreated to his bedroom with the letter, trying to ignore his leaping nerves. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he laid it on the mattress beside him, tracing Ron’s familiar scrawl with a fingertip, the hurtful words and accusations from their last meeting playing in his mind.

He’d managed to mostly ignore the loss of yet another friend, pre-occupied with Severus as he had been, but now… now the cold emptiness grew, threatening to devour him. The odd combination of peace and sexual tension of the last week dissolved as if it’d never existed. The room was suddenly suffocating; he needed to get out.

Jumping off the bed, he strode toward the door, then stopped, remembering he hadn’t read the letter yet. He didn’t know what was in it-maybe-no, he wasn’t wrong, and he wasn’t going to be a fool this time. But… he’d have to read it eventually.

Huffing, Harry quickly grabbed the parchment off the bed, stuffed it into the right pocket of his robe and headed for the hallway. His hand was on the door handle when Severus’ voice stopped him.

“Sir…” Severus was still cautious, still respectful, but he spoke much more often this week than before. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Stamping down opposite impulses to snap at him or seduce him, he turned and looked at him questioningly.

“Are you-you’re going out again?” Severus looked confused and Harry couldn’t figure out why; it was pretty obvious he was leaving.

Brow wrinkling, he nodded. “Yes. Why?”

Severus’ eyebrow shot up. Inexplicably, the heat returned at the simple action and Harry sighed mentally at his susceptibility. Tilting his head, he pursed his lips, suddenly considering that perhaps walking alone, talking to the castle was not the ideal way to banish the chill in his soul.

They spoke at the same time.

“You haven’t given your commands to my guardian-”

“Come with me. I’ll get you a robe and-”

They broke off, both surprised at the other’s statement. Severus’ mouth hung open in shock and there was no way he could hide the hope in his eyes. He hadn’t left the rooms since entering them almost two months ago.

Harry cringed. He was losing control. Severus wasn’t his…friend, he was a slave. He couldn’t forget that; he needed to maintain his power over him.

But…he wanted his company, his touch, and the desire promised in the black eyes.

Harry repeated himself before he could change his mind, “Come with me. I’ll get you a robe and cast a Disillusionment Charm.”

The restlessness was already easing as they prepared to leave.

They meandered silently for a while through the dimly lit corridors and secret passageways. Every once in a while Severus would direct Harry towards an entryway he hadn’t known was there with a hand on his arm or shoulder. Harry couldn’t help but allow it, and the heat smoldered.

Finally the tension grew too much for Harry. The silence was filled with glances that spoke volumes, the touches had his gut swirling, and the images of them together made his pulse speed up. He had to remember Severus was his slave-nothing else. And Severus obviously needed a reminder too.

“You know, nothing has changed. You’re still my slave.” Harry winced as the impulsive words left his lips. They sounded harsh and defensive in the late night calm.

Severus missed a step but recovered quickly, saying nothing. Biting his tongue on the apology wanting to burst from him, Harry took a breath.

“I just meant that I-I didn’t want to confuse you, make you think, the way I’ve-we’ve been acting…” Stumbling over his words, Harry tried to corral his chaotic thoughts into some form of coherency.

Severus made a sharp left into an alcove with no warning, no touch to guide him. Following quickly, Harry slammed into Severus’ back, then nearly tripped in his haste to back away from the tempting heat. Shaking his head, Harry was grateful for the dark that hid his blush.

Looking up, he met an intense black gaze only inches from his face. His breath hitched sharply, and he took a step back, slowly. He was in control. Severus followed him and lifted a hand, cupping Harry’s jaw, and he knew he was lying to himself.

“I am not confused. Are you?” As dark as the shadows surrounding them, Severus’ voice covered Harry. He grabbed Severus’ wrist and hesitated, wanting to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. He needed to be in control.

Lowering Severus’ hand from his face, Harry sighed, “You are my slave. You were-are-a Death Eater and a traitor. You murdered Dumbledore and you can’t, I can’t do this.”

Severus flinched at the softly spoken accusations, but answered calmly, “Yes, I was a Death Eater, and I know there is nothing I can do to ever make reparations for that, but I am not a traitor. I was, and still am, loyal to Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue but shut it automatically when Severus raised a hand.

“I know you have your reasons for… enslaving me…” pausing, Severus looked at Harry intently before continuing earnestly, “…but you’re wrong. You are using me as a scapegoat-”

Bristling, Harry snapped, “I am not. You murdered Dumbledore and participated in the Last Battle on the wrong side. I think that’s reason enough for you to suffer as your victims suffered, not to escape the consequences of your actions with an easy death.”

“Yes, if I were guilty of those crimes, this would be a fitting punishment; however, I am not,” Severus bit back.

Taking a deep breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. “I understand what you’re going through. War has many types of casualties; not all die in battle. Your whole life, you have had fate-a destiny-hanging over your head. Voldemort was the enemy; he was responsible for every terrible thing in life, and now he is gone.”

Harry’s flesh rippled as chills swept over him, Severus’ words striking him like physical blows.

“He is gone, but the horrible consequences of war and life are not, and now you have no one to blame… No one to blame for the agony you feel, the nightmares, the darkness inside you, trying to take over you. He was in your life, your head, for so long, and though he is dead, he haunts you still.”

Shaking, Harry balled his hands into fists, an unquenchable rage at having his life stolen from him flooded through him at Severus’ words. It was Voldemort’s fault, but he wasn’t here-Severus was-

“But he is not here and I am.”

Harry gasped. No, he couldn’t know that-he couldn’t know. It wasn’t true, he wasn’t just using him. Severus deserved it…he deserved it.

“I was an easy replacement, one on whom you could take out your hatred for Voldemort, for you to use whenever you needed to rage, lose control, and not feel guilty. It was easy because in your mind I deserve whatever punishment you mete out.”

Horrified, Harry listened to Severus lay bare his darkest motivations, his deepest secrets. He couldn’t know this-he couldn’t-it wasn’t true.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Snape!” he snarled.

“I can help you. I know you can defeat this.” Severus started to reach out but pulled his hand back before touching Harry.

Almost panting with suppressed grief and rage, Harry desperately wanted to hide-to run-to give in to darkness that asked no questions. He couldn’t-didn’t know-so close-Severus was a liar-a murderer.

“Let me help you. I know you are still grieving for Miss Weasley, and the method you used to dispatch her killer weighs heavily on your mind, but you cannot justify your actio-”

Harry’s hands were around Severus’ throat in the blink of an eye. “Don’t talk about her, you bastard.”

“Listen to me,” Severus rasped, “I understand-”

“You don’t understand!” Harry roared.

Harry flung his hands out and Severus slammed into the corner with a sickening crack. Moaning, Severus put a hand to the back of his head…and it came back bloody.

Hands still outstretched, Harry forced pure energy through his fingers and lifted Severus into the air. “I am in control, not Voldemort, and not you,” he hissed.

Spinning, Harry slashed his arms through the air furiously. Connected by invisible magic, Severus was snapped forward and hurled back into the corridor. Landing hard on the smooth floor, he slid to a stop at the feet of a life-sized suit of armor.

“You are my slave. Nothing else. You can’t help me.”

Harry whispered a command to the armor. Metal crashed and clanged, and Severus was pulled up and trapped in unyielding steel arms.

“You can’t even help yourself,” Harry sneered.

Darkness raged and the letter in his pocket burned. He was doing this for Ginny, for Ron…to the Death Eater, for himself, to Voldemort…to Severus.

He was losing himself-he was in control.

Severus groaned. Spitting out blood, he said, “No, but you can. You can help yourself. This is not who you are.”

The rush was coming, he could feel it, just like when he cursed the nameless Death Eater, the man who would remain nameless forever, as there hadn’t been enough left of him to identify.

“How are you going to justify this? Will you tell yourself I provoked you?” Severus coughed, more blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

The color of death was in the green of his eyes as he looked steadily at Snape, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anyway; the darkness was in control.

Harry reached for his wand.

“You are not like Voldemort!” Severus said, his voice earnest and almost believable. “Don’t make his mistakes-you can choose better.”

Choose.

Choices.

Harry dropped his wand, and, face paling, stumbled backwards.

Severus immediately seized on his reaction. “You have a choice. You don’t have to do this.”

You are a good man, Harry, I know you will make the right choice.

Harry whirled around looking for Dumbledore.

“Let me help you,” Severus’ voice seemed faint, far away.

Turning back, Harry didn’t see the metal arms holding Severus, he saw the stone arms of a graveyard statue holding a younger version of himself.

We can choose to make the necessary decisions, choose to know the truth, or choose to run and hide from it.

He wasn’t like Voldemort, he wasn’t. Harry fell to his knees, retching.

He didn’t hear Severus frantically trying to escape, to get to him; he didn’t hear him asking over and over if he was all right.

Was it necessary when I took his life for hers? Or was it pleasure? A choice-my choice.

He could only hear the truth he’d ignored for far too long.

Dumbledore ordered me to kill him; he had been cursed and was dying-I need you to know the truth about Severus, about the night of my death-Have you spoken to his portrait? Have you seen his memories? Do so and you will know I am telling the truth.

Desperately, Harry looked around for a way to escape the voices, and his eyes landed on Severus. He could see his mouth moving, could see him struggling against the enchanted armor, but couldn’t hear him. Why couldn’t he hear him?

Searching for his wand, Harry’s hands slid through his vomit. Wiping it off, he staggered to his feet.

“Finite Incantatem!”

Severus fell to the floor as the armor released him. Harry was suddenly thrust into his right mind again, the darkness leaving him hollowed and charred. But it was gone.

He was in control.

Severus was getting to his feet slowly and unsteadily. Horror shot through Harry at the realization of what he’d done-what he’d almost done. He had to know the truth.

They weren’t far from the Headmistress’ office, and Harry headed for it, taking off at a run.

Slipping, Harry fell into the suit of armor with a clatter, but scrambled and kept going, not noticing the rip in his cloak pocket or the piece of parchment floating to the floor.

Gasping and panting, Harry ran past the gargoyle and up the spiral staircase to the Headmistress’ office. The castle knew where he was going-he knew he was coming-there were no obstacles in his path and the heavy door was already open.

Almost tripping into the office, Harry didn’t even slow down, running straight to the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, sitting quite calmly in a huge armchair, waiting.

Letting out a shuddering sob, Harry hiccoughed and leaned on the desk, trying to catch his breath.

“Professor, I…I need to kn-know the truth…I-” Harry raised his head and looked directly into the blue eyes“-I choose to know the truth. Please.”

Dumbledore leaned forward and peered over the tops of his moon-shaped glasses. Harry didn’t flinch under the piercing stare, and Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling just a bit.

“It takes a great deal of courage to know the truth, Harry, and I am proud of you for making this choice,” he smiled wryly, “but it is not easy. Are you ready to listen? To see and know?”

Taking a moment to calm his racing heart, Harry thought about that, but knew he couldn’t live like this any longer. Standing, he walked around the desk, using the movement as a distraction for the sudden attack of nerves. He was almost sure of what Dumbledore was going to say, and he was right, it wouldn’t be easy.

Sliding into the chair across the large desk as he had many times, Harry leaned forward, resting his hands on the smooth wood. Breathing in deep, he let it out slowly. “Yes. I am ready.”

“Excellent, my boy. Now, there are some hard truths we must come to, for you and for me. As you know, Severus was my most trusted operative for the Light. As a spy, he was in an invaluable but extremely dangerous position.” Pausing to take a breath, Dumbledore looked at him. Harry nodded, letting him know he was still with him. “It was imperative everyone believed him to be a Death Eater. He had to behave certain ways, do certain things, so I understand if you couldn’t tell truth from lie. We designed it that way, you see. But-and this is very important, Harry-Severus never betrayed either me or the Light.”

Dumbledore let that sink in, then continued, “Do you understand? Even when he was responsible, in part, for my death, he had my complete trust and was following my orders.”

There it was, the truth. Harry had been wrong, had held onto his hatred for no reason.

Staring at his hands pressing into the wood grain of the desk, fingers spread wide and white at the knuckles, Severus’ words rang in his ears. He was right, Harry had used him, used his presumed guilt to assuage his own, not bothering to seek out the truth.

He had knowingly deceived himself, condemning an innocent man to slavery.

Swallowing hard, it took everything Harry had left in him to raise his head and meet Dumbledore’s eyes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

He believed Dumbledore. And that was the crux of his conflict. Light and dark, black and white collided and clashed inside him. Relief that Severus wasn’t a murderer warred with horror at his treatment of him, while hope that he’d be forgiven fought his fear of rejection. The remembered warmth of Severus’ lingering touches attacked the pervasive chill in his soul.

Shaking his head, Harry pushed thoughts of Severus away for a moment to focus on the other player-the playmaker-in this game.

“I was wrong. I should’ve listened to you, should’ve listened to Shacklebolt and tried to find the truth. But you…how could you, why would you, ask him to kill you?” Harry was frankly incredulous.

Sighing, Dumbledore looked away for a moment as if to gather his thoughts. “Do you remember when I said that war requires sacrifices? Regrettable sacrifices, but necessary ones?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry answered. An image of Snape, battered, bloody, and bruised, with fear in his eyes, stabbed deep into Harry’s heart and he muttered, “I’m not likely to ever forget that night.”

Dumbledore didn’t hear him and continued, “I think it will be better if you see for yourself one of my reasons. I hope you will understand.”

The tall, ornate cabinet to Harry’s right swung open, spilling silvery-blue light into the office.

“The memory you need is already in the Pensieve, Harry.” Dumbledore settled back into his chair, a sad smile on his face.

Hesitating briefly, Harry huffed out a breath and grabbed whatever courage he had left. Standing, he turned to the cabinet and took a few tentative steps. It was one thing to hear the truth from Dumbledore; he had a feeling it would be a whole other thing to see it. Glancing at Dumbledore, Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and squared his shoulders.

Placing shaking hands on the cool rim of the Pensieve, Harry took a deep breath and plunged his face into the smoky almost-liquid memories.

Drifting into the memory, Harry oriented quickly, looking around the office he had just left only to re-enter it moments later and over a year ago. Behind his desk was Dumbledore, alive but not quite well, Harry thought, catching a glimpse of the blackened hand waving in the air. Severus was occupying the chair Harry had just left.

Walking closer, he heard them talking about Draco Malfoy and his assignment from the Dark Lord.

“Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath.” Dumbledore sounded weak but determined.

Severus didn’t even blink, sarcasm thick in his voice as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?”

Even knowing what was coming, Harry was taken aback by Dumbledore’s blunt, heartless declaration.

“Certainly not. You must kill me.”

Staring at the scene still unfolding before him, he could tell Severus was just as shocked as he was. Nothing showed on his face, of course, but his silence spoke volumes.

How could Dumbledore just…say it like that? There was no sadness in his voice, no tremble of fear-if anything, satisfaction colored his tone.

Shaking his head, Harry realized he’d missed some of the conversation.

“-if you don’t mind dying,” Severus said hoarsely, “why not let Draco do it?”

“That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. He always did believe the best about everyone, Harry thought with a snort. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

The memory dissolved into smoke and Harry emerged gasping, reeling from the utter despair in Severus’ last words. He stayed where he was for a moment, leaning over the horrible, swirling truth. Dumbledore had chosen to die and he’d used Severus.

Just as Harry had.

Harry had used him for his own gain, his pleasure, his rage. Dumbledore had made a necessary-how he hated that word-if distasteful choice. Still, they’d both used him. Closing his eyes, Harry let the shame wash over him; he deserved it.

In a daze from the rapid readjustment of his perceptions, Harry made his way back to the desk. Sinking into the chair with a sigh, he looked up at Dumbledore and said only one word, “Necessary.”

Looking every bit his age, Dumbledore nodded wearily. “Yes. I could see no other way to accomplish so much with one action.”

Harry hated it, but he agreed. “What were your other reasons, Professor? You said that,” he nodded his head in the direction of the cabinet, “was just one of your reasons.”

“I was already dying, Harry. I’d been cursed, but Severus managed to contain it to my hand; that’s why it was black and dead. I didn’t have much longer, and if I could use my death to advance the cause of the Light…it was worth it.”

Harry sat, silent, trying to process everything he’d done, everything he’d learned in the space of an hour. He felt years older. The turmoil of the last two months was still with him. He knew the truth now but he was still… struggling, still confused. Still tormented.

He looked at Dumbledore, defeated, and whispered, “Does it ever get any better? The things I’ve seen and done… How do you move past… death? Murder?”

Leaning forward, Dumbledore’s eyes burned. “Harry, listen to me. There are things I regretted until the day I died, and which now I will regret for eternity. There are some things that cannot be made better.”

Harry slumped in the chair but Dumbledore hadn’t finished.

“But those things are in the past, Harry. And we were not made to live in the past. We will carry our past actions with us forever, but they do not determine our future actions, only advise them.” Dumbledore’s voice grew in intensity. “We make our choices, Harry, and we must thereafter accept the consequences. The past cannot be changed, but the future can.”

Harry rubbed a hand against his chest, over his heart, wondering if the ache would ever go away.

Watching him, Dumbledore smiled sadly. “It does fade with time, my boy.” His gaze shifted above Harry’s left shoulder. “And forgiveness helps the wound heal faster than you would believe possible. I am sorry, my old friend.”

Confused, Harry twisted, peering around the back of his chair. The ache in his heart throbbed when he saw Severus standing in the open doorway, looking at him.

Without taking his eyes from Harry’s face, Severus said, “I know, Albus. It was forgiven long ago.”

Harry couldn’t meet his eyes for long and so let his gaze drift, searching for injuries. His heart clenched when he saw the small smear of blood trailing from Severus’ mouth to his jaw. There was also a carefulness about the way he held himself, his stance too rigid, as though in pain. He must’ve-Harry must’ve hurt his ribs again.

Fingers gripping the arm of the chair, Harry dropped his eyes further and saw Severus holding something in his hand.

“This is yours,” Severus said quietly, walking towards him. Harry’s heart sank when he saw Severus limping slightly. Preoccupied with his study, it took a second for the words to register.

“Mine?” he asked, confused.

“Yes, sir. You dropped it in the hall.”

Startled, Harry’s eyes snapped to the piece of parchment Severus held out to him, his hand moving to his right pocket at the same time. Ron’s note wasn’t there.

Glancing up at Severus, he reached out slowly to take the letter, feeling a strong sense of déjà-vu. Heart leaping and suddenly, stupidly, hoping Dumbledore was right about the future, Harry deliberately brushed his fingers against Severus’ palm.

Severus flinched, clearly startled, and searched Harry’s face as had become his habit. Harry wondered, not for the first time, what exactly he saw. Holding the piercing stare, he wanted to-needed to say he was sorry. Not that the words would make a difference.

He opened his mouth but Severus was already speaking.

“Read the note first.” There was something in Severus’ voice…in his eyes. “I apologize for invading your privacy but it was lying open on the floor. It would have been impossible for me to not see its contents.”

Harry waved the apology away, more concerned with what he wasn’t saying. Dragging his eyes from Severus, he focused on the letter.

Staring uncomprehendingly at the familiar handwriting, Harry’s hand began to shake. The note wasn’t long, it wasn’t complicated, but it was unbelievable. Eyes wide, he read the note again.

Harry
It wasn’t your fault. I know that. I just needed someone to blame, I guess.
Ron

The paper was rattling loudly by the time the he accepted he wasn’t dreaming. Harry would’ve been happy with the first two sentences. Just that acknowledgment from Ron that Ginny’s death had been a tragic mishap of war would’ve been enough, but that last sentence…it would allow Harry to forgive himself.

Harry knew very well the depths of anger and grief, knew how it dragged you down and how you latched onto anything or anyone to keep from drowning, not caring if you took them down with you. He knew, in the same place where he knew it was wrong to drag Severus into his misery, that he had been Ron’s last, desperate effort to keep his head above the currents.

And Harry knew what that felt like. But Ron had admitted his mistake, and Harry would, eventually, forgive himself.

But Severus…

Placing the letter on the table, Harry took a deep breath and looked up. He found the black eyes trained on him like always and a tiny bit of warmth curled through him. Still shaking, he stood and struggled to say something.

There were no words that would come close to expressing what he was thinking and feeling.

Harry reached into his left pocket slowly, and Severus’ whole body jolted, his shocked gasp loud in the quiet office. His heart thumping in his ears, Harry laid the broken wand on the desk. Pulling out his own wand, he hoped his magical strength would make up for the fact that he didn’t have the Elder Wand.

Inhaling slowly, Harry concentrated all his power, all his energy towards his wand. It rushed through his body, pouring into every part of him. Magic swelled and built up, but he contained it awhile, knowing instinctively that only a concentrated and powerful blast of it would do. Finally, when he could no longer take the trembling, the crushing of his head, he released it, straight at Severus’ wand.

“Reparo!”

Light streamed from the tip of his wand and surrounded the pieces of Severus’ ebony wand, core and wood knitting together, becoming whole and straight. As the last glimmer of magic faded, Harry felt drained and faded, but couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

He picked up the wand and turned to Severus, holding it out to him.

Standing there, one hand braced on the back of the chair as if he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him up, Severus reached out. His hand covered Harry’s as he grasped the wand, and he didn’t let go.

Warmth flooded Harry and he could see the same type of heat reflected in Severus’ eyes.

“Severus, I…” Harry broke off when Severus shook his head.

Roughly clearing his throat, he said, “Thank you… Harry.”

Harry nodded, slowly. And in that moment, the terms of this conflict changed-not exactly peace, yet; but the hope of it was definitely there.