Chapter 3
"The First Words"
Severus was only asleep for a few hours; so used to his dungeons and the pitch black darkness of his cavernous rooms was he that after sleeping very little, he awoke with the sun baking the skin of his back through the open window.
The pigeon he’d sent to Hogwarts sat twittering cheerfully on the window sill, her claws weighed down with a letter, a copy of that morning’s Daily Prophet, and a small package.
Peace offerings.
Severus growled darkly, and after he fetched the letter in his bare arse (which the mirror on the wall was having words over in rapid-fire French) he untied the leather thong holding the scroll closed and read.
Severus,
Your resignation is not accepted. I expect you back at Hogwarts on Saturday with Harry in tow. I will not accept no for an answer. I’ve sent along a lovely selection of Honeydukes’ chocolates to tide you over until Saturday and the Daily Prophet for this morning .
Have a wonderful day!
Albus
Severus growled so loudly that the little bird twittered beside him. "Oh, shove off."
Merlin, he needed a cup of tea.
Without thinking he opened the box of chocolates, stuffed a coconut one in his mouth, and went in search of a hot shower.
- = - = -
After said shower, four chocolates, three cups of coffee, and one of tea he demanded from the witch at the café on the corner, despite her mutterings that it wasn’t right to drink tea in the morning, Severus was ready to start his day. To do what with it, he hadn’t the foggiest. Work up the nerve to go find Potter, surely. Try not to curl in and die at the sight of him, of course. Talk to him? A mite more difficult.
Severus hated Dumbledore with every fiber of his being.
Ligne Street, like Diagon Ally at this time of morning, was not very crowded at all. It was the after breakfast, pre-lunch crowd, which consisted of academics, college students, and witches with children. Severus ignored them all, drinking his tea and reading the Daily Prophet. There wasn’t anything in it–all talk of Voldemort’s return to power, Death Eater activity, and the Dark Arts was not discussed in any way, shape, or form. Jack Bones, like his predecessor, decided the best way to keep panic at bay was to not talk about anything at all. The Prophet had become little more than a rag, but Severus still read the Academia section to keep abreast of any new journals and other Potions research that was popular.
After he’d read his newspaper and paid the witch in the café, Severus went in search of Harry. He was cold with fear and apprehension but he shrouded himself in his pride, cloaked himself in his sneer, and walked down the street with his shoulders thrown back and his head held high.
He raised a hand in greeting to the elderly wizard from Family Clocks, who waved back so enthusiastically that he toppled out of sight.
It wasn’t difficult to find Ligne Clocks again, with its enormous clock in the window and the lively charmed sign that ticked and tocked in the early morning quiet.
The thing was, as soon as Severus saw it he froze like a first year Hufflepuff during his first flying lesson and ducked into a boulangerie down the street. The witch at the register peered at him suspiciously but Severus sneered and ignored her. Come on, Severus. This is Harry Potter, for Merlin’s sake.
Harry Potter, who he had loved and broken, in equal measure.
Bollocks.
He threw back his shoulders. He could do this. He was Severus Snape, reviled Potions Master of Hogwarts, vile Death Eater and one verbal consumer of small children. He did not clam up for anything or anyone but the Dark Lord.
And apparently, Harry Potter.
He mentally glared at his inner voice. Bastard.
With blood rushing so hard he didn’t think he’d be able to hear over it, he stopped in front of the store, heart beating in his throat. The door was obviously well used, smooth and worn down by the many hands that had touched it.
A door Harry Potter had touched.
He lingered just for a moment, almost wishing he could see each fingerprint; touch his life somehow. A life he had been forced into after every other connection had been severed, after all the adults in his life failed him, after his best friends could no longer save him.
Severus yanked at the door, and he was so deep in guilt that he didn’t understand why the door wouldn’t open until he caught sight of the sign in the front window. ‘Closed Thursdays and Sundays’.
Of course.
He turned, and had barely taken a step in the other direction when the door opened behind him. A small witch with bright blond hair smiled at him and beckoned him inside. "It is all right...please, come in. Professor Snape, no?"
Merlin. "Yes, I’m Professor Snape. I’m looking for–"
"Neecholas. Yes, I know. Please, come in." The witch disappeared from the doorway and Severus had no choice but to follow her.
Severus carefully stepped inside, vaguely aware of the gentle ticking of the clocks around him as the door shut behind him, but he could give a damn less about the store right at the moment–all he cared about was the fact that Harry–blond haired, blue eyed Harry–wasn’t in it.
He realized, instantly, that the little witch was watching him and he graced her with a curt nod. "Madame."
"Hello." She smiled. "You...are looking for Neecholas, no?"
"Yes, I am," Severus straightened his shoulders again. "I am on urgent business," from the most insufferable meddler on the face of the Earth, "and need to speak with Mr. Po–...Mr. Chekit immediately."
"Well, ‘e is not ‘ere right now." She had the stilted, slightly incorrect speech of a woman who did not speak English often. "Oh, ‘ow impolite...I am Cassandra Capule, my father has this store," the tiny woman said from below the counter. When she reemerged she was flushed and bright eyed, a financial ledger in hand. "We took Neecholas many year ago, ‘e is like a brother. But...I know ‘e ‘as many bad things in ‘is life–....no, wrong word...in ‘is past, and I think you are one of those things."
Severus stared at the woman...girl, really, who had motioned him toward the back rooms with her. Had Harry told her everything? "I knew Mr. Chekit as a boy. He...his old school master has asked him back to teach at his alma mater."
Madame Capule’s wide eyes regarded him. "Ahh. I understand. It is possibly no good, but you will find ‘im in the market square, at Le Petit Café, doing the drinking and smoking." She clucked her tongue firmly and opened the back door of the shop that led right into a tiny alley. "‘ere, take this street, and take a left. You will find Le Petit Café, it is full of the academics, screaming over something as always."
Severus nodded, and stepped down off of the stair into the ally. "May I inquire as to why you are helping me?"
"Mmm." She blew a lock of blond hair off of her forehead. "The demons must be faced sometime, no?"
Yes, he understood perfectly. Severus was well versed in facing his own, after all. "Thank you."
"Vous ‘etes bienvenu," the young woman answered and closed the door firmly behind her.
It was no trouble to find Le Petit Café, as Madame Capule had said. He walked down the dirty ally and out onto the street and saw at once why Madame Capule had warned him–the café’ was filled with raging lunatics.
Academics. Debating common magical theory and principles of Muggle physics, of which Severus was able to decipher only the very basic fundamentals of what they were discussing; they were thumping the table, sending crockery crashing to the cement, spittle flying and faces red. It was interesting, and if Severus belonged in the here and now, he would have joined in with the debates. And the spitting.
As it was, he didn’t speak French.
As it was, he didn’t give a bloody damn about anything they were saying.
He was here for the tow headed, long lashed, gangly young man sitting beside the group, obviously listening but more interested in his cigarette and whatever he was doing on parchment. Severus’ gut clenched and closed like his body had decided it would never accept food again; sweat broke out over the back of his neck, at the base of his spine and over his upper lip. A strange taste he couldn’t catalogue flooded his mouth; it took him nearly a full minute to realize the sensory memory of this sweet, beautiful boy’s mouth had overloaded all five senses from a single whiff of his cologne.
His heart twisted like a mass of snakes in his chest; his ears rang, his eyes watered. When Harry’s eyes met his, Severus almost felt the world slip out from under his feet.
Those eyes, once so green were now a stunning shade of cerulean blue, deep and bright. The scar was completely gone, though when Severus squinted he could almost see the outline under the amateur glamour Harry had draped himself in.
He got closer, taking a step...then two, and caught things he couldn’t see from far away. Those same lovely eyes were harder now, jaded much like Severus’ own, and old beyond their years. Potter’s fingertips were beginning to stain with tobacco, when in another world, another place, they should have been staining with potions instead. His hair, styled long down his neck, did nothing to hide the hard expression of his face and the harsh cut of his jaw line and cheekbones. He was a man in every sense of the word, from the broad sweep of large, wide shoulders to the trim line of a narrow waist. His legs, much longer then they had once been, were propped on one heel, ankle over ankle under the table. He wore simple jeans and a t-shirt, heavy dragon hide boots underneath, but somehow even the Muggle clothes showcased each and every angle and curve.
Gorgeous. Absolutely, stunningly, gorgeous.
Severus took another handful of steps, then a few more, and found himself at Harry’s table. "Ugnm."
Oh. Job well done, Severus, that was coherent.
Harry’s eyebrow arched up and suddenly all the nervous tension that had obviously been trembling in his muscles was replaced by a confidence he had never portrayed at Hogwarts. "An absence of lucidity becomes you, Professor Snape. You can sit."
That was good because Severus felt his knees give, though he managed to fall with grace into the chair across from him. "Thank you."
"No problem. Fag?"
Severus managed not to look startled at the courtesy when Harry offered the cigarette box. "Thank you, but no."
Silence fell. The academics raged beside them, spittle flying, tables thumped, and the mistress who ran the café was obviously not pleased with it when she came by to take Severus’ order. After so much coffee this morning he declined, as did Potter.
For the first time in years, if not his entire life, Severus found his acerbic wit had fled him along with his tongue. He had no idea what to tell the boy, this boy, who wasn’t a boy at all. Not that Harry was even looking at him–he was drawing on the parchment.
The academics, finally exasperated with one another, all took their leave and left the café strangely quiet.
Too quiet.
Severus lifted his shoulders and peered over Harry’s arm. The man was drawing a design plate for a clock.
"You do those yourself?"
Harry didn’t look up. "Yes."
"They are exquisite. I looked around the shop before Madame Capule directed me this way." Lies, but a white lie could be beneficial.
"Did she."
The menace in the words couldn’t be hidden. "Indeed."
Silence settled once more between them, and the silence nearly drove Severus to the brink of exasperation as five minutes turned to ten, then ten to nearly twenty. He didn’t say anything as Harry drew, cursing the boy’s effortless ability to thoroughly irritate him but didn’t dare put voice to his internal grumbling.
His patience, if it could be called patience–coward!– paid off when Harry spoke without looking up from his sketch. "I already told him no."
Already–...Dumbledore. "He’s persistent."
"So am I."
The twittering of birds and children laughing was very strange in the sudden silence. Severus worked his dry throat, thanking Merlin for his high collared robes, and finally let himself speak. "You’ve lived here all this time."
"Yes."
"I looked for you."
At that, Harry raised his blue eyes up and gave him a doubtful glare. "Did you really?"
The look was piercing, painful, and something hitched in Severus’ chest. Any moment he was going to panic and bolt back to England and damn anyone he ran over in the process. It was a struggle (oh, what Voldemort would say if he saw his Potions Master now), and finally, after gathering his composure, he said, "You ran from everything."
Harry’s glare escalated to fury though his expression remained calm, his hands steady. It was only in his bottomless eyes that he couldn’t hide, couldn’t hope to hide what he felt. "Yes. I did."
"It was very cowardly of you. So much for vaunted Gryffindor courage."
Silence warred for an endless moment between them, so thick it could be cut with a knife, before Harry smirked. It was a terribly ugly look for him. "I didn’t have much choice."
Panic was scrambling to get up Severus’ throat like a little creature, nails ripping at the lining of his throat and making it burn. "You could have stood up to me, as a man."
"The same way you respected me, as a man?" Harry laughed softly.
The ringing truth in the statement made whatever retort was on Severus’ lips die. No, he’d never really respected the boy as a man. He wasn’t a man–he was Harry bloody Potter, the eleven year old with gangly limbs and impossibly enormous eyes who played Quidditch and ran around the castle after curfew underneath his invisiblity cloak. This Harry Potter was a new entity in Severus’ sphere of understanding–he hated not knowing what could have driven this Harry to buy dragon hide boots and wear Muggle clothes with his wand poking out of one jeans pocket, or why in the world he’d decided on being blond when it was obvious he wasn’t made to be blond. That honey skin of his was meant for black tumbling hair, and kisses, and oh, Merlin, help him please.
This man wasn’t the shy virgin child he’d parted ways with. This man, hidden behind his glamors and pretending that his old life, that Harry Potter never existed, was not the same person Severus had known and loved. This man...was like himself, in a way. Old before his time, hiding bottomless secrets behind enormous walls erected around his soul, because he had lost more than anyone ever had a right to and had then been abandoned to it when his usefulness ended.
Severus understood him, probably more than Harry might ever imagine.
"It was because of Voldemort."
Harry gathered the pencils and quills around him, setting them in a small leather pouch. His fingers, long boned and strong, moved over the table with the practiced motions of a man who had spent the last six years gathering his quills and pencils up from small café’ tables. Of a man who knew how to control his hands, who knew how to create beauty with them.
Harry rolled the parchment closed and put out his cigarette in the same graceful motion. "You once told me, professor, that we should always own up to our own mistakes and not blame others."
"Dumbledore needs you. There’s no one else to take the position...Lupin died."
"You’re lying."
"No," Severus prayed to whatever deity listening that his voice reflected the earnestness he was trying to get across to the boy. "Dumbledore was very adamant in the fact that Lupin thought you would be best for the position." Another white lie. Severus might have wondered once if coming from him, a lie was still innocent.
Severus wasn’t a stupid man, not be any stretch of the imagination. Dumbledore wanted Harry Potter at Hogwarts this year–they had not driven him away without a reason, though that reason had never been explained to Severus beyond ‘He needs to live.’. There was something happening that required Harry to be at Hogwarts, more so then Voldemort’s old antics, but Severus did not know what it might be.
It disheartened him, down to the marrow of his bones, that even without knowing it Harry was going to be used and manipulated again.
He was moved from his thoughts when Harry asked, in a small voice, "Did he die in pain?"
Severus worked his dry throat. A response, any response, was better than nothing. "No, no pain. He died of age, his condition. He’s outlived many others of his species."
Harry was silent for a moment. "Dumbledore is asking me to give up my life here. I worked hard for it."
"Which I understand. However, your obligation is in England, Potter, whether you like it or not."
"Don’t call me that."
Severus blinked. "Call you what?"
"Potter."
"But that’s your name."
Harry rose with his things. "It was my name once. Not anymore. Harry Potter is long since dead and gone, Professor. Go back to Dumbledore like the good little foot soldier you are and tell him he can take his Defense Against the Dark Arts and shove it up his arse. I’m not going back there, and I’m sure as hell not going anywhere with you. Piss off, Snape."
With a step around the table, and a sweep of his things into his arms, Harry was gone.
Severus turned and watched him limp away. He didn’t really know what he’d expected when he saw Harry again, but surely it wasn’t this cold indifference. Hatred, maybe. Loathing. Love? Surely not, though a niggling little voice in Severus’ mind said yes, he had. If not acceptance, then mercy, perhaps.
Something other than ice cold indifference.
- = - = -
Despite his better judgment, Severus did not leave. He knew he should, Merlin only knew he should, but though he tried several times to just go back through the illegal Floo and tell Albus the message, he couldn’t leave.
Not yet.
Severus had spent nearly a decade looking for this boy and he almost couldn’t believe, that night sitting in the bar below the Sleepy Pigeon, that he’d finally found him. He couldn’t leave when he’d laid eyes on Harry Potter after six long, painful years.
The bar was filled with patrons in for a glass of bourbon or wine before going home for the evening; the boisterous talk echoing around Severus’ ears. It was small place, darkly lit but as clean as the inn upstairs.
Harry had been in Avignon all this time, working as a blond haired, blue eyed fey creature in a clock shop of all places–he’s always been good with his hands–under a different name, a different face. An identity all his own.
Merlin, it was depressing.
He was settling into his second glass of Firewhisky when, to his surprise, Madame Capule came in. With all the brusqueness of a French woman on a mission, she took a seat in front of his own without being invited and glared across the glasses between them.
Before she could speak, as he saw she wanted to, he lifted a hand. "I’m sorry to have bothered you and your family today, Madame Capule."
She glared. "‘e is miserable. I can only assume what you ‘ad to say was...most disagreeable?"
"Mr....Chekit and myself have a long, painful history." That doesn’t concern you, so butt out.
"I cen imagine so. ‘owever, I cannot allow you to ‘urt ‘im in such a way, Professor Snepe, without knowing a detail or two." She leaned back and crossed her arms over her slender chest, so he knew damn well that she wasn’t going anywhere. "What business do you ‘ave with Neecholas?"
For a startling instant, Severus had the insane, whiskey tinged urge to spill his heart out to her, every greasy, disgusting, nauseating detail. It nearly made him snort in laughter. Almost. "Personal. He has been offered a position working for Albus Dumble–"
"What school do you work?’
"Hogwarts."
The girl’s eyes widened a fraction. "‘ogwarts? It is a renowned school. You teach?"
"Potions."
"‘ogwarts is most prestigious. Neecholas ‘as been given the possibility to work there, and ‘e says no?" The woman’s long nailed hands fluttered to her breast even as she rolled her eyes. "Stupid boy."
Snape couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
"You stay ‘ere, at the Pigeon?"
"Yes." Severus paused a moment. "Would it be possible to visit Mr. Chekit tomorrow?"
"Ahh, ‘e ‘as asked for tomorrow off to sulk, but I will tell you ‘ow to find ‘im. Come to the store tomorrow." She rose, carefully setting her scarf around her hair and her glasses back on her nose with the determined air of a woman who always got her way.
Severus admired that, and he raised his glass of Firewhisky to her as she walked out of the bar.
OR
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