Chapter 9

"The Wart Cap Draft"

It seemed that one moment Severus was looking out of his window at late fall, and the next he was taking in Christmas. The holidays had come with their usual splendor; carols were sung, decorations went up, midterms given, and he got the headache to end all headaches right behind his left eye that, no matter what he took, refused to go away. His Holiday Headache, as he called it, came to call as it did every year.

As he’d known would happen, Voldemort put spies on him to watch his every move, and Severus didn’t even dare venture to Hogsmeade over the weekends anymore. He was in danger and he damn well knew it–and by association, so was Draco. Severus contacted him a week into the December month and with Dumbledore’s help, had Susan Malfoy and the children sent to a safe house in the Mediterranean.

Severus sighed and glanced back down at the letter on the table, beside the scrolls piled around him.

Who knew Draco Malfoy would multiply like a rabbit?

The thought brought the first smile of the week to Severus’ lips.

The brats finally went home near the end of the month and for two glorious weeks Severus could relax, so to speak. He totally ignored the mountain of scrolls sitting beside his desk waiting to be graded–just by glancing at them he knew most of them were a P or lower–and instead concentrated on unraveling the mystery of the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Or rather, he wrote many, many letters.

All the alchemists worth their weight in gold had already fled or had been captured, though it did not stop him from dictating the notes. He used a Handwriter Quill to keep his identity a secret, with plain parchment one could buy in Diagon Ally and heavy Anti Location charms. He wrote to the Alchemist masters in Asia and Europe, and even America, warning them from a ‘Prestigious Colleague’ that they were all in grave danger, at least until the threat passed.

He had a tall stack of them when he finally decided to stop his experiments.

He’d done a series of experiments over the four week period, attempting to follow the very simple directions on the scrolls that Flamel had left. The damning thing was, as Severus soon discovered, the man had been a cunning devil when it came to how much he wanted to give away. No matter what Severus did with his extensive knowledge in potions and alchemy, he couldn’t find a way to make the simple ingredients meld in the way that would create the base for the creation of the stone.

He didn’t give up, per se, because Slytherins never did–they found sneakier ways to go about things. Instead of continuing this fruitless effort he stepped away from the entire project, leaving it to stew in the back of his mind. He put away all the books in a trunk, piled his hundreds of scrolls in afterward, and put the cauldron on the furthest burner in his work room.

He turned his hands to busy work, replenishing Poppy’s stores once again as what he’d done in the summer was already running low, and let his mind drift. His body felt tense, muscles bunched, and they slowly began to unwind as he worked diligently. Potion making to him was as relaxing as knitting was to Minerva–it put him at ease. The practiced motions of the knives, the easy way all the ingredients blended together to create the perfect product soothed his impatient temper like nothing else.

These potions in particular came very easy to him because he knew exactly how they worked and exactly what their main functions were. If he didn’t think about Harry getting this particular potion, Wart Cap, all over his body the first time they’d made it in seventh year potions, it was easy enough to concentrate.

Harry. What a problem that had become, what a problem Severus had let it become. He’d been dreaming about that gentle face with the sharp, shrewd green eyes behind the round glasses, the long dark hair that stuck up in the back as it always had, and the warm, tanned skin, creamy but for the ugly scar bisecting his forehead. Severus wanted to take that mouth and make him forget all the nights he had cried, all the pain he had endured at Severus’ hand, all of the pain he still had yet to muddle through before the nightmare would finally be over.

But such was life and it didn’t do to dwell on the mistakes of old. Severus had done that for most of his life–he would have to read the cards fate had given him and pray that, in the end, he didn’t get the fool. It was all he could hope for, at this point in his existence.

It was precisely where Dobby the House Elf found him later that day, still brewing the draft, and delivered an invitation for Christmas Eve dinner. Albus sent these cards out to all of the teachers who remained at the castle each holiday season, and Severus knew that despite the nice words on the card, it was mandatory he attend.

Just as it was mandatory that Potter would be there.

Fabulous.

That evening Severus bathed for the first time in too long, scrubbing his skin and his hair until his flesh was streaked with ache and cleanliness. He cut his nails, trimmed his hair, which he’d let grow past his shoulder blades but was disinclined to cut short again, and took the stains from his hands, face, and teeth until he felt fresh again.

Though he was never particularly avid about his appearance, he nevertheless put on his best robes, made of a deep, black wool, and shiny boots barely visible under the sweep of his clothing. His hair was tied back with the black ribbon he’d taken to using, nearly hidden in the raven starkness of his hair, and as an afterthought, he put on small cufflinks in the shape of the family crest his mother had given him when he’d been a very small boy.

He was not handsome by any regard but acceptable, and that was good enough for him. As he smartened himself up, he scribbled a note to have one of the house elves send out the letters sitting on his desk to his remaining colleagues.

With a quick spell to lock his door Severus left his rooms, boots clicking as he swept up the steps into the Great Hall. This year, strangely enough, over twenty students had remained at Hogwarts for the holiday, and so Dumbledore had transfigured a round table made of heavy wood to comfortably seat them all.

"Good evening, Severus. Happy Christmas," Minerva said as soon as he walked in. He nodded at her brusquely, taking his seat beside her. Potter’s chair, to his utmost relief, was still empty. He scowled to himself for thinking about the nerve wracking idiot of a boy again, and nearly scared the fourth year directly across him into hysterics.

A few faces were obviously missing from the table–Hooch and Hagrid had left to be with family (each other, more than likely), and Granger had opted to stay with the Weasleys over the holiday.

Good riddance.

But Potter had stayed. Potter needed to stay–the Ministry wasn’t letting anyone in and out of the country during the holidays, though he’d pitched an almighty fit over it until Dumbledore explained they couldn’t let him use the illegal Floo until some of the threat had passed. As far as Severus knew, the boy had said he’d only stay at Hogwarts until Christmas, but nothing had been said about him leaving, or Albus hiring anyone else. In fact, if anything, Potter seemed...settled in his life at Hogwarts. It was damned unnerving.

Dumbledore, beside Minerva, was decked out in the most blinding robes Severus had ever seen, of candy canes and Father Christmases singing in tiny voices. "You’re a walking headache, Headmaster."

"Why, thank you, Severus," Albus answered as he rose to his feet, obviously cheered at the prospect. He completely missed his Potion Master’s rolled eyes. "Good evening to you all! I believe this is all of us–"

There was a loud bang from the grand doorway and Potter, looking harassed, exhausted and very much like one Alastor Moody, limped in.

His dress robes were midnight green velvet.

"Pardon me, Headmaster," Harry said breathlessly, dropping into his seat beside Severus as always with his hands in his lap. At least he’d had the decency to take out the earring for one night and brush through the hair he usually caught back in a thong. It was free now, wild, long, wavy, gorgeous. The glasses looked far from ridiculous in that chiseled, masculine face–the barest hint of stubble decorated his jaw lickable jaw, edible jaw, his firm mouth slightly red as if he’d just run all the way down from Ravenclaw tower. Potter caught his breath, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose and hair out of his face, and Severus thought he would very happily die if it meant he could push his fingers through that wild mane.

His penis agreed and he found himself stone hard, sitting at a table with his colleagues, for the first time in memory.

"Please, continue."

"Yes," Albus said, his lips twitching behind his beard as if he knew just what was going on in his Potion Master’s mind. And pants. Severus had the decency to avert his gaze. "As I was saying, Happy Christmas to you all! You will find gifts and exploding crackers around you–please, feel free to encourage your neighbor." The headmaster looked delighted at the idea and Severus snorted at Minerva’s slightly blanched expression. "And of course, let the feast begin."

The noise level rose as the plates before them filled and Harry, as soon as the children dug into their food, leaned over Severus to wish Dumbledore a happy Christmas. He smelled intoxicating, like vanilla and sage and earth, leaning so close to Severus that a few spare inches would have his nose buried in that Gryffindor mane. Hair that hung in messy waves around his face, the curls at the base of his neck lying over the collar of his dress robes in that stunning, masculine velvet that looked like they’d been hand stitched with care and love for this particular man. Boy.

Man-boy.

Boy-man.

Merlin, help him.

"Hello, Professor Snape," the...individual question said from beside him in a cool, courteous tone. A man’s voice, not a child’s. Severus was sure his erection was going to thump out onto the table if he kept up this train of thought. "Happy Christmas."

The sun had long since dipped under the winter horizon when the Skele Grow, Severus’ own personal recipe, finally finished brewing. The work room was filled with the quiet sounds of bubbling ingredients, a nice, lavender smell to it this time, and the Christmas edition of The Love and Loss Hour with the Warback Sisters on WWN was playing quietly in the background.

"It’s quite all right, luv, I know just what you’re talking about. I hope you and George have a wonderful life together, and may all the happiness Merlin can bestow on you bring you fruitful love and companionship. Happy Christmas!"

It was a slow, melodious ballad, insipid and romantic, but Harry seemed to enjoy it, and Severus, who was so firmly entrenched in the boy that there was no possible way he could have stepped away from him, let Harry slide his arms around his waist.

‘There is something that I see, in the way you look at me. There’s a smile, there’s a truth, in your eyes. But in an unexpected way, on this unexpected day, could it be that this is where I belong? It is you I have loved all along.’

"Happy Christmas, Professor Snape," Harry said, again.

Severus jolted out of the memory with a painful thrum in the tight confines of his chest and a loss of tight confines in his trousers. "And to you," he answered softly, as he began to put food he had no interest in eating on his plate. He was well known for his outright dislike of food in general, but he forced potatoes and vegetables on his plate, if not for appearances sake then for keeping the nightmares at bay. He found if he ate a warm meal before sleeping, he was more able to rest than if not, so even if the thought disgusted him, he put a small bit of ham beside the potatoes.

"I trust you’ve had a good holiday thus far?" Potter asked, still in that cold, crisp voice that spoke of forced politeness.

"As much as can be expected. Yourself?"

"All right. I’ve been in my workshop for most of the week, finishing the last orders for my business back home."

Back home. If Severus’ fork stabbed his potatoes a little too hard, it wasn’t of his own doing. "Indeed."

"Yes." He glanced up, distracted, a warm smile on his face for the woman who had just graced them all with her presence. " Oh, hello Madame Clooney."

"Merry Christmas!" she said all too cheerfully, and leaned over to kiss Harry’s mouth happily.

Severus did not miss the appreciative glance Harry gave her, a glance that was much too long to be termed anything but lustful.

A glance that made Severus’ insides clench and all of his appetite fly out the window.

He was sure they engaged in conversation–he did not care to listen. Nor did he care to pull any crackers with Minerva, nor did he care to finish his dinner. No, at the soonest possible instant, the blazing look Potter had given the woman flashing before his eyes like a recording spell on repeat, Severus took his leave with a quiet, but steely, good night which allowed no argument.

His rooms, when he got to them, were so cold.

Moving on, Potter had said. What had Severus honestly expected, for the boy to hang around forever? Had he been so blind as to think, wonder, consider that Potter was still a virgin, that the boy had never had anyone other than Severus in his heart and in his bed? He was an attractive young man, full of life, intelligence, fire and wit.

Severus wanted him--so badly, so desperately, that a part of him burned in unspeakable resentment toward Albus, toward the Order, toward all of them for ever having put him in this position.

As he drank the first very, very stiff drink of the night, he disrobed and locked his doors and his Floo from outside intervention.

"Happy Christmas to you, Severus."

He supposed later on that was what took him to the small set of quarters he’d never had the heart to empty and close. Harry’s rooms. The silver glasses sat where they had been put, so many years ago, gathering dust on the sitting room table. The picture frames on the mantle were the same as they’d been, though covered with a fine sheen of grime now, as were the portraits on the walls. The carpet was discolored under his slippered feet, the furniture dusty, but the smell, the smell of Harry had remained.

He took his drink and a Chocolate Frog across these rooms he hadn’t come to visit in almost two years, the dark silence of them like a tomb discovered after eons, dormant under the ground. The only sound was the rustle of his dressing gown and his slippers, his drink as it sloshed in the glass, and his slow, even breaths.

The bed remained as it had been six years ago; still unmade, blankets and sheets tossed back where Harry had left them the morning of his last day at Hogwarts. A time when he’d still been happy, when the green of his eyes reflected love and understanding rather than indifference and hate. A time when he had been young and free, when, despite his past, he had lived.

Severus sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to muss the blankets, and drank half of his glass of Firewhisky in one, thick swallow. Here, a world of Harry, where he’d once been in love with Severus, where Severus himself had been equally as enamored of him. Where Severus knew pain would tear them apart, where he hadn’t honestly expected to fall in love with the child, the Boy Who Lived to Become a Man.

He barely heard the glass smash against the stones as he pressed his face to his hands and not for the first time, struggled to keep from breaking apart into a million pieces. His heart, the shards of it, pierced his muscle like small knives, intent on making him bleed.

So like his luck, so like his lot in life, to love a boy who was so far away not even Merlin himself could touch him. Be whore and slave to Dark Lord and Dumbledore both, and what makes you crack, old boy? Harry. Bloody. Potter.

However, if it was one thing Severus did not have, it was the luxury of self pity. He had lived too hard and too long to indulge. In truth, he was a little frightened of what could happen if he finally brought his walls down, even for a moment–there was so much loss in him, so much rage, that he was certain he’d lose his mind.

And so, after too few moments he lifted his face from the safe enclosure of his palms, pushing strands of hair back from his face, and pulled his wand from his sleeve to clean the glass up. It proved to be a task too difficult for one so inebriated with drink and pain as he was right at the moment. His wand slipped from his hand and fell with a clatter, rolling underneath the bed so that Severus had to crouch under for it.

His fingers brushed against something that was not his wand.

He lifted the bed skirt and peered underneath the mattress, his eyes sharp despite the very dim light. His wand had rolled against a small wooden box, covered in dust and hidden underneath the bed.

He knew this box. From where, he was a bit too pissed to remember, but it appeared as if the box had been accidentally pushed under the bed and forgotten.

His heart beating madly, Severus returned to the bed, cleaning up the broken glass with a murmured word before he lay his wand aside. The box, made of a thick, mahogany wood, was magically sealed shut with a golden lock. Atop the lid inscribed in a lovely script was ‘Potions Tyro’. He’d had this very box when he’d been a tyro himself, all those years ago. Albus had apparently given it to Harry as well, when he’d accepted the tyroship so long ago.

The box, as Severus knew it would, opened at a tap of his wand.

There were a few dozen trinkets in the box, some of which had to be hundreds of years old. When he’d received the box as a boy he’d dug through it for hours, looking at all of the things inside of it. Match boxes charmed into little cars, buttons, bits of paper with poems written on them. He wondered, absently, if the tacky old medallion he used to wear was still inside of it, and snorted the next moment as he dug it out from behind an ages-old chocolate bar.

It was as tacky as he remembered. This particular charm had fit him so snugly, the weight of the stone warm against his chest, and he’d worn it everywhere he went his seventh year. It had been his good luck piece, for he thought it had saved his life when Black and his bastard friends had tried to kill him at Lupin’s hands.

His smile faded. The medallion was tarnished and incredibly old, looking like nothing but a gentlemen’s trinket for his young son. The stone within it was blood red, unnaturally deep all the way through. The texture, when Severus stroked a fingertip over it, was slightly rough and more than slightly familiar.

When he lifted it, the dull stone refracted all the light in the room.

To his utter and complete astonishment, the tacky medallion was made of the Sorcerer’s Stone.

Chapter 10

OR

Back to White Chocolate chapter list  

_____________

back to Harry Potter fanfic

back to main fanfic

back to main

send feedback