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It has been several years since Harry Potter left St Brutus’ school for incurably criminal boys, but scarcely a day goes by that he doesn't think of the place.
A miserable dumping ground for the unwanted, the unstable, and the merely unfortunate.
Rarely for the truly irredeemable.
Harry had hated it there.
Some of the teachers had been kind, to their credit, and had taken pity on them. Treated them as young human beings, not criminals.
Other teachers were less empathetic, merely indifferent, just getting through each day without bothering to get to know the boys in their charge.
Then there had been the chemistry teacher, Severus Snape. He certainly had not been empathetic, nor had he been indifferent.
He had been, for want of a better term, a right bastard.
Rumour has it that he had spent time there himself in his teenage years, and that's how he knew exactly how to inflict maximum suffering on them.
At the age of thirteen, Snape had terrified Harry. By the time he was fifteen, he had developed a sort of morbid fascination with the unpleasant man.
Harry had loved to goad him into explosive reactions, more tempestuous than any combustion ever demonstrated in the chemistry classroom.
He thinks back fondly to a particularly memorable occasion when he was fourteen, involving a firework and a bunsen burner.
Harry spent a little over two years at St Brutus’, being removed shortly after his godfather had been acquitted of some heinous crimes, which had occurred in the aftermath of the incident that had killed Harry’s parents.
Apparently, rival gangs had been at war, and his mother and father were randomly caught in the crossfire. A tragic accident.
His godfather, Sirius Black, had loudly sworn vengeance, so when members of both gangs were found murdered, he was under suspicion and subsequently arrested.
When Harry was fourteen, new evidence pointed towards a double agent in both gangs, who was then imprisoned.
His godfather received a full pardon after thirteen years behind bars.
Following his release, Sirius got himself back on his feet and then immediately enquired after Harry.
Apoplectic was the only word to describe his rage when he discovered where his godson’s only blood relatives had sent him to.
He would probably have ended up back in prison again, Harry thinks, had he not made Sirius swear never to visit the Dursleys to enact revenge.
Instead, the man took Harry in for his penultimate teenage years. They lived in London, in Sirius’ ancestral home.
The offering of love, stability and a family home ultimately saved Harry, he thinks to himself. The others had to endure St Brutus’ (and the likes of Snape) until they turned eighteen, then were turfed out to make their own way.
Harry can still picture most of the boy’s faces.
Poor Neville, who simply had no one to take him in. Harry hopes he is doing alright for himself.
Then there was spiteful Malfoy, who spent half his time talking about his rich parents who for some reason never came to visit, despite their apparent adoration.
Snape had tolerated Malfoy and hated Harry. He had been disdainful of Neville, and the same to many of the others. But he had a special level of ire reserved just for Harry Potter.
Harry shudders. Imagine never having a way out, or anywhere else to go after. So much so that you end up living there as a teacher.
Harry’s life isn’t particularly exciting for the moment, but he is perfectly content with it. Following his ‘escape’ from St Brutus’ school, he had joined a sixth-form college, and met his now-best friends, Ron and Hermione.
Ron had joined the police force following his last exams, and Hermione, his girlfriend, had set off for university and was now finishing her PhD in something very clever.
Harry isn’t yet sure what he wants to do with the rest of his life, other than simply ‘live it’. He currently works in a bakery, serving tea, coffee and freshly baked goods to customers.
It is there, dusting tables of crumbs, and refilling coffees for patrons, that Harry sees him again.
Severus Snape.
Sitting with a newspaper and a coffee, as black as his heart, if he actually has one at all.
Harry’s own heart skips a beat. Surely he is mistaken? Snape, the legendary brute of St Brutus’, casually having coffee and a croissant in a London bakery, his bakery… it seems too surreal.
Harry approaches in the way that one might approach a rabid dog.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he begins, a smooth and professional tone belying his hesitancy. ‘May I offer you a refill?’
The older man doesn’t bother shifting his newspaper as he replies.
‘You may offer me one, then I can let you know whether or not I wish to accept it,’ a familiar deep voice drawls from behind the large publication.
Harry rolls his eyes. Still an insufferable prick then, it seems.
‘Do you wish to accept a refill?’ Harry patiently rephrases.
The newspaper is folded down for long enough for Snape to incline his head in silent acceptance.
Harry pours extremely carefully; he hasn’t forgotten the thorough dressing down he received as a teenager for his ‘slapdash’ decanting of hydrochloric acid into a conical flask.
With not a drop astray, Harry braves asking the next question in his routine.
‘Is there anything else I can get you, sir?’
He thinks Snape’s dark eyes narrow for a second - in recognition, he assumes. But the moment passes.
‘No. Thank you,’ Snape adds as he unfolds his newspaper and ends the exchange.
The man doesn’t seem to recognise him at all, Harry marvels inwardly.
Granted, it has been a decade since Harry has last seen him. Harry has matured, earned a few fine lines on his face. He also wears contact lenses now, instead of his round glasses that were a trademark of his youth.
His hair is a little longer and sweeps over the lightning bolt scar he had acquired in a car crash, concealing it from view. He is normally clean-shaven, but today he sports a layer of stubble that further serves to disguise his face.
Severus Snape, in contrast, looks almost exactly the same.
Unfashionably long black hair, a little unkempt and unwashed. A distinctively large nose. A permanent scowl, even when nothing seems particularly disagreeable.
If Harry had any remaining doubts at all, hearing his voice and pedantic manner quashed them.
This was definitely Snape.
Harry internally shrugs and considers just going about his business as normal. Only he had recalled that, once upon a time, he’d had something of a fascination with this man.
Harry has always been naturally inquisitive about certain things, particularly if they don’t make sense to him.
What are the innermost thoughts and fears of a man like Severus Snape? What makes him tick? Why teach when he so evidently hated most students?
If Harry wants to indulge his morbid curiosity about this figure from his past, this will likely be his only opportunity to do so.
The saying ‘extend an olive branch’ is traditional, but in the absence of literal olive trees, Harry does the next best thing.
He extends a danish pastry instead, freshly baked earlier. Plating it up, he casually sets it on the older man’s table as he passes by.
Snape arches an eyebrow, expressing a silent why?
‘I baked these myself for the first time this morning,’ Harry confides. ‘I was hoping to get an honest opinion on them.’
Suspiciously, as though he may be about to become poisoned by a stranger, the older man picks up the confection and takes a bite.
Harry swears he sees a flicker of pleasure momentarily take over Snape’s countenance, though it’s fleeting.
‘Adequate.’ he says, expressionlessly.
Harry is not disappointed with the one-word response. If he remembers correctly, that translates to a high degree of praise indeed.
‘That’s a start,’ Harry replies cheerfully.
Snape seems to suddenly remember his manners, which turns out to be rather apt turn of phrase.
‘Thank you, Mr…’ his eyes seek out a name badge on Harry’s apron.
Harry swallows apprehensively. Snape will see his name and make the connection, surely.
‘Mr Manners.’ Snape finishes.
Harry is momentarily surprised, then he remembers that he is not wearing his own apron. He had thrown just any old one on at the start of his shift.
Henry Manners worked for the bakery until recently, but he had since moved on.
Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He’ll be Henry. Rather that than have the other man shut down completely if he identified him.
‘It seems almost unfair, that customers don’t wear name badges.’ Harry remarks casually. ‘You can full-name me, and yet I have no idea of the mysterious, dark stranger’s identity.’
Harry realises too late that his friendly repartee could be construed as flirting. He flushes pink.
Snape puts his newspaper aside now and eyes the young man curiously.
Harry braces himself to be recognised.
‘Just don’t do what those ridiculous American chain coffee places do and take first names with orders,’ Snape says with a roll of his eyes.
Harry smiles.
‘Imagine how many John or Sarah Smiths these places serve in a day.’ he says.
‘Undoubtedly countless,’ the man says dryly.
‘Are you a John Smith?’ Harry asks in a teasing tone, despite knowing the answer.
The older man seems to falter for a moment, before deciding to extend his hand to Harry.
‘Severus. Severus Snape.’ he offers.
Scarcely believing he was about to voluntarily touch ‘the greasy git’, Harry takes the proferred hand.
A firm shake is exchanged and Harry feels a frisson of something when their skin comes into contact with the other’s.
Just that excitement of adopting a new identity for five minutes, he expects.
‘Are you new to the area, Pro -erm, Mr Snape?’ Harry nearly winces at his almost-use of the man’s school title. ‘I know most of the regulars,’ he adds.
‘I’m here on an employment sabattical,’ the man confirms. ‘Lecturing at Imperial College.’
‘Wow,’ Harry remarks, genuinely impressed. ‘So you’re a teacher?’ he pretends to guess.
‘For my sins,’ Snape responds.
Harry wonders what that means.
‘What subject?’ Harry asks, trying to think what would be the natural flow of conversation if he didn't already know the answer.
‘What do you think?’ Snape asks him with one eyebrow raised.
Shit.
‘Erm, English?’ he clutches at straws. ‘Yeah, you seem very well-spoken and sort of, I dunno, dignified.’
Harry manages to prove himself as anything but. He mentally prepares to be belittled.
Snape just smirks.
‘Incorrect, but thank you. What if I told you that most coffee is around ten percent caffeine, derived from chlorogenic acid in the coffee beans? The enticing smell however, comes from more volatile compounds, produced during maillard reactions that take place during the roasting process.’
‘Chemistry,’ Harry can now confidently answer, with a smile.
‘Exactly,’ Snape replies.
Is that a sparkle in his dark eyes, Harry wonders.
‘You know, chemistry and the art of baking are not entirely dissimilar.’ Snape remarks.
‘They're not?’ Harry asks, genuinely surprised at the comparison.
‘Indeed not. You combine ingredients to make a new substance, as do I. You can use a recipe or you may choose to experiment. Correctly measuring quantities is of the utmost importance. There are a good few parallels.’
Harry had never thought about that before.
‘I suppose I’m putting my secondary school chemistry to some good use then,’ he chuckles.
Snape seems to savour another bite of the pastry.
‘Repeat this one with the same controlled variables, Mr Manners. It really is rather good.’
Praise beyond belief, Harry thinks weakly.
‘It was nice to meet you, sir.’ He offers, his heart pounding, perhaps an adrenaline rush over successfully concealing any kind of shared past.
‘Severus,’ the man corrects him pointedly.
Harry nods with a grin, and then takes his leave, quickly dashing back to the kitchen to compose himself.
He doesn't quite know why he is smiling so widely.
———————————————————————
Harry is not sure whether to expect Severus Snape back in the bakery.
Yes, they had introduced ‘themselves’ - or rather, Henry Manners had. But there were thousands of places in London to order a coffee and read an imposingly large newspaper. There was no real reason to imagine Snape would reappear in Harry’s place of work.
Nevertheless, Harry inserts tinted contact lenses before his next shift. His vibrant green eyes become more of a greyish-blue as a result.
He looks at himself in the mirror and strokes his jaw, feeling the beginning of a short beard. This would normally be his cue to shave, but he resists the urge to follow his normal routine.
On arrival at the bakery, he makes sure to grab Henry’s apron, rather than his own - or indeed, ‘Letitia’s’.
Just in case.
A baker’s day begins early. Harry’s shift starts at 5am, when he kneads dough into various shapes, ready to rise.
He then sanitises the surfaces, polishing tables until they are gleaming. He places trays into the ovens for his colleagues to keep an eye on, while he prepares to open the eat-in café.
Footfall is slow at first, a few takeaways customers appear and disappear again as quickly.
A few regular customers wish Harry good morning, and select their usual tables to sit at. Harry serves them with a smile.
He chats to Mrs Figg, a kind old lady with a cat obsession, who nearly always takes a cream bun home for her companions to share.
As Harry is wrapping up that conversation, after dutifully listening to the latest adventures of Mittens and Muffins, he sees him.
A tall figure, all in black, enters the shop and takes a seat at the same table as before.
Funny, Harry thinks, how humans are such creatures of habit.
His colleague steps around from behind the corner, meaning to help Harry serve.
‘I’ve got it!’ Harry calls out to her hastily, hoping that he doesn't sound too eager.
She shrugs and moves back towards the kitchen.
‘Back again?’ Harry asks as he approaches his former professor, striving to keep his tone casual.
‘So it would appear,’ Snape answers dryly.
Harry is unsure if his own humour has matured, or if the man is somehow changed, but this manner of delivery seems more amusing than cutting.
‘Black coffee?’ he checks, knowing full well it will be the case, having observed the man at breakfast over a couple of years.
Snape nods his confirmation.
‘And perhaps another pastry, sweeten you up a bit?’ Harry teases.
He then remembers himself and freezes, preparing to be verbally eviscerated.
To his surprise, the other man’s normally pale skin flushes pink for a moment or two at his words as he mutters something along the lines of ‘Go on then.’
Harry immediately finds it endearing, even though it is Snape, the very same who seems more likely to murder kittens in his spare time than to blush so prettily.
Harry returns swiftly with the items.
‘How’s the new job?’ he asks conversationally.
‘It’s… different.’ Severus says, following a sip of coffee as bitter as his attitude towards teenagers.
‘The students are actually invested in their learning. They really listen when you talk to them. They ask intelligent questions and share inspiring insights.’
Harry finds this interesting.
‘So it’s more intellectually challenging than where you were before?’ he asks.
‘Yes, in fairness because this is university level, and my previous post was with younger learners.’
Harry is surprised that Snape alludes to the boys of St Brutus’ without any hint of venom in his tone.
‘Did you like it there?’ he dares to ask.
Snape hesitates before answering the simple question.
‘It is… all I've ever known,’ he says quietly. ‘I was educated there myself, then was offered a teaching post straight out of university. It wasn't my passion, but it was somewhere familiar.’
‘So you never tried anything new?’ Harry muses aloud.
‘I never had anywhere else to go.’ the man admits.
Harry thinks he understands.
Suddenly, an influx of customers through the door require his attention.
‘I’ll be back,’ he tells Snape, resisting the strange urge to squeeze the man’s shoulder as he heads off to take other orders.
Harry fears that at some point he would look across and his former teacher would be gone. But he stayed, even past nine am, when the morning rush started to calm down.
Harry revisits Snape’s table with a refill of coffee.
‘What about you?’ the other man asks him suddenly.
‘What about me, what?’ Harry asks, confused. The older man has always had a particular skill for making him feel like an idiot.
‘How do you enjoy working here?’ Snape clarifies.
‘Oh, it’s alright,’ Harry answers. ‘Probably not my passion either, if I'm honest.’
Severus Snape nods his understanding.
‘But it’s a job, I like starting early and finish by three pm,’ Harry shares. ‘And chatting to customers, as you can probably tell. Sometimes even manage to score a drink with a bloke, if I’m lucky.’
Snape momentarily freezes.
Harry takes the moment to scream at himself internally.
Where the fuck did that come from?
He then makes a show of needlessly clattering a few items that were already perfectly balanced on a tray, trying to detract from his verbal diarrhoea.
‘Just… don't get stuck,’ Severus says, now from behind a newspaper.
Harry manages a small smile and then makes himself scarce. In the privacy of the kitchen, he gives himself a stern talking to.
Yes, he is gay, and yes he has had a bit of a fascination on that man out there for years, but it doesn't mean that he would like to…
‘Oh, fuck.’ Harry says around at the sudden realisation that yes, he would like to.
Snape wouldn't say yes to a date with a former pupil would he? No, surely not, Harry thinks grimly. He looks at himself in the shiny chrome of an extractor fan. The blue-grey eyes and the beginnings of a beard make him do a double take.
Snape might say yes to Henry Manners.
———————————————————————
It is a very silly fixation, that’s the reality of it, and Harry knows this fine well.
Severus Snape is twenty years his senior, probably isn't even gay, and to top it all off, he would likely incinerate Harry on the spot if he found out that the last time they had spent time together was in a well-deserved detention he had issued.
But Harry is fixated nonetheless. He experiments with his hair, making sure it covers his distinctive scar just so.
He also begins to bench press a number of kilograms at the gym, waking up even earlier than usual for this new workout routine.
Harry vaguely remembers Snape making some scathing remarks regarding his ‘scrawny physique’ as an adolescent. He has filled out into adulthood, but he figures it can’t hurt to introduce a heftier workout than simply kneading dough.
When he sees the older man again, he is still himself, but an alternative version of himself.
Disguised.
Henry Manners has none of the baggage, none of the shared history with Severus Snape. He does have the same fascination with the man, however.
They progress from small talk to a wider range of topics - the likes of history, politics - usually inspired by the headlines of the newspaper Severus always has in hand. Harry is pleased to note that he spends more time paying attention to his server than to the finely printed text.
The older man seems charmed by Harry, or Henry, as he believes him to be called. Seems to find his conversation scintillating, and his viewpoints on matters interesting.
Strange, Harry thinks, given how many times his intellect had been insulted by Snape as his student.
More than once, Harry considers asking the man out. More than once, something holds him back. Probably his moral compass. The more time he spends talking to the man, the more time he wants to spend. The more he appreciates his dry wit, which he had never even recognised in his younger years. Snape is still sarcastic, still cutting, but this time his remarks are self-deprecating, or aimed at society in general. He certainly doesn't belittle Harry. And he speaks highly of his students at the university.
‘Why did you not rate the secondary students at your old school?’ Harry asks him, very interested in the answer. ‘Were they all absolute idiots?’
Severus sighs and rakes one hand through his dark hair, seemingly considering his answer.
‘No, not all of them.’ he admits finally. ‘I admit that I quickly became jaded, prejudiced even against some of them. A few bad experiences with certain youngsters that I took to heart. I adopted a persona to stop that ever happening again. Then over time, I suppose it stopped being an act.
Snape had worn his traditional teaching robes like armour and eventually the metaphorical steel had melded to his human form, turning him into the brute Harry had known at school, but had seen no trace of in the bakery’s café.
‘What happened?’ Harry asks, his tone one of gentle curiosity.
Severus seems hesitant to answer.
‘As a young teacher, I came to be in charge of young men who had been a few years below me in school. A few of them made it their mission to undermine my authority in any way possible. There was one group in particular who set out to make my life a living hell.’
‘In what way?’ Harry asks, confused. He himself had played a few pranks to pass the time at that place, antagonised Snape intentionally, it was true. But he can't imagine anyone brave enough to target the brute of St Brutus’ - never mind actually have a profound effect on him.
‘It started out as relatively harmless. Low-level disruption, some audible insults about my looks. The odd unsavoury rumour about my personal life.’
Harry nods sympathetically. The rumours and insults he was familiar with, though they were whispered well out of earshot in his day.
Snape continues.
‘The I was… accused of something inappropriate. Something heinous, by one of the young men.’
Snape has not been one for regular eye contact in their interactions to date, yet the way he averts his gaze now is still marked.
‘That’s awful.’ Harry breathes the words softly. He means them.
‘I was innocent of course.’ Severus hastily adds. ‘And it was quickly proven. But from that incident on, I swore to make all students fear me.’
Harry has the strangest sensation, like he is hearing a villain's origin story and immediately sympathises.
‘Being gay…’ Severus trails off as though nervous. ‘It’s not a crime, but…’
‘If it was they would have to arrest me.’ Harry speaks firmly in support.
He swears the other man’s skin momentarily flushes, in a pleased way.
‘From then, I adopted my classroom persona. No-one dared breathe out of turn. It was stifling. For them… and for me.’ the man finishes.
Harry nods his understanding.
Then after a moment’s hesitation he reaches out, covering the older man’s hand with his own, bestowing a comforting squeeze.
‘I’m giving a lecture to the public this week.’ Severus tells ‘Henry’, in what is supposed to be an off-hand remark, but Harry senses an undercurrent of apprehension. Or perhaps he is projecting, he accepts that it’s more likely the case.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Harry tries to match the same conversational tone.
‘If you were available…’ Snape again seems to be trying too hard for nonchalance.
‘Yes! I am.’ Harry nods enthusiastically.
‘I haven't told you when it is yet,.’ the professor points out with a gentle smirk.
It’s Harry’s turn to flush now.
‘It’s Friday evening.’ Severus tells him, mercifully putting him out of his misery. ‘I thought a young man like you might well have better offers - ‘
Harry shakes his head vehemently.
‘Tell me where and when, I’ll be there.’ he promises.
Snape scribbles some details on a napkin in a familiar, spider-like scrawl.
‘It would be nice to see a friendly face in the audience.’ he quietly confides. ‘I’m not much of a people person.’
Harry feels a rush of fondness that goes beyond an ill-advised crush.
Taking a deep breath, he then spills his next words out in a rush.
‘Would it be nice to see my face over dinner afterwards?’ he braves the question that has been on his mind since he first assumed the role of Henry Manners.
Severus blinks in surprise.
‘It would be…’
‘Adequate?’ Harry suggests with a grin, echoing Snape’s assessment of the first pastry he brought him.
‘Adequate,’ the other man agrees, recognising the reference and treating his young companion to a rare, albeit small, smile.
———————————————————————
‘To bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses…’
Harry almost can’t believe he didn't spend every chemistry lesson with a hard-on.
The man’s voice is like molten dark chocolate, even while he lectures about the endorphins found in said delicacy.
He could be discussing magic, the way his words now seem to enchant Harry.
Perhaps Severus Snape was an acquired taste, but Harry had somehow developed an addiction, despite only having exchanged some witty banter and one hand-squeeze to date.
Harry forces his attention back to the professor’s actual words and not just his silken smooth, deep voice.
It’s fascinating, he can accept as an adult.
The lecture focuses on the flavour molecules in foods. Harry can't help but wonder if the topic was chosen with him in mind.
Then Severus produces a blow torch and begins to caramelise a creme brulee with considerable skill, which Harry the baker recognises and appreciates, all while explaining the reactions taking place in layman’s terms.
The smell is almost intoxicating, Harry thinks. Or maybe it’s the way the man skilfully wields the hot blue flame. Regardless, the heady aroma of burning sugar fills the air, mainly sweet with just a hint of bitter acridity and Harry thinks he would kill to taste it, to taste Snape.
‘That was bloody brilliant,’ Harry tells him enthusiastically, after the crowd have applauded and left the small lecture theatre. ‘You’re quite the showman, Severus Snape.’
Harry spots the embarrassed half-smile on the man’s face, which is becoming delighfully familiar. He makes a personal promise to elicit it as often as is possible, as Snape leads the way to a small restaurant just off the university campus.
They both order steak. Severus requests it cooked rare, which reminds Harry of the rumours that the man was actually a vampire.
‘Why does it smell so amazing?’ Harry voices aloud as their meals are served.
‘Are you genuinely curious to know?’ Severus asks wryly. ‘You may have had enough chemistry for one evening.’
Harry shakes his head.
‘Educate me,’ he commands in a teasing tone.
Severus obliges.
‘It is known as the Maillard reaction,’ he says. ‘The amino acids react with sugar molecules resulting in the browning of the meat and that distinctive, almost sweet aroma.’
Harry encourages him to go on while he slowly drains his glass.
Harry is not normally much of a wine drinker, but Severus orders a bottle of merlot to the table, so he decides that Henry Manners would be.
He feels giddy with it. Severus chuckles at Harry’s particularly enthusiastic demeanour as they finish dinner and leave the establishment.
‘Let’s get you home safely,’ he says, flagging a London taxi. Harry gets in, then pats on the seat beside him, beckoning his date to get in beside him.
‘It may not be wise...’ Severus begins to protest, but Harry shushes him.
‘How else will you be sure I've got back in one piece?’ he asks, tone full of mischief.
Snape agrees, and Harry is sure there is no reluctance in it.
Somehow managing to resist the temptation to touch for the duration of the car journey, Snape extends a hand to Harry, helping him out of the taxi’s rear. Harry keeps a tight grip and they hold hands all the way to the front door of Harry’s flat.
Fumbling a little with the keys, he finally manages to unlock the door and pulls Severus inside.
Harry presses his lips enthusiastically against those of the taller man, straining upwards to do so.
The moan he receives in response is ridiculously rewarding.
Harry swipes his tongue over those thin lips, seeking an invitation.
‘Wait,’ the man objects, flustered beyond belief. ‘The wine’s gone to your head, I would be taking advantage.’
‘Who says I wouldn't be taking advantage of you?’ Harry asks in a mock-serious tone, circling his hands around the other man’s waist and squeezing his arse.
Snape thrusts forward reflexively into Harry then stops himself.
‘You’re just so young and beautiful,’ he says, as though he is unable to keep the thought inside his head. ‘Far too young and beautiful for the likes of me,’ he repeats in vague disbelief.
‘Well, I'm certainly old enough to know what and who I want.’ Harry counters in a good-natured manner.
‘I could have been your teacher,’ Severus says sharply.
Harry manages to conceal a wince.
He can’t in all good conscience argue against that point. In fact, Severus had been.
Instead, he just lets the point exist, moving forwards to kiss him again, with even more urgency.
‘Henry… are you sure?’ Snape’s eyes are firmly closed, as if just looking again at Henry Manners will be enough to rid him of all resolve.
Harry uses actions rather than words to convey his response.
———————————————————————
I’m in bed with Severus Snape.
Harry’s brain helpfully reminds him of the reality of the situation.
I've just been thoroughly fucked by Severus Snape.
Twice last night, and once this morning. For all his protestations about his partner’s youth, Snape had no trouble keeping up, it seemed.
‘We could set up a bakery together, oh, or a restaurant,’ Harry chatters away happily, as he fixes them breakfast, post-coital bliss still impacting him markedly.
Severus on the other hand, seems quietly content, wryly amused by Harry’s wittering.
‘You could design the menu, explain the chemistry of the cooking processes,’ the younger man continues. ‘Cook the steaks, do that Maillard thingy. I can be in charge of baking and desserts. Except the creme brulee. You can take that one, and I’ll just eat it with every meal.’
Severus’ eyes are warm as he gently pulls the young man into a tender kiss.
‘You’re sweet enough,’ he mutters gruffly, seemingly embarrassed by his own sentimentality.
Harry remembers the link to their first interaction at the bakery. Now deliriously happy at the display of affection, he speaks without thinking.
‘I can’t see why they would call you the brute of St. Brutus’ ‘ Harry says fondly. ‘You’re a big softie really,’
Something strange flashes in Severus’ expression and Harry realises his mistake, too late.
‘I don’t recall telling you the name of the school,’ he says slowly. ‘Or that specific nickname.’
Harry isn't sure what to say. He knew he would have to shed his disguise sooner rather than later, but not like this.
He takes a deep, steadying breath.
‘I can explain - ‘ Harry begins, but Severus has already spotted a pile of incriminating paperwork on the kitchen countertop.
‘Harry Potter.’ he reads the name on the nearest envelope aloud in disbelief.
Harry visibly winces.
‘Harry Potter?’ Snape all but bellows the name this time. ‘Harry Potter, Class G, 1996?’
Harry nods miserably.
Snape looks sick at the realisation.
‘I promise I can explain -’ Harry starts again, but realises that actually, he probably can't. Not in a satisfactory way anyway.
Snape’s dark eyes are wild, like an animal in pained distress.
‘I told you, what they accused me of,’ he hisses. ‘And you've gone out of your way to make it true.’
‘Severus, no!’ Harry emphatically protests. ‘This is nothing like that. I wanted you. I still want you.’
‘This is some sick joke,’ Snape murmurs in complete shock.
‘No, Severus.’ Harry’s tone is one of desperation. ‘I know it must seem that way, but what I feel for you, it’s actually real, I swear it.’
‘How can it be, Harry?’ Snape’s voice shifts from scathing to profound sadness. ‘When Henry Manners is not actually real?’
With that, he turns around and is gone.
———————————————————————
Harry can't eat. He can't sleep.
All he sees when he closes his eyes is the hurt in Severus’ own - pain which he had caused.
Harry wasn't sure he had ever been in love before. Now he knows it’s definitely the case.
This was his first love and he has fucked it up before it even began, he thinks bitterly.
He needs to make it right, somehow. But he doesn't know the man’s phone number, or where he lives. He doesn't expect to see him in the bakery in the mornings any more.
The only thing he knows is where Severus works. It’s a Saturday, and it’s a long shot, but Harry knows he has to try.
He makes his way back to the university’s chemistry department. The halls are open to him - apparently, academia does not pause for weekends.
He walks until he spots a sign on an imposing wooden door.
Professor S. Snape.
He knocks apprehensively, despite his assumption that the office will be empty on this late Saturday morning.
His assumption is wrong.
‘Enter!’ the man barks from within, and it seems that the bastard from Harry’s teenage years is back in full force.
Still, bravely or stupidly, Harry enters.
‘Potter,’ Snape all but hisses the syllables as he realises Harry has tracked him down.
‘Leave. Immediately.’
Harry will leave, but not until Severus hears him out, he resolves.
‘I’ve fallen in love with you,’ Harry braves the confession without any preamble.
He sees that Snape is about to respond scathingly, so he raises a hand in an attempt to halt him.
‘I know that I've wronged you, and I'm sorry about how you must have felt, figuring it out like that - I really am.’
Snape is resolutely looking away, which Harry actually takes as something of a good sign. He's not being flayed alive, at least.
‘But - I’m not sorry for the chance I had to fall for you,’ Harry continues. ‘Would you have wanted to get to know me, Harry Potter, if you had recognised me right away?’
The question is clearly rhetorical.
‘I regret hurting you, Severus.’ Harry repeats, ‘But I can't regret accidentally putting on Henry Manners’ apron that first day you came into the bakery. Not when it led to all of our chats, to those kisses. To you... you making love to me.’ he chokes out the last phrase.
Severus still looks away, but Harry perceives a shudder in his breathing.
‘You’re right, love. Henry didn't exist. But
Harry does. He’s me. And I'm him. I mean, I'm the same person you got to know. What’s in a name, Shakespeare wrote that, right?’ Harry tries for a light tone to shift the mood.
No response again.
Harry is almost ready to give up, but something spurs him to ask one final question.
‘I know. I've behaved badly. It’s unforgivable. You forgiving me would be incredible. Just like you walking into the bakery that day was incredible. Just like my falling in love with you, despite my knowing our history, is incredible. You, Severus Snape, are incredible. So I have to ask. Could I have another incredible occurrence from you? Could you ever forgive me?’
The silence is like lead.
Snape’s voice is a low growl when he finally speaks.
‘You. Are. A fucking. Idiot. Potter.’
Then Harry is being forcefully kissed, his mouth claimed roughly by Snape’s, and it is as though he is Henry and he is Harry and he is sixteen and he is twenty-six all at once.
One swift motion from Severus clears clutter from a large wooden desk and Harry finds himself pressed down against the hard surface, and the hard body of his lover atop him.
They stay clothed and rut against each other, desperately seeking friction and finally releasing the building tension.
It’s not the tender lovemaking Harry had experienced the previous evening, but it’s hot and it’s heady and above all else it’s honest.
Afterwards, Harry chances a small smile, hoping that Severus will be more agreeable in a sticky, sated state.
‘Can we start again?’ He asks, hope evident in his voice.
‘Go on then,’ Snape says dryly, but Harry reckons he sees a twinkle of cautious humour in his eyes.
‘Hello, I’m Harry. Harry Potter,’ he says, proffering a hand to Severus. ‘You may remember me from being a pain in your arse a decade ago.’
Snape tries to maintain his deadpan expression but Harry reckons it’s softening somewhat.
‘Anyway, sorry about that,’ Harry continues. ‘I’ve heard you got a bit of an unjustified hard time from me, and others like me. I would really appreciate the chance to make it up to you.’
Harry’s voice morphs from tongue in cheek to an earnest request.
He braces himself for the man’s reply.
A long-suffering sigh comes first.
‘It’s nice to re-make your acquaintance, Mr Potter.’ Severus says finally.
Harry’s own sigh is one of relief.
‘Perhaps I can take you to lunch?’ He suggests.
Then he smirks.
‘Though I might need to clean myself up first,’ he looks pointedly at the wet patch on his own crotch and then his partner’s.
‘Quite…’ Severus agrees, surveying the evidence of their mutual release through their trousers.
‘If only there were some sort of instant cleaning magic spell or something we could use,’ Harry randomly muses.
‘A shower and soap is highly effective in the absence of a magical reality,’ Snape deadpans.
‘Together?’ Harry suggests hopefully.
Snape raises an eyebrow.
‘I’m going to make you take me out to lunch as Harry before any more of that nonsense occurs.’ he says, a small smirk playing on his thin lips.
Harry returns it as a genuine and wide smile, delighted at being given this second chance, despite his being such an idiot.
A young idiot in love.