half_light (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
half_light) wrote2018-06-15 09:43 pm
half_light) wrote2018-06-15 09:43 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Awakening
Title: Awakening
Author:half_light
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Word Count: ~6603
Rating: NC-17
Content/Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Post-War, Dubious Consent.
Summary: As part of his post-war recovery, Severus Snape has to endure weeks of 'therapeutic massage.' Only when the healers finally leave him alone does he realise, for the first time in his life, how much he desperately needs contact and connection. Enter Harry Potter...
Author's Notes: This was inspired by 'Soft Touch' by the incredibleperverse_idyll, who was generous enough to let me write this. It is an unofficial prequel; my take on what might have led Snape to where he is in that story. I designed it to be as compatible as possible with the original, even though it may not appear that way at first glance :)
Update:perverse_idyll has now posted a rec here.
Read at AO3or below. (The AO3 version has been slightly revised & I haven't had a chance to change this version yet!)
* * *
"I re-experienced what it was like not to be touched. I craved it… My body kept me awake at night, aching. By the end of a week it was as if I were starving. And I wondered why I'd had to live for so long without knowing I wanted this. How much I wanted this." ~ ‘Soft Touch’ by perverse_idyll
~
It is day seven and Severus thinks he must be dying. The last of Nagini’s venom still lingers and partial paralysis halts movements desperate to erupt from him. The longing to twist, curl or stretch like a cat against rough sheets has become a frantic, obsessive compulsion. It is inconceivable that limbs buzzing with such fraught kinetic energy could remain still. He wonders if he’s been drugged. Wonders if the paralysis is mental, rather than physical. Wonders at the irony of the grotesque body that has always felt like a cage, finally, literally, becoming his tomb.
After weeks, perhaps months, of being subjected to the torture of so-called ‘therapeutic touch’, finally the healers relented and he had been left alone. The first day without hands pawing over every inch of his body was bliss. Day two, marked by a curious but manageable discomfort. On day three, the first embers of panic emerged. Day four saw the collapse of his infamous self control, and days five and six were an indistinguishable blur of agonising need.
Now day seven, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries, through sheer force of will, to calm down. The anxiety is only making it worse, Severus knows this. Understands the cold, hard logic of it. Yet for the first time in nearly two decades, not even Occlumency can save him. There are no walls. His mind is like water. Every hysterical thought, every damnable fucking feeling swirling round and round, trapped without escape until there is nothing else. Nothing but emotion and weakness.
Minutes become hours, every second stretching out until he’s sure the bag of liquid nutrients being hung on his intravenous drip is dinner rather than breakfast. How can it still be morning? How can that be the sun if its warmth seems to merely rest upon, rather than penetrate Severus’ skin?
Is it still skin if it doesn’t feel? Does it feel? He can no longer be sure. The last time he rubbed two fingers together he felt nothing. No spark. No relief. Nothing.
He can no longer remember if there is supposed to be a spark.
Perhaps if he’d had more than a few paltry weeks worth of memories. Perhaps if he’d been more accustomed to it… if he hadn’t recoiled from every offering of fingers, lips, skin. Perhaps if there had ever actually been an offering. Even one, just one. Maybe then the ghost of it wouldn’t have left him so quickly, evaporating to nothing after seven days.
He no longer fixes on the ceiling when the clinic’s nurses sweep in and out. He stares at them. Stares and stares and silently dares them to meet his eye. One has the decency to cast a brief gaze across his body (from the neck down) - all good, everything in working order – before leaving without comment and Severus wants to scream.
He doesn’t. He can’t complain. At least she acknowledged the existence of a person on the bed. It reassures him he’s actually here. He clings to the feeling and is sure it will carry him for days.
* * *
It is day twelve and Severus wonders whether he was ever really here.
Perhaps Nagini’s venom killed him after all. Perhaps he is stuck in between worlds. Perhaps Albus will come for him now.
No one is coming for him now.
He passes the time by searching for cracks on the walls and ceiling. The large ones call to him, only the smaller ones prove a challenge. He examines every inch, cataloguing each tiny line, each faint gash. Even buildings have scars, it seems. He wonders what caused these, dreams up scenarios of increasing violence and brutality. Anything to deny the obvious: the simple cruelty of time.
There is a creeping numbness and he wonders if the human body merely requires a detox from touch. Maybe he’s through the worst of it now and his skin will harden back into the unfeeling shell he’s long been accustomed to, granting him a blissful sort of mercy.
His chest seizes at the thought and he decides the only mercy he’ll accept is death.
* * *
It is day fourteen.
Fourteen.
* * *
It is day sixteen.
He stares all morning at the needle pouring life-saving potions into his veins.
Without them the paralysis would metastasize, infecting every inch of him until even his heart stilled.
He stretches a finger gently. It’s painful, labored, but there is definite improvement. With concentration he can lift a whole arm. Extend it all the way to the other arm.
He stares all afternoon at the needle pouring life-saving potions into his veins.
It would be so easy.
He’s still too much of a fucking coward.
* * *
It is day…?
* * *
It is dusk. The bewitched lamp has malfunctioned, neglecting to switch itself off. Eventually, its dull yellow glow mingles with the moonlight and Severus envies their entanglement. As though they are living creatures. As though their togetherness makes them more alive than him. The sight makes his chest ache and his eyes burn. He almost reaches a hand to the place where the two strands collide but stops himself. A futile grasp into the void would do nothing but intensify the hopelessness pulsing through him with callous ferocity.
The potions pump themselves now. Magic. No human element required. It is everything he’s ever dreamed of. Total solitude. Total peace. He wonders if he can force death by holding his breath. He can vaguely recall hearing the body has mechanisms to guard against such attempts, but perhaps it’s worth a shot.
He can’t remember how many days it has been and fixates instead on how many days he’s been alive. How many days he was able to successfully delude himself into believing his small life was enough. The security of cold dungeons. The ease of denial. The numbness of isolation. The deprivation of touch. The comprehensive and absolute rejection of every aspect of his own humanity.
How many days, months, years, had he chosen to live as a something inhuman? How many decades had he supplanted compassion with shame? It seemed a logical idea at the time, after all, shame was organic and replenishable. Shame needed only the self to survive and thrive.
He could not have endured any other way, he reasons. As though he is still capable of reason. As though he is still a human being.
If touch had been his fuel, he would have shriveled up decades ago. A life that burned fast and bright, ending at twelve years old. Or was it eleven? He can no longer recall the feel of her hand in his. Would it have made any difference, in the end? Could anything have been worse than this shocking gut punch of realization that he has deprived himself of a life?
* * *
It is – oh who fucking cares.
* * *
It is sunset. It is beautiful. It is devastating.
He wonders if he can cry with facial muscles that no longer quite work as they should.
He remembers he couldn’t cry even when they did.
He squeezes his useless eyes shut against the thundering swell of grief that threatens to overwhelm him.
He doesn’t require it anymore. His hypothesis had (naturally) been correct. Long stretches of time can now pass without a craving. Without some patch of skin screaming in neglect. Without his vigilantly controlled hunger rearing up into an uncontrollable roar.
Whole hours, even.
Now, if the healers were to return, offering palms and strokes and grounding warmth and that deep, exploratory caress –
No. He would decline.
Never again.
He ignores the click of the door. It's never important.
Ignores the ripple of wind against his hand that suggests robes more elaborate than the usual mediwitch attire. Ignores, ignores, ignores, eyes still closed, determined to guard against even the slightest twinge of hope. If he tries very hard he can suppress it, extinguish it before it sparks and takes flight.
That particular skill returns like muscle memory.
He hears his name but he must be hallucinating because he knows that voice and that voice cannot possibly be here.
He hears it again, closer, calling to him. A whisper that wavers and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t do this, and he won’t do this but it’s his name and he’s so desperately tired of drowning in this deafening damnable fucking silence and –
Who is he kidding?
So like a fool, like a weak, starved fool, he opens his eyes and lets the black find the green, glistening down at him in the setting sun.
His chest, his stomach, his everything collapses inward, as though struck by a giant's fist. And it doesn’t matter that his throat constricts or that he can’t breathe because their eyes are locked together and his whole body vibrates with the exquisite, agonising ecstasy of being seen.
Potter’s brow twitches in concern but, despite the indignity of it, Severus doesn’t look away. Not yet. No matter how loudly his brain screams the directive; no matter how potent his mortification at Potter’s obvious pity becomes. No. He drinks in those eyes, drinks in the connection for as long as the boy will allow.
“Are you ok?” Potter asks in a voice so small, so achingly gentle Severus almost bursts into tears.
He is suddenly extremely thankful for the mild facial paralysis.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Doesn’t trust what truths might come tumbling out. So he says nothing, cursing his feeble impotence and hating himself more and more until the venom of it threatens to choke him.
“I just wanted to… see how you were doing,” Potter begins, shuffling with an awkwardness he hadn’t expected from The Boy Who Lived And Died And Lived. “I came by a couple of weeks ago, but…”
But the sight of me is so sickeningly monstrous not even the bravest Gryffindor can stomach it, Severus suspects.
Looking exhausted, Potter runs a hand through his own hair and all of Severus’ suddenly stand on end. The way his eyelids briefly dip as skin connects with the coarse, black strands sends a rush of something through Severus and for a second he is weightless, his body dissolving beneath him.
He has to look away.
“I guess I just wanted to say thank you. For… you know.”
An entire life. Distilled into… "you know."
“You look really uncomfortable,” he says suddenly. “Are you uncomfortable?”
And there it is again. The lump in his throat and the sting in his eyes and oh god the sharp twist of panic as the boy rises and fuck he’s coming closer and stretching an arm across Severus’ face and what the hell is he doing…?
It is innocent enough, a gentle shift of his pillow, nudging it into a more supportive position. Whether it’s the compassion of the gesture or the startling proximity of Potter’s body as he reaches over him, he’ll never know. He’ll never know because his lungs, full to bursting with held breath, virtually explode in an exhale so sharp Potter lurches backwards, alarmed.
Severus freezes, unblinking eyes locked on the ceiling. Anywhere but on the boy no doubt staring in confusion and… and pity. His gut twists, and as his brain begins to process what just happened, a wave of nausea sweeps through him.
“Snape?” The small, gentle voice is back and this time it nearly breaks him in two.
“Get… out,” he rasps in a hoarse, barely recognizable whisper.
Silence. Then: a rustle of robes, the twist of a door handle, and eventually… nothing.
For a moment Severus thinks he is gone and is hit by twin tidal waves of relief and regret. The warring emotions threaten to drown him until the boy creeps back into his peripheral vision. He somehow manages to suppress a whimper that curdles in his throat. With no options left, he steels himself with the kind of false bravado he despises in others, and turns to meet Potter’s eyes.
The boy stares and stares, inquisitively, probingly, until Severus almost withers under the intensity of it. Eventually, he lifts a hand and tentatively extends it until it's hovering just above Severus’.
Severus’ heart leaps into his throat and he wrenches his hand away, flashing the boy an expression he hopes is full of rage and warning. It doesn’t appear to have the desired effect because Potter simply gazes deeper, more curiously, and Severus’ blood pounds so violently through his veins it leaves him lightheaded.
“I’m not sure I can forgive you,” Potter says slowly, as though just now coming to the decision. “For Dumbledore.”
A shock of white-hot pain skewers Severus at the mention of the name.
“I mean, it’s not like the good I ended up doing makes up for all the people I got killed,” Potter reasons, monotone and detached.
After a moment, he blinks and seems to return to his body.
“I’m going to touch you now,” he says simply, his tone the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
No.
No no fucking no, Severus’ mind screams, even as every inch of his skin springs to life.
“No,” he growls, sounding pathetically weak.
“Snape –”
“NO.”
Panic now, as the hand draws closer. Terror, as his newly constructed walls, fragile as spun glass, threaten to shatter and come crashing down. Weeks of torture, of forcing himself to relearn how to exist without touch, and he knows he won’t survive that again.
He tries to recoil. Tries to shove his arm under the sheets but it won’t cooperate. It suddenly feels disconnected from the rest of him, almost trembling with longing and need.
When Potter’s hand lands, feather light, on his skin, Severus feels all his defenses collapse at once, crumbling like dominoes. When warm fingers curl around his arm, he stops breathing. He is as still as stone. All his energy, all his concentration tasked with keeping together the pieces of himself threatening to break apart.
“Breathe,” the boy instructs with a whisper.
Severus does. It comes in a fragmented, stuttering gasp, followed by an equally shaky exhale. He will not let his eyes fall closed. He will not. He will not.
“You know how I grew up, Snape,” he says quietly. “Do you really think I don’t know what it’s like to not be touched?”
Fingers crawl slowly up his forearm and Severus’ eyes promptly flutter closed.
The hand stills, except the thumb, which moves in tiny, soothing strokes. Severus feels tears pool behind his eyelids and battles desperately to regain control. When another hand settles firmly on his shoulder, its warmth bleeding easily through his thin, clinic gown, he clutches a fistful of sheets; unclipped nails nearly piercing the fabric.
The palm on his shoulder begins a slow descent, drawing a line to his chest. And it’s too much and not enough and Severus wants to scream ‘stop’, but worries a plea to rip off his clothes might fall out instead. Best to say nothing. Best to remain still and focus on resisting the overwhelming urge to arch into the first touch he’s had in weeks.
A touch that feels different. Less clinical.
Harry Potter’s touch.
What the hell is going on here?
Both hands halt, and after a few moments, Severus is on the brink of squirming to force even the slightest friction. His eyes dart to Potter’s and find the boy staring down at his body with a peculiar expression.
Potter visibly swallows. Severus’ groin tightens.
Fuck. This is not happening.
Severus tries to shrug out from under Potter’s hands but he’s too weak and The Boy Savior is too damn strong. He glares up at him, trying to put some fire into it.
“Do you want this?” Potter’s voice is eerily toneless.
“No.”
In response, Potter nods. Nods.
“There are a lot of things I didn’t want either. I didn’t want to lose my parents. Or Albus. I didn’t want to have a target on my back, or a piece of Him inside my head.”
The grip on Severus’ arm tightens.
“I wanted to kill you. I wanted to hate you. I’m not sure I can do either anymore. But –”
Nails now, digging lightly into Severus’ chest.
“But this, I can do.”
It happens so fast Severus barely registers the wandless magic before his gown splits clean down the middle and parts, leaving his chest completely exposed. Even the hands are gone, leaving him breathless and bereft.
Potter winces at the sight and Severus wishes the bed was quicksand, knowing the dim light will do little to diminish the horror of his appearance. Deep lacerations hardened into thick scar tissue, the emaciation of muscle death, the ghost of bruises still unhealed, a neck so ravaged it seems only held together by twisted strings of red.
Monstrous. Barely human.
Self disgust bubbles to the surface and Severus feels himself shrink. Feels violated by Potter’s eyes. By his excruciating sympathy. He turns his head, unable to bear it.
That was a mistake because when warm fingers spread across his stomach, it happens without warning and Severus’ whole body jolts in response. He gasps before he can help it and his breathing shallows to quick, wild gulps.
“Look at me, Snape.”
He can’t. He won’t. He mustn’t.
He registers too late a hand reaching across him and delicately finding the soft skin of his cheek. Just three fingertips at first, barely detectable. Three fingertips and gentle pressure; the pull of his face towards the boy. At the moment their eyes meet, the hand flattens properly against his cheek and Severus’ world tilts. Nothing and everything makes sense and all there is, is this. This hand. Those eyes. The surge of comfort and relief so strong it can’t possibly be real.
“I know you said you don’t want this.” The boy says quietly, inching a thumb towards his lips. “If you say it again, I’ll stop.”
But Severus can’t think. Can’t focus. His eyes dart everywhere except at the face staring down at him.
“I do believe you when you say you don’t want it, Snape. But I also know why you don’t want it.”
Severus’ skin is burning. His limbs trembling. He tears his gaze from the ceiling and forces himself to meet Potter’s eyes. Daring him to continue. Daring him and all his presumptive arrogance. Daring him in a way that starts to feel more like a plea…
“It’s because you know you want it too much.”
Severus’ heart stops.
“And that terrifies you.”
Fuck him. Fuck him and his rudimentary textbook psychology. Fuck him for slicing Severus to the core and reducing him to a pitiful stereotype. Fuck him for being right.
His shame flares as Potter stares, all melancholy and understanding.
“Fuck you,” he manages.
Green eyes sparkle and lips curl at the edges.
“That wasn’t a ‘no’.”
Then the hand is back on his arm, this time dragging slowly upward and coming to rest on his newly bare shoulder and Merlin the gentleness of the touch rips something apart inside him. When it continues its ascent to find the back of his neck, his whole body shudders and his head drops to Potter’s hand, seeking it out, trapping it, pressing against it against himself like it can’t possibly be close enough. And he knows he’s given himself away but he doesn’t care so long as Potter never, ever lets go.
Right on queue, Potter withdraws and Severus feels the crush of humiliation; the white hot rage that comes with knowing he’s been played. The blinding certainty of it. The loathing reserved exclusively for the worst, weakest parts of himself and –
His spiral is interrupted by the feel of covers being pulled down, over his hips, thighs, feet, until he is splayed out, defenseless. Potter circles like a predator… a hunger in his eyes Severus wouldn’t have believed if he’d seen it in a Pensieve.
“The healer I spoke to said the team here touched you. Massaged you. Said it helped with your recovery.”
He wraps his hands around Severus’ left foot and needles the arch with firm fingers. Severus stiffens.
“That must have been… interesting… for someone like you.”
Severus only barely resists the urge to kick him.
“How long has it been though?” he asks quietly. “How long since anyone did this…”
The hands press firmly up his calf, and return downward with a gentle stroke. The resulting full body shiver answers the question effectively enough.
Potter turns his attention to the other leg. He has no idea what he’s doing, that much is clear. Has likely never even received a massage, much less given one. But he’s here. He’s here and real and warm and talking to Severus as though he exists.
And that’s all it takes, apparently. That’s how pitiful I’ve become.
Potter’s hands stop immediately, as though he’s heard the thought, and Severus wonders for an insane moment whether vanquishing the Dark Lord somehow granted him a gift for Legilimency. Before he has time to properly curse his ridiculous paranoia, Potter moves around the other side of the bed… close, closer, until they’re eye to eye and Severus can almost feel the heat of his breath.
With a steady hand, Potter delicately scoops up a few strands of hair and tucks them behind Severus’ ear. He does it slowly, fingers deliberately stroking skin. It is the most platonic of gestures yet somehow, it sets all of Severus’ nerve endings alight. He wants to grab the hand, touch it, press it against his face, take a finger in his mouth and –
The back of Potter’s fingers caress his venom-smoothed, sunken cheeks. It feels softer than his palm, more intimate somehow, and Severus fights to maintain eye contact because Gods he needs it. And Potter seems to understand and Severus hates that he understands but is appallingly grateful that he does.
With his eyes still locked on Severus’, Potter’s hand wanders casually down his chest… his stomach… finding the waistband of briefs far too loose, practically inviting exploration by curious fingers. When the hand burrows gently under, finding a line of coarse hair and desperately sensitive skin, Severus presses his head back against the pillow, eyes flying wide, and tries to remember how to breathe.
“P- Potter…” he chokes.
“Shhh.”
Fingers skate over a nipple and he gasps sharply. Then, there is a gentle pinch and pleasure ripples through him. Its clear Potter is experimenting, his untrained hands being guided by Severus’ reactions. At the flick of a nail, Severus hisses, but before he can recover, soft lips wrap around his nipple in a light kiss.
His mind all but shuts down, unable to process what is happening. Unable to fathom being touched at all, let alone like this. He tries to remember the last time or if there even was a last time, but the thought evaporates because Potter’s lips part and his nipple is engulfed by startling wet heat. A strangled moan bursts from him, shattering any delusions of control. Potter licks, sucks and teases the nipple with his tongue before gently biting down. Severus arches uncontrollably as a wave of blinding lust shoots straight to his groin.
Breathing heavily, he manages to steal a glance at Potter and finds the boy staring up at him, mesmerized. He quickly goes to work on the other nipple and Severus isn’t sure how much more of this he’ll be able to stand. The explosion of sensation, the insane pull of arousal, but mostly the tenderness. The tenderness that is unexpected and incomprehensible and crushes his chest with an ache that seems to build and build with no hope of release. It is more than loneliness, sharper, more piercing than need. But Merlin he needs. He needs and needs and needs and without thinking reaches down to Har- Potter and pushes long fingers greedily into his hair.
Potter’s head is warm and comforting under his palm. He longs to twist his fingers, tug at clumps of black but he can’t seem to surrender the feel of skin on skin. The light tickle as he mows a path through the thick waves. That Potter allows it as he works at Severus’ chest is staggering. Mutual touch. Reciprocal touch. It is so foreign a concept Severus’ breath hitches and he pulls the boy closer still; grasping at his shoulders, drowning suddenly under a surge of emotion.
When Potter comes up for air, Severus almost growls at the loss. Their eyes meet and the green ones blaze with empathy. Severus actively searches for disgust, for shame – not in the boy but within himself. Searches frantically for some recognizable sign of the man he knows himself to be, but it’s as though he’s been hypnotized. Perhaps he has. Imperius? No, there is no calm, no peace. His mind is an inferno of questions and desperation.
Potter is moving upward. It takes Severus far too long to discern his intent despite the trajectory being crystal clear. Even then, denial takes hold. He is as still as death as the boy – for god’s sake, the young man – bends to bring their faces less than a whisper apart, lips almost touching. His breath is warm, sweet, intoxicating… like it could breathe life into the damned… and every fiber of Severus suddenly knows something terrible and irretrievable will be lost in surrender.
“No!” he blurts, panicking, twisting his head away.
The only sound for a moment is his breathing, rough and shallow, catching on ruined vocal chords. Finally, Potter eases his head back around and places a soft kiss on his forehead. Severus, transported to a childhood he never had, closes his eyes with a sigh. The lips return, leaving excruciatingly tender kisses on his eyelids, then his neck. When fingers begin gently exploring his scars, Severus finally snaps.
“Why?!”
Potter blinks at him.
“Why what?”
Severus glares. He would rather die than verbalize a response but can’t stop it from bubbling up in his mind. Why are you doing this? How can you stand it?
And then it hits him.
He forces himself to examine Potter. To really examine him, and only then does the reality become horrifyingly clear. Only then is the empathy revealed as contempt. The kindness exposed as pity.
His gut twists as Potter effortlessly waves away his briefs, leaving him completely naked… and as a hand wraps around his cock, he’s forced to bite back a scream. His mind wails in futile resistance as pleasure slices through him. He sees it now. The disgust on Potter’s face as he strokes him. The deadened expression as he forces himself to touch the monster who killed his mentor.
Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?, he thinks stupidly. Mentors are supposed to kill the monsters.
Severus feels sick.
This is his punishment. Not Nagini’s venom. Not the paralysis. This. Touch fueled by a twisted sense of duty. Cold-hearted disdain masquerading as compassion.
This is torture.
Exquisite, mind-blowing torture.
Potter’s relentless hand picks up pace and little pockets of pleasure explode at every corner of his body. The hand is gentle but firm, delicate but strong. Teasing. Taunting. Delighting in reminding Severus how utterly helpless he is. Every time he slows, Severus is hit with a hysterical urge to beg… beg for pressure, beg for friction. It’s as though Potter is daring him and he cannot, will not, give in but fuck he needs more. He can barely stand it already but he needs more, right fucking now, because this is it. This is all there is and will ever be. The moment that hand leaves his skin it will never return and none shall follow. Severus will be plunged back into the living hell of existing on some other world just out of sync with this one where he is invisible… where he is stared through or recoiled from… where the idea of anyone looking at him the way Potter did earlier is a flight of fancy so absurd simply entertaining it could drive him mad.
Potter blows lightly on the tip of his cock and he just about goes to pieces, thrusting up involuntarily with a hiss. Burning with humiliation, he resolves to stifle any further sound, refusing to give Potter the satisfaction. But a part of him knows his rage is unfounded. Unfair even. After all, this makes sense. This is right. Potter is simply lavishing him with the touch he so desperately wanted in the only way he’d ever accept it.
It is no more or less than what he deserves, and pierces him exactly where it should. In his chest. In the space vacated by his heart.
Or perhaps between the cracks of his shredded soul.
Before long, and despite all efforts to the contrary, he begins to unravel under Potter’s hands. Unable to look at him, he tries closing his eyes. But with the world plunged into darkness Severus only feels more unhinged, more out of control. So he forces himself to stare at the boy. To meet the humiliation head on, stubbornness and pride twisting into the usual mask of scorn. Potter gazes back as though he can see straight through it, and without breaking eye contact, lowers his head and… licks.
Severus cries out and grips the bed sheets.
"Ohh… fuck…"
He jerks violently, rapidly losing any capacity for coherent thought. More, he wants to scream, wants to beg. The torture of the past few months, preceded by the unrelenting hell of the past two decades boils inside him, flooding his whole body with fury, and he thrusts into Potter’s hand again and again as though trying to exorcise all of the guilt, hate and grief.
Somehow he notices Potter’s breathing is just as ragged as his own, his pupils just as blown, his hair matted over his scar with sweat. Something clenches around Severus’ heart, and when Potter licks his lips and stares hungrily down at him, as though the sight of Severus’ body might not repulse him to the core, Severus loses it. He reaches up and grabs for him, tugging greedily at his robes, trying to pull him down. Desperate for more contact. Aching for something, anything, real.
"Please," he whispers, suddenly inexplicably close to tears.
Potter obliges and stretches across him awkwardly, a heavy weight against his bare chest. Severus moans like a pathetic fool but can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters but the feel of Potter pressed against him. Potter’s free hand twisting through his hair, caressing his scalp, while the other hand jerks, strokes and squeezes until Severus’ groin is practically screaming for release.
He clings to and claws at Potter’s body, trying to fuse them together while he still can. When Potter’s head nuzzles against his neck, when his lips plant a line of kisses for his tongue to double back and trace, Severus knows he is lost. With one final desperate thrust, he’s coming apart in Potter’s hands, climax ripping through him with blinding intensity.
He lays very still as Potter performs a quick cleansing spell and pulls the covers gently back up. He watches him, in a daze, noting for the first time the confidence in the way he moves, the eyes that look so much older. Severus’ body is still tingling, still vibrating with aftershocks, and his heart refuses to slow because he knows it's over. In a moment, Potter will be gone and Severus will again be alone. Alone. Alone.
There is a loud scrape as Potter drags a chair towards the bed and, to Severus’ astonishment, sits. A jolt of elation is quickly chased off by dread because of course Potter wants something. Expects something in return for… whatever the hell that was.
He waits. Wondering whether it will ever be enough. Whether his debts will ever be considered paid. Whether he will ever… ever… truly be –
Potter slips his hand under Severus’ and wraps his fingers around the thin, bony ones. It is so unexpected Severus’ eyes dart immediately towards the sensation. There is no further movement, only the simple comfort of connection. Of being held.
Eventually Potter does shift, gently turning Severus’ arm outward and exposing his Mark; faded, but no less stark against the shadows of the room. Severus isn’t sure at what moment the evening sun fled, but its absence now seems fitting. Severus thinks of the moon. The sky. Severus thinks of anything to avoid thinking about Potter’s fingers tracing the lines of his Mark. He wants to yank his arm away. Wants to hex the brat. Wants to fill him with Veritaserum and shake him and demand to know how it’s even possible to touch such a grotesque symbol with such… kindness.
Severus pulls weakly but Potter’s grip is too strong. He grunts in frustration, feeling a spark of panic.
“Don’t. It’s ok,” Potter says soothingly.
But it’s not ok and it will never be ok, and as Severus watches him stroke – up and down, again and again – his pulse quickens and he wants to slap the boy for having the audacity to trail his light over the darkest darkness. As though it could make some difference. As though some of it might bleed through the layers of scar tissue and infect him with goodness. As though he would ever want that. Would ever abide it.
Severus isn’t sure when his breathing got so out of control. Or how the ache in his chest swelled to the point of suffocating him. Or even when the first tear fell. He knows only that when Potter kisses his Mark, he wants to die. Please, please let death come. Anything to stem the avalanche of guilt, regret, loss, rage, and overwhelming grief.
“It’s ok, Snape. He’s gone. It’s over. You’re free,” Potter whispers. “We’re both free.”
And when he looks up at Severus, green eyes glistening, Severus feels something inside himself break.
Free.
“That is one word for it, I suppose.”
He almost doesn’t hear it, so lost is he in Potter’s eyes, but the voice is as clear as a bell. There is a smile in it and Severus doesn’t turn… won’t… can’t… clings instead to Potter, gripping his hand like an anchor to reality. But he can sense it… the other presence in the room. The feeling of being watched crawls over his skin until it’s unbearable.
“Potter,” he whispers shakily.
But all Potter does is curl his lips in an empty smile and repeat,
“We’re free.”
This time the silence is shattered by a bright, loud, woman’s laugh and Severus feels the bed, the floor, the earth even, disappear beneath him. He shakes his head, distraught.
“Snape? What is it?”
But if he says ‘ghosts,’ if he says ‘Albus,’ if he says ‘your dead mother,’ he’ll only sound mad. So he says nothing, gripping Potter tight enough to fracture bone.
“Severus?”
Though Potter’s mouth moves, Albus’ voice comes out and Severus flings the boy’s hand away as though he’s been burned. He whips his head around and sure enough, at the foot of the bed is long silver hair beside vibrant red. Both impossibly opaque, nothing like ghosts. Both dead… both alive… both here. Severus’ blood turns to ice.
Lily smiles.
Albus twinkles.
And Severus screams.
“Severus…”
Potter repeats his name over and over, trying to break through, but Severus can’t trust it because Severus is not his name. Severus is the name of a friend, an ally. Severus died along with those grinning ghouls dragged from the afterlife to torment him. To remind him there’s no such thing as free.
“Severus?”
He tries to block it all out, throw up his walls, but it’s no use. He can’t retreat into a mind he no longer wants to take refuge in.
“Severus?!”
Retreat is a return to isolation. Invisibility. Retreat is torture. Retreat is not an option. Retreat is his only option…
“SEVERUS SNAPE! OPEN YOUR EYES THIS INSTANT!”
His eyes fly open, only to be blinded by… blazing sunlight?
He squints, confused. Blinks.
Albus. Lily. Gone.
He almost collapses with relief.
He automatically moves his hand back towards Potter but feels only cold sheets.
No.
Oh God, please no.
“Severus?”
He hears her properly this time. Voice clipped, trying to show strength but wavering. He doesn’t need to look but he does, forces himself to face the crushing truth.
When he meets Minerva McGonagall’s eyes, they are as afraid as he’s ever seen them. He wonders how long she’s been here. How much he had been thrashing about. Wonders when the healers had adjusted his daily regimen to remove Dreamless Sleep.
“Are you in pain?” she asks quickly.
But Severus can only stare and hate her for not being Potter.
Hate his clothes for still being on. Hate the chair for sitting unmoved in a corner. Hate his fucking skin for starting to tingle and itch as he realizes it’s now day… day… what day is it now? Of still being untouched?
Potter’s presence lingers impossibly, hovering like a whisper. Severus squeezes his hand into a fist just to feel his own fingers pressed against his palm. It’s something at least, but not nearly enough. How can it ever possibly be enough?
His breath hitches and in a moment of glaring clarity - inspired by Harry sodding Potter - he makes a decision.
He cannot live like this anymore.
“I will fetch a healer,” Minerva mutters, turning to leave.
“No!” Severus says firmly, his hand shooting out and weakly grabbing two of the elder woman’s fingers.
Minerva glances down, startled. She tracks the long, thin arm all the way up to the shaken, scarred man; his eyes desperate and pleading. A man who, as far as she is aware, even as a child would not tolerate the slightest touch. She swallows against the lump in her throat, straightens, and wraps both her hands warmly around the one Severus has offered.
Mercifully, he manages to keep it together; a soft exhale the only evidence of how completely her kindness unravels him.
He will not thank her, of course, but she would never expect or demand it. Instead, she simply summons the chair and sits quietly with him, longer than Severus could have ever asked for. Her hands are softer than Potter’s. Cool and steady. A lifeline. She returns the next day, and then the next. He’s never alone for long.
In the weeks that follow, he thinks of Potter. Expends far too much mental energy pondering why his mind assigned the boy to the role it did. Perhaps because of those initial whispers that The Chosen One was throwing his weight around to keep him out of Azkaban. Insufferable Gryffindor fool. Perhaps because Potter had been the last person to look into his eyes and truly see him.
In a way, he was the only person in years who had.
He will never thank him either, of course. But if by some ridiculous miracle he is spared Azkaban, maybe one day he’ll find himself in a position to repay Potter. The notion is so improbable as to border on the absurd, but Severus is nothing if not patient. Nothing if not resourceful. And suspects he has nothing left now but an abundance of time.
* * *
Author:
half_lightPairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Word Count: ~6603
Rating: NC-17
Content/Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Post-War, Dubious Consent.
Summary: As part of his post-war recovery, Severus Snape has to endure weeks of 'therapeutic massage.' Only when the healers finally leave him alone does he realise, for the first time in his life, how much he desperately needs contact and connection. Enter Harry Potter...
Author's Notes: This was inspired by 'Soft Touch' by the incredible
perverse_idyll, who was generous enough to let me write this. It is an unofficial prequel; my take on what might have led Snape to where he is in that story. I designed it to be as compatible as possible with the original, even though it may not appear that way at first glance :)Update:
perverse_idyll has now posted a rec here.Read at AO3
"I re-experienced what it was like not to be touched. I craved it… My body kept me awake at night, aching. By the end of a week it was as if I were starving. And I wondered why I'd had to live for so long without knowing I wanted this. How much I wanted this." ~ ‘Soft Touch’ by perverse_idyll
It is day seven and Severus thinks he must be dying. The last of Nagini’s venom still lingers and partial paralysis halts movements desperate to erupt from him. The longing to twist, curl or stretch like a cat against rough sheets has become a frantic, obsessive compulsion. It is inconceivable that limbs buzzing with such fraught kinetic energy could remain still. He wonders if he’s been drugged. Wonders if the paralysis is mental, rather than physical. Wonders at the irony of the grotesque body that has always felt like a cage, finally, literally, becoming his tomb.
After weeks, perhaps months, of being subjected to the torture of so-called ‘therapeutic touch’, finally the healers relented and he had been left alone. The first day without hands pawing over every inch of his body was bliss. Day two, marked by a curious but manageable discomfort. On day three, the first embers of panic emerged. Day four saw the collapse of his infamous self control, and days five and six were an indistinguishable blur of agonising need.
Now day seven, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries, through sheer force of will, to calm down. The anxiety is only making it worse, Severus knows this. Understands the cold, hard logic of it. Yet for the first time in nearly two decades, not even Occlumency can save him. There are no walls. His mind is like water. Every hysterical thought, every damnable fucking feeling swirling round and round, trapped without escape until there is nothing else. Nothing but emotion and weakness.
Minutes become hours, every second stretching out until he’s sure the bag of liquid nutrients being hung on his intravenous drip is dinner rather than breakfast. How can it still be morning? How can that be the sun if its warmth seems to merely rest upon, rather than penetrate Severus’ skin?
Is it still skin if it doesn’t feel? Does it feel? He can no longer be sure. The last time he rubbed two fingers together he felt nothing. No spark. No relief. Nothing.
He can no longer remember if there is supposed to be a spark.
Perhaps if he’d had more than a few paltry weeks worth of memories. Perhaps if he’d been more accustomed to it… if he hadn’t recoiled from every offering of fingers, lips, skin. Perhaps if there had ever actually been an offering. Even one, just one. Maybe then the ghost of it wouldn’t have left him so quickly, evaporating to nothing after seven days.
He no longer fixes on the ceiling when the clinic’s nurses sweep in and out. He stares at them. Stares and stares and silently dares them to meet his eye. One has the decency to cast a brief gaze across his body (from the neck down) - all good, everything in working order – before leaving without comment and Severus wants to scream.
He doesn’t. He can’t complain. At least she acknowledged the existence of a person on the bed. It reassures him he’s actually here. He clings to the feeling and is sure it will carry him for days.
* * *
It is day twelve and Severus wonders whether he was ever really here.
Perhaps Nagini’s venom killed him after all. Perhaps he is stuck in between worlds. Perhaps Albus will come for him now.
No one is coming for him now.
He passes the time by searching for cracks on the walls and ceiling. The large ones call to him, only the smaller ones prove a challenge. He examines every inch, cataloguing each tiny line, each faint gash. Even buildings have scars, it seems. He wonders what caused these, dreams up scenarios of increasing violence and brutality. Anything to deny the obvious: the simple cruelty of time.
There is a creeping numbness and he wonders if the human body merely requires a detox from touch. Maybe he’s through the worst of it now and his skin will harden back into the unfeeling shell he’s long been accustomed to, granting him a blissful sort of mercy.
His chest seizes at the thought and he decides the only mercy he’ll accept is death.
* * *
It is day fourteen.
Fourteen.
* * *
It is day sixteen.
He stares all morning at the needle pouring life-saving potions into his veins.
Without them the paralysis would metastasize, infecting every inch of him until even his heart stilled.
He stretches a finger gently. It’s painful, labored, but there is definite improvement. With concentration he can lift a whole arm. Extend it all the way to the other arm.
He stares all afternoon at the needle pouring life-saving potions into his veins.
It would be so easy.
He’s still too much of a fucking coward.
* * *
It is day…?
* * *
It is dusk. The bewitched lamp has malfunctioned, neglecting to switch itself off. Eventually, its dull yellow glow mingles with the moonlight and Severus envies their entanglement. As though they are living creatures. As though their togetherness makes them more alive than him. The sight makes his chest ache and his eyes burn. He almost reaches a hand to the place where the two strands collide but stops himself. A futile grasp into the void would do nothing but intensify the hopelessness pulsing through him with callous ferocity.
The potions pump themselves now. Magic. No human element required. It is everything he’s ever dreamed of. Total solitude. Total peace. He wonders if he can force death by holding his breath. He can vaguely recall hearing the body has mechanisms to guard against such attempts, but perhaps it’s worth a shot.
He can’t remember how many days it has been and fixates instead on how many days he’s been alive. How many days he was able to successfully delude himself into believing his small life was enough. The security of cold dungeons. The ease of denial. The numbness of isolation. The deprivation of touch. The comprehensive and absolute rejection of every aspect of his own humanity.
How many days, months, years, had he chosen to live as a something inhuman? How many decades had he supplanted compassion with shame? It seemed a logical idea at the time, after all, shame was organic and replenishable. Shame needed only the self to survive and thrive.
He could not have endured any other way, he reasons. As though he is still capable of reason. As though he is still a human being.
If touch had been his fuel, he would have shriveled up decades ago. A life that burned fast and bright, ending at twelve years old. Or was it eleven? He can no longer recall the feel of her hand in his. Would it have made any difference, in the end? Could anything have been worse than this shocking gut punch of realization that he has deprived himself of a life?
* * *
It is – oh who fucking cares.
* * *
It is sunset. It is beautiful. It is devastating.
He wonders if he can cry with facial muscles that no longer quite work as they should.
He remembers he couldn’t cry even when they did.
He squeezes his useless eyes shut against the thundering swell of grief that threatens to overwhelm him.
He doesn’t require it anymore. His hypothesis had (naturally) been correct. Long stretches of time can now pass without a craving. Without some patch of skin screaming in neglect. Without his vigilantly controlled hunger rearing up into an uncontrollable roar.
Whole hours, even.
Now, if the healers were to return, offering palms and strokes and grounding warmth and that deep, exploratory caress –
No. He would decline.
Never again.
He ignores the click of the door. It's never important.
Ignores the ripple of wind against his hand that suggests robes more elaborate than the usual mediwitch attire. Ignores, ignores, ignores, eyes still closed, determined to guard against even the slightest twinge of hope. If he tries very hard he can suppress it, extinguish it before it sparks and takes flight.
That particular skill returns like muscle memory.
He hears his name but he must be hallucinating because he knows that voice and that voice cannot possibly be here.
He hears it again, closer, calling to him. A whisper that wavers and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t do this, and he won’t do this but it’s his name and he’s so desperately tired of drowning in this deafening damnable fucking silence and –
Who is he kidding?
So like a fool, like a weak, starved fool, he opens his eyes and lets the black find the green, glistening down at him in the setting sun.
His chest, his stomach, his everything collapses inward, as though struck by a giant's fist. And it doesn’t matter that his throat constricts or that he can’t breathe because their eyes are locked together and his whole body vibrates with the exquisite, agonising ecstasy of being seen.
Potter’s brow twitches in concern but, despite the indignity of it, Severus doesn’t look away. Not yet. No matter how loudly his brain screams the directive; no matter how potent his mortification at Potter’s obvious pity becomes. No. He drinks in those eyes, drinks in the connection for as long as the boy will allow.
“Are you ok?” Potter asks in a voice so small, so achingly gentle Severus almost bursts into tears.
He is suddenly extremely thankful for the mild facial paralysis.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Doesn’t trust what truths might come tumbling out. So he says nothing, cursing his feeble impotence and hating himself more and more until the venom of it threatens to choke him.
“I just wanted to… see how you were doing,” Potter begins, shuffling with an awkwardness he hadn’t expected from The Boy Who Lived And Died And Lived. “I came by a couple of weeks ago, but…”
But the sight of me is so sickeningly monstrous not even the bravest Gryffindor can stomach it, Severus suspects.
Looking exhausted, Potter runs a hand through his own hair and all of Severus’ suddenly stand on end. The way his eyelids briefly dip as skin connects with the coarse, black strands sends a rush of something through Severus and for a second he is weightless, his body dissolving beneath him.
He has to look away.
“I guess I just wanted to say thank you. For… you know.”
An entire life. Distilled into… "you know."
“You look really uncomfortable,” he says suddenly. “Are you uncomfortable?”
And there it is again. The lump in his throat and the sting in his eyes and oh god the sharp twist of panic as the boy rises and fuck he’s coming closer and stretching an arm across Severus’ face and what the hell is he doing…?
It is innocent enough, a gentle shift of his pillow, nudging it into a more supportive position. Whether it’s the compassion of the gesture or the startling proximity of Potter’s body as he reaches over him, he’ll never know. He’ll never know because his lungs, full to bursting with held breath, virtually explode in an exhale so sharp Potter lurches backwards, alarmed.
Severus freezes, unblinking eyes locked on the ceiling. Anywhere but on the boy no doubt staring in confusion and… and pity. His gut twists, and as his brain begins to process what just happened, a wave of nausea sweeps through him.
“Snape?” The small, gentle voice is back and this time it nearly breaks him in two.
“Get… out,” he rasps in a hoarse, barely recognizable whisper.
Silence. Then: a rustle of robes, the twist of a door handle, and eventually… nothing.
For a moment Severus thinks he is gone and is hit by twin tidal waves of relief and regret. The warring emotions threaten to drown him until the boy creeps back into his peripheral vision. He somehow manages to suppress a whimper that curdles in his throat. With no options left, he steels himself with the kind of false bravado he despises in others, and turns to meet Potter’s eyes.
The boy stares and stares, inquisitively, probingly, until Severus almost withers under the intensity of it. Eventually, he lifts a hand and tentatively extends it until it's hovering just above Severus’.
Severus’ heart leaps into his throat and he wrenches his hand away, flashing the boy an expression he hopes is full of rage and warning. It doesn’t appear to have the desired effect because Potter simply gazes deeper, more curiously, and Severus’ blood pounds so violently through his veins it leaves him lightheaded.
“I’m not sure I can forgive you,” Potter says slowly, as though just now coming to the decision. “For Dumbledore.”
A shock of white-hot pain skewers Severus at the mention of the name.
“I mean, it’s not like the good I ended up doing makes up for all the people I got killed,” Potter reasons, monotone and detached.
After a moment, he blinks and seems to return to his body.
“I’m going to touch you now,” he says simply, his tone the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
No.
No no fucking no, Severus’ mind screams, even as every inch of his skin springs to life.
“No,” he growls, sounding pathetically weak.
“Snape –”
“NO.”
Panic now, as the hand draws closer. Terror, as his newly constructed walls, fragile as spun glass, threaten to shatter and come crashing down. Weeks of torture, of forcing himself to relearn how to exist without touch, and he knows he won’t survive that again.
He tries to recoil. Tries to shove his arm under the sheets but it won’t cooperate. It suddenly feels disconnected from the rest of him, almost trembling with longing and need.
When Potter’s hand lands, feather light, on his skin, Severus feels all his defenses collapse at once, crumbling like dominoes. When warm fingers curl around his arm, he stops breathing. He is as still as stone. All his energy, all his concentration tasked with keeping together the pieces of himself threatening to break apart.
“Breathe,” the boy instructs with a whisper.
Severus does. It comes in a fragmented, stuttering gasp, followed by an equally shaky exhale. He will not let his eyes fall closed. He will not. He will not.
“You know how I grew up, Snape,” he says quietly. “Do you really think I don’t know what it’s like to not be touched?”
Fingers crawl slowly up his forearm and Severus’ eyes promptly flutter closed.
The hand stills, except the thumb, which moves in tiny, soothing strokes. Severus feels tears pool behind his eyelids and battles desperately to regain control. When another hand settles firmly on his shoulder, its warmth bleeding easily through his thin, clinic gown, he clutches a fistful of sheets; unclipped nails nearly piercing the fabric.
The palm on his shoulder begins a slow descent, drawing a line to his chest. And it’s too much and not enough and Severus wants to scream ‘stop’, but worries a plea to rip off his clothes might fall out instead. Best to say nothing. Best to remain still and focus on resisting the overwhelming urge to arch into the first touch he’s had in weeks.
A touch that feels different. Less clinical.
Harry Potter’s touch.
What the hell is going on here?
Both hands halt, and after a few moments, Severus is on the brink of squirming to force even the slightest friction. His eyes dart to Potter’s and find the boy staring down at his body with a peculiar expression.
Potter visibly swallows. Severus’ groin tightens.
Fuck. This is not happening.
Severus tries to shrug out from under Potter’s hands but he’s too weak and The Boy Savior is too damn strong. He glares up at him, trying to put some fire into it.
“Do you want this?” Potter’s voice is eerily toneless.
“No.”
In response, Potter nods. Nods.
“There are a lot of things I didn’t want either. I didn’t want to lose my parents. Or Albus. I didn’t want to have a target on my back, or a piece of Him inside my head.”
The grip on Severus’ arm tightens.
“I wanted to kill you. I wanted to hate you. I’m not sure I can do either anymore. But –”
Nails now, digging lightly into Severus’ chest.
“But this, I can do.”
It happens so fast Severus barely registers the wandless magic before his gown splits clean down the middle and parts, leaving his chest completely exposed. Even the hands are gone, leaving him breathless and bereft.
Potter winces at the sight and Severus wishes the bed was quicksand, knowing the dim light will do little to diminish the horror of his appearance. Deep lacerations hardened into thick scar tissue, the emaciation of muscle death, the ghost of bruises still unhealed, a neck so ravaged it seems only held together by twisted strings of red.
Monstrous. Barely human.
Self disgust bubbles to the surface and Severus feels himself shrink. Feels violated by Potter’s eyes. By his excruciating sympathy. He turns his head, unable to bear it.
That was a mistake because when warm fingers spread across his stomach, it happens without warning and Severus’ whole body jolts in response. He gasps before he can help it and his breathing shallows to quick, wild gulps.
“Look at me, Snape.”
He can’t. He won’t. He mustn’t.
He registers too late a hand reaching across him and delicately finding the soft skin of his cheek. Just three fingertips at first, barely detectable. Three fingertips and gentle pressure; the pull of his face towards the boy. At the moment their eyes meet, the hand flattens properly against his cheek and Severus’ world tilts. Nothing and everything makes sense and all there is, is this. This hand. Those eyes. The surge of comfort and relief so strong it can’t possibly be real.
“I know you said you don’t want this.” The boy says quietly, inching a thumb towards his lips. “If you say it again, I’ll stop.”
But Severus can’t think. Can’t focus. His eyes dart everywhere except at the face staring down at him.
“I do believe you when you say you don’t want it, Snape. But I also know why you don’t want it.”
Severus’ skin is burning. His limbs trembling. He tears his gaze from the ceiling and forces himself to meet Potter’s eyes. Daring him to continue. Daring him and all his presumptive arrogance. Daring him in a way that starts to feel more like a plea…
“It’s because you know you want it too much.”
Severus’ heart stops.
“And that terrifies you.”
Fuck him. Fuck him and his rudimentary textbook psychology. Fuck him for slicing Severus to the core and reducing him to a pitiful stereotype. Fuck him for being right.
His shame flares as Potter stares, all melancholy and understanding.
“Fuck you,” he manages.
Green eyes sparkle and lips curl at the edges.
“That wasn’t a ‘no’.”
Then the hand is back on his arm, this time dragging slowly upward and coming to rest on his newly bare shoulder and Merlin the gentleness of the touch rips something apart inside him. When it continues its ascent to find the back of his neck, his whole body shudders and his head drops to Potter’s hand, seeking it out, trapping it, pressing against it against himself like it can’t possibly be close enough. And he knows he’s given himself away but he doesn’t care so long as Potter never, ever lets go.
Right on queue, Potter withdraws and Severus feels the crush of humiliation; the white hot rage that comes with knowing he’s been played. The blinding certainty of it. The loathing reserved exclusively for the worst, weakest parts of himself and –
His spiral is interrupted by the feel of covers being pulled down, over his hips, thighs, feet, until he is splayed out, defenseless. Potter circles like a predator… a hunger in his eyes Severus wouldn’t have believed if he’d seen it in a Pensieve.
“The healer I spoke to said the team here touched you. Massaged you. Said it helped with your recovery.”
He wraps his hands around Severus’ left foot and needles the arch with firm fingers. Severus stiffens.
“That must have been… interesting… for someone like you.”
Severus only barely resists the urge to kick him.
“How long has it been though?” he asks quietly. “How long since anyone did this…”
The hands press firmly up his calf, and return downward with a gentle stroke. The resulting full body shiver answers the question effectively enough.
Potter turns his attention to the other leg. He has no idea what he’s doing, that much is clear. Has likely never even received a massage, much less given one. But he’s here. He’s here and real and warm and talking to Severus as though he exists.
And that’s all it takes, apparently. That’s how pitiful I’ve become.
Potter’s hands stop immediately, as though he’s heard the thought, and Severus wonders for an insane moment whether vanquishing the Dark Lord somehow granted him a gift for Legilimency. Before he has time to properly curse his ridiculous paranoia, Potter moves around the other side of the bed… close, closer, until they’re eye to eye and Severus can almost feel the heat of his breath.
With a steady hand, Potter delicately scoops up a few strands of hair and tucks them behind Severus’ ear. He does it slowly, fingers deliberately stroking skin. It is the most platonic of gestures yet somehow, it sets all of Severus’ nerve endings alight. He wants to grab the hand, touch it, press it against his face, take a finger in his mouth and –
The back of Potter’s fingers caress his venom-smoothed, sunken cheeks. It feels softer than his palm, more intimate somehow, and Severus fights to maintain eye contact because Gods he needs it. And Potter seems to understand and Severus hates that he understands but is appallingly grateful that he does.
With his eyes still locked on Severus’, Potter’s hand wanders casually down his chest… his stomach… finding the waistband of briefs far too loose, practically inviting exploration by curious fingers. When the hand burrows gently under, finding a line of coarse hair and desperately sensitive skin, Severus presses his head back against the pillow, eyes flying wide, and tries to remember how to breathe.
“P- Potter…” he chokes.
“Shhh.”
Fingers skate over a nipple and he gasps sharply. Then, there is a gentle pinch and pleasure ripples through him. Its clear Potter is experimenting, his untrained hands being guided by Severus’ reactions. At the flick of a nail, Severus hisses, but before he can recover, soft lips wrap around his nipple in a light kiss.
His mind all but shuts down, unable to process what is happening. Unable to fathom being touched at all, let alone like this. He tries to remember the last time or if there even was a last time, but the thought evaporates because Potter’s lips part and his nipple is engulfed by startling wet heat. A strangled moan bursts from him, shattering any delusions of control. Potter licks, sucks and teases the nipple with his tongue before gently biting down. Severus arches uncontrollably as a wave of blinding lust shoots straight to his groin.
Breathing heavily, he manages to steal a glance at Potter and finds the boy staring up at him, mesmerized. He quickly goes to work on the other nipple and Severus isn’t sure how much more of this he’ll be able to stand. The explosion of sensation, the insane pull of arousal, but mostly the tenderness. The tenderness that is unexpected and incomprehensible and crushes his chest with an ache that seems to build and build with no hope of release. It is more than loneliness, sharper, more piercing than need. But Merlin he needs. He needs and needs and needs and without thinking reaches down to Har- Potter and pushes long fingers greedily into his hair.
Potter’s head is warm and comforting under his palm. He longs to twist his fingers, tug at clumps of black but he can’t seem to surrender the feel of skin on skin. The light tickle as he mows a path through the thick waves. That Potter allows it as he works at Severus’ chest is staggering. Mutual touch. Reciprocal touch. It is so foreign a concept Severus’ breath hitches and he pulls the boy closer still; grasping at his shoulders, drowning suddenly under a surge of emotion.
When Potter comes up for air, Severus almost growls at the loss. Their eyes meet and the green ones blaze with empathy. Severus actively searches for disgust, for shame – not in the boy but within himself. Searches frantically for some recognizable sign of the man he knows himself to be, but it’s as though he’s been hypnotized. Perhaps he has. Imperius? No, there is no calm, no peace. His mind is an inferno of questions and desperation.
Potter is moving upward. It takes Severus far too long to discern his intent despite the trajectory being crystal clear. Even then, denial takes hold. He is as still as death as the boy – for god’s sake, the young man – bends to bring their faces less than a whisper apart, lips almost touching. His breath is warm, sweet, intoxicating… like it could breathe life into the damned… and every fiber of Severus suddenly knows something terrible and irretrievable will be lost in surrender.
“No!” he blurts, panicking, twisting his head away.
The only sound for a moment is his breathing, rough and shallow, catching on ruined vocal chords. Finally, Potter eases his head back around and places a soft kiss on his forehead. Severus, transported to a childhood he never had, closes his eyes with a sigh. The lips return, leaving excruciatingly tender kisses on his eyelids, then his neck. When fingers begin gently exploring his scars, Severus finally snaps.
“Why?!”
Potter blinks at him.
“Why what?”
Severus glares. He would rather die than verbalize a response but can’t stop it from bubbling up in his mind. Why are you doing this? How can you stand it?
And then it hits him.
He forces himself to examine Potter. To really examine him, and only then does the reality become horrifyingly clear. Only then is the empathy revealed as contempt. The kindness exposed as pity.
His gut twists as Potter effortlessly waves away his briefs, leaving him completely naked… and as a hand wraps around his cock, he’s forced to bite back a scream. His mind wails in futile resistance as pleasure slices through him. He sees it now. The disgust on Potter’s face as he strokes him. The deadened expression as he forces himself to touch the monster who killed his mentor.
Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?, he thinks stupidly. Mentors are supposed to kill the monsters.
Severus feels sick.
This is his punishment. Not Nagini’s venom. Not the paralysis. This. Touch fueled by a twisted sense of duty. Cold-hearted disdain masquerading as compassion.
This is torture.
Exquisite, mind-blowing torture.
Potter’s relentless hand picks up pace and little pockets of pleasure explode at every corner of his body. The hand is gentle but firm, delicate but strong. Teasing. Taunting. Delighting in reminding Severus how utterly helpless he is. Every time he slows, Severus is hit with a hysterical urge to beg… beg for pressure, beg for friction. It’s as though Potter is daring him and he cannot, will not, give in but fuck he needs more. He can barely stand it already but he needs more, right fucking now, because this is it. This is all there is and will ever be. The moment that hand leaves his skin it will never return and none shall follow. Severus will be plunged back into the living hell of existing on some other world just out of sync with this one where he is invisible… where he is stared through or recoiled from… where the idea of anyone looking at him the way Potter did earlier is a flight of fancy so absurd simply entertaining it could drive him mad.
Potter blows lightly on the tip of his cock and he just about goes to pieces, thrusting up involuntarily with a hiss. Burning with humiliation, he resolves to stifle any further sound, refusing to give Potter the satisfaction. But a part of him knows his rage is unfounded. Unfair even. After all, this makes sense. This is right. Potter is simply lavishing him with the touch he so desperately wanted in the only way he’d ever accept it.
It is no more or less than what he deserves, and pierces him exactly where it should. In his chest. In the space vacated by his heart.
Or perhaps between the cracks of his shredded soul.
Before long, and despite all efforts to the contrary, he begins to unravel under Potter’s hands. Unable to look at him, he tries closing his eyes. But with the world plunged into darkness Severus only feels more unhinged, more out of control. So he forces himself to stare at the boy. To meet the humiliation head on, stubbornness and pride twisting into the usual mask of scorn. Potter gazes back as though he can see straight through it, and without breaking eye contact, lowers his head and… licks.
Severus cries out and grips the bed sheets.
"Ohh… fuck…"
He jerks violently, rapidly losing any capacity for coherent thought. More, he wants to scream, wants to beg. The torture of the past few months, preceded by the unrelenting hell of the past two decades boils inside him, flooding his whole body with fury, and he thrusts into Potter’s hand again and again as though trying to exorcise all of the guilt, hate and grief.
Somehow he notices Potter’s breathing is just as ragged as his own, his pupils just as blown, his hair matted over his scar with sweat. Something clenches around Severus’ heart, and when Potter licks his lips and stares hungrily down at him, as though the sight of Severus’ body might not repulse him to the core, Severus loses it. He reaches up and grabs for him, tugging greedily at his robes, trying to pull him down. Desperate for more contact. Aching for something, anything, real.
"Please," he whispers, suddenly inexplicably close to tears.
Potter obliges and stretches across him awkwardly, a heavy weight against his bare chest. Severus moans like a pathetic fool but can’t bring himself to care. Nothing else matters but the feel of Potter pressed against him. Potter’s free hand twisting through his hair, caressing his scalp, while the other hand jerks, strokes and squeezes until Severus’ groin is practically screaming for release.
He clings to and claws at Potter’s body, trying to fuse them together while he still can. When Potter’s head nuzzles against his neck, when his lips plant a line of kisses for his tongue to double back and trace, Severus knows he is lost. With one final desperate thrust, he’s coming apart in Potter’s hands, climax ripping through him with blinding intensity.
He lays very still as Potter performs a quick cleansing spell and pulls the covers gently back up. He watches him, in a daze, noting for the first time the confidence in the way he moves, the eyes that look so much older. Severus’ body is still tingling, still vibrating with aftershocks, and his heart refuses to slow because he knows it's over. In a moment, Potter will be gone and Severus will again be alone. Alone. Alone.
There is a loud scrape as Potter drags a chair towards the bed and, to Severus’ astonishment, sits. A jolt of elation is quickly chased off by dread because of course Potter wants something. Expects something in return for… whatever the hell that was.
He waits. Wondering whether it will ever be enough. Whether his debts will ever be considered paid. Whether he will ever… ever… truly be –
Potter slips his hand under Severus’ and wraps his fingers around the thin, bony ones. It is so unexpected Severus’ eyes dart immediately towards the sensation. There is no further movement, only the simple comfort of connection. Of being held.
Eventually Potter does shift, gently turning Severus’ arm outward and exposing his Mark; faded, but no less stark against the shadows of the room. Severus isn’t sure at what moment the evening sun fled, but its absence now seems fitting. Severus thinks of the moon. The sky. Severus thinks of anything to avoid thinking about Potter’s fingers tracing the lines of his Mark. He wants to yank his arm away. Wants to hex the brat. Wants to fill him with Veritaserum and shake him and demand to know how it’s even possible to touch such a grotesque symbol with such… kindness.
Severus pulls weakly but Potter’s grip is too strong. He grunts in frustration, feeling a spark of panic.
“Don’t. It’s ok,” Potter says soothingly.
But it’s not ok and it will never be ok, and as Severus watches him stroke – up and down, again and again – his pulse quickens and he wants to slap the boy for having the audacity to trail his light over the darkest darkness. As though it could make some difference. As though some of it might bleed through the layers of scar tissue and infect him with goodness. As though he would ever want that. Would ever abide it.
Severus isn’t sure when his breathing got so out of control. Or how the ache in his chest swelled to the point of suffocating him. Or even when the first tear fell. He knows only that when Potter kisses his Mark, he wants to die. Please, please let death come. Anything to stem the avalanche of guilt, regret, loss, rage, and overwhelming grief.
“It’s ok, Snape. He’s gone. It’s over. You’re free,” Potter whispers. “We’re both free.”
And when he looks up at Severus, green eyes glistening, Severus feels something inside himself break.
Free.
“That is one word for it, I suppose.”
He almost doesn’t hear it, so lost is he in Potter’s eyes, but the voice is as clear as a bell. There is a smile in it and Severus doesn’t turn… won’t… can’t… clings instead to Potter, gripping his hand like an anchor to reality. But he can sense it… the other presence in the room. The feeling of being watched crawls over his skin until it’s unbearable.
“Potter,” he whispers shakily.
But all Potter does is curl his lips in an empty smile and repeat,
“We’re free.”
This time the silence is shattered by a bright, loud, woman’s laugh and Severus feels the bed, the floor, the earth even, disappear beneath him. He shakes his head, distraught.
“Snape? What is it?”
But if he says ‘ghosts,’ if he says ‘Albus,’ if he says ‘your dead mother,’ he’ll only sound mad. So he says nothing, gripping Potter tight enough to fracture bone.
“Severus?”
Though Potter’s mouth moves, Albus’ voice comes out and Severus flings the boy’s hand away as though he’s been burned. He whips his head around and sure enough, at the foot of the bed is long silver hair beside vibrant red. Both impossibly opaque, nothing like ghosts. Both dead… both alive… both here. Severus’ blood turns to ice.
Lily smiles.
Albus twinkles.
And Severus screams.
“Severus…”
Potter repeats his name over and over, trying to break through, but Severus can’t trust it because Severus is not his name. Severus is the name of a friend, an ally. Severus died along with those grinning ghouls dragged from the afterlife to torment him. To remind him there’s no such thing as free.
“Severus?”
He tries to block it all out, throw up his walls, but it’s no use. He can’t retreat into a mind he no longer wants to take refuge in.
“Severus?!”
Retreat is a return to isolation. Invisibility. Retreat is torture. Retreat is not an option. Retreat is his only option…
“SEVERUS SNAPE! OPEN YOUR EYES THIS INSTANT!”
His eyes fly open, only to be blinded by… blazing sunlight?
He squints, confused. Blinks.
Albus. Lily. Gone.
He almost collapses with relief.
He automatically moves his hand back towards Potter but feels only cold sheets.
No.
Oh God, please no.
“Severus?”
He hears her properly this time. Voice clipped, trying to show strength but wavering. He doesn’t need to look but he does, forces himself to face the crushing truth.
When he meets Minerva McGonagall’s eyes, they are as afraid as he’s ever seen them. He wonders how long she’s been here. How much he had been thrashing about. Wonders when the healers had adjusted his daily regimen to remove Dreamless Sleep.
“Are you in pain?” she asks quickly.
But Severus can only stare and hate her for not being Potter.
Hate his clothes for still being on. Hate the chair for sitting unmoved in a corner. Hate his fucking skin for starting to tingle and itch as he realizes it’s now day… day… what day is it now? Of still being untouched?
Potter’s presence lingers impossibly, hovering like a whisper. Severus squeezes his hand into a fist just to feel his own fingers pressed against his palm. It’s something at least, but not nearly enough. How can it ever possibly be enough?
His breath hitches and in a moment of glaring clarity - inspired by Harry sodding Potter - he makes a decision.
He cannot live like this anymore.
“I will fetch a healer,” Minerva mutters, turning to leave.
“No!” Severus says firmly, his hand shooting out and weakly grabbing two of the elder woman’s fingers.
Minerva glances down, startled. She tracks the long, thin arm all the way up to the shaken, scarred man; his eyes desperate and pleading. A man who, as far as she is aware, even as a child would not tolerate the slightest touch. She swallows against the lump in her throat, straightens, and wraps both her hands warmly around the one Severus has offered.
Mercifully, he manages to keep it together; a soft exhale the only evidence of how completely her kindness unravels him.
He will not thank her, of course, but she would never expect or demand it. Instead, she simply summons the chair and sits quietly with him, longer than Severus could have ever asked for. Her hands are softer than Potter’s. Cool and steady. A lifeline. She returns the next day, and then the next. He’s never alone for long.
In the weeks that follow, he thinks of Potter. Expends far too much mental energy pondering why his mind assigned the boy to the role it did. Perhaps because of those initial whispers that The Chosen One was throwing his weight around to keep him out of Azkaban. Insufferable Gryffindor fool. Perhaps because Potter had been the last person to look into his eyes and truly see him.
In a way, he was the only person in years who had.
He will never thank him either, of course. But if by some ridiculous miracle he is spared Azkaban, maybe one day he’ll find himself in a position to repay Potter. The notion is so improbable as to border on the absurd, but Severus is nothing if not patient. Nothing if not resourceful. And suspects he has nothing left now but an abundance of time.