Two Waltzing Mice.

[pekeleke]

Title: Two Waltzing Mice.
Author: pekeleke
Rating: R for language.
Pairing(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter.
Challenge: Written for Harry Potter's birthday party:  #a very harry birthday 2020
Word Count: 19K+
Content: Strong Language.
Disclaimer: The characters, setting and the HP franchise as a whole are owned by JKR and not by me. I make no profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.
Summary: "Harry," Potter says, and when Severus blinks at him uncomprehendingly, the git dares to grin smugly and clarifies, "If you've got the hots for me, then you better start calling me Harry, Snape. No lover of mine calls me Potter."
A/N:Written in celebration of Harry Potter's birthday. Have a lovely day, Harry! ❤️

Two Waltzing Mice.

You've been beaten up, slapped,

shot full of hop until you were as crazy as two waltzing mice;

now let's see you do something really tough, like getting up.

                                                                                    Phillip Marlowe.

Severus is enjoying his weekly lunch with Draco in the rather lovely muggle bistro that sits across the street from the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. The general area has been the focus of some sort of muggle regeneration program in the past two years. The previously boarded-up buildings have been repaired, repainted and re-purposed so that now the entire street positively smells like Molly Weasley's hovel, twinkles with loud laughter and hushed conversation, shines with blindingly clean and infuriatingly eye-catching window-displays, and bustles with so much activity that Severus had been forced to cast a very subtle Confundus on an unsuspecting muggle twit to secure their usual table upon his arrival.

It's been a headache of major proportions to keep the muggles' grabby paws out of the Ministry building, so much so, that the minister ended up changing the illusion on the facade of the Ministry to reflect a set of offices for a new and obscure branch of the muggle British Treasury, thus ensuring that no self-respecting muggle would feel inclined to venture inside. It's not like any self-respecting wizard —or at least a properly self-respecting Slytherin like himself— often feels inclined to venture into the building either. That's where Severus' opinion currently differs from Draco’s to the point of irreconcilable differences.

Nobody —aside from Lucius himself— had been more shocked than Severus to learn that his precious prodigy of a future potioneer, and beloved godchild, had lost his mind entirely during his mandatory "Eighth Year" at Hogwarts. Draco had decided to befriend Harry Potter, of all people, and allowed that meddlesome Gryffindor to fill his impressionable little head with the preposterous idea that becoming an auror would be 'fun.' Severus can't imagine what in Merlin's name could possibly be fun about spending the entire day hunting down petty criminals, witless thugs, and half-deranged morons afflicted with the delusion that they have what it takes to be Dark Wizards. Furthermore, the notion of enduring the unspeakable torture of remaining trapped inside a little windowless office with Harry Bloody Potter, working diligently on the thankless task of filling veritable mountains of pointless paperwork makes Severus shudder from head to toes every time he thinks about it.

Initially, Severus had attempted to reason with Draco, but his godson had steadfastly refused to see sense. Eventually, he had no other option but to smile in resignation and accept Draco's harebrained decision. At least, the boy seems happy, which is the only silver lining in the entire ghastly debacle.

While Draco is in the middle of a rather entertaining description of a recent raid, Severus' wand starts vibrating inside the pocket of the muggle jacket he’d bought a year ago for the specific purpose of wearing it to these lunches. Instantly, Severus becomes tense and rakes the immediate vicinity with the most thunderous and unapproachable glare in his arsenal.

Draco pauses in his story-telling, elegant blond brow rising in confusion. "Are you alright, Severus? Is something the matter?" he asks, turning around in his chair with the lack of subtlety auror training should have pummeled out of him, and making a big production of craning his head left and right. Severus does his best to avoid rolling his eyes, but it's a struggle.

Draco has just turned around to face him once again, and is in the process of opening his mouth to tease him about his paranoid tendencies, when lo and behold, Potter walks out of the Ministry building and crosses the street, just as he's done every single week for the last six months. Severus grits his teeth so hard that the muscle at the side of his jaw starts twitching. Draco freezes mid-motion, frowns in confusion, and then follows Severus' darkening gaze towards Potter, who has just walked into their little bistro, and is about to wave at them idiotically from the doorway. Predictably, Potter does exactly that before making a beeline for their table, and Severus just knows that the Gryffindor is also about to take the empty chair beside his. Furthermore, Potter will dare to insert himself into their conversation without bothering to ask first if he is welcome, which he is most certainly not. At least not as far as Severus is concerned.

"Out on break, Harry?" Draco greets his auror partner cheerfully, as soon as the abominable pest plonks his rear on the aforementioned extra chair.

"Gosh yeah! I needed to put some distance between myself and the Lamberths' file case. Can you believe it's already forty pages long, and I'm only halfway through? All that writing gave me a cramp. Look!" Potter, who has been haphazardly scrunching up the sleeve of his uniform while bombarding them with the unwanted information, now shakes his tanned and muscular arm in their faces, flapping it about like he's having a seizure. Repulsive.

"Oh, poor baby!" Draco coos, patting down Potter's arm comfortingly while Severus remains stiff and unimpressed. All those deliciously corded muscles and Potter has a cramp from writing forty pages? What a wimp. He should try grading 500 awful essays a night.

"Want me to rub a little of Severus' miraculous marjoram oil on it for you? He just handed me this month's supply." Draco continues, making the muscle already twitching wildly in Severus' jaw spasm in outrage. He brews all sorts of helpful tonics for his godson, and delivers them free of charge, out of a mixture of crippling worry and fatherly love for the thoughtless little brat. Severus feels none of those things toward Potter, and it galls him to realize that the savior has been benefiting from the fruits of his altruistic caring for Merlin knows how long.

"Potter can pay for his own tonic if he must, Draco. A measly fourth on an ounce bottle of Cramp-B-Gone oil will hardly last you the month if you share it willy-nilly."

"But yours is the best formula out there, and it's not on your shop's inventory, godfather. Harry went over to buy it once, and you told him you don't 'peddle mumbo jumbo.'" Draco sighs, pouting on behalf of his partner and narrowing his eyes at Severus in direct challenge. "I need him in good shape. Harry is the only backup I have out in the field, Severus. Wouldn't it be dreadful if some low-life managed to land a lethal hex on me because poor Harry's arm wasn't nimble enough to whip his wand out in time?"

"I bet Potter has no trouble at all nimbly whipping out his wand whenever the mood strikes him," Severus answers dryly and amuses himself watching the two of them choke on thin air and blink at each other with equally affronted and horrified expressions.

"That's er- not always the case, professor. Sometimes the mood strikes where wand-whipping isn't appropriate."

There's a silence, and Severus finally looks up at Potter's face to find the man staring at him with an odd and twitchy expression he doesn't like in the slightest. "I haven't been anyone's professor for the last six years." He grumbles, ignoring the rest of Potter's thoroughly improper response.

"You've got that mastery student working in your shop, don't you? I'd hazard you're teaching him something." Potter points out softly. His warm and minty-fresh breath fans the very tips of Severus' hair, making him stiffen even further. How dammed close are their chairs? The table they're occupying is small, but not so much they can't comfortably sit in their own personal bubble.

"Fine-tuning the skills of a mastery student has little to do with teaching, Potter. Buffington has already been taught everything he'll ever learn. All I'm doing is putting things into the right professional context for him." He explains, leaning back against the backrest of his chair and crossing his arms for good measure.

Potter smiles at him, a strained little offering that makes the Gryffindor look constipated. "I saw him at the pub the other day. He was drunk off his arse and singing your praises. Apparently, you're the best he's ever had."

"Harry!" Draco gasps, and, judging by the pained little jump that follows, kicks Potter in the shin under the table. Severus shakes his head and picks a cooling chip from his plate, hiding a smirk as he pops it into his mouth. It's good to know that Draco won't tolerate his partner's disrespect towards him. A wave of fatherly affection sweeps Severus' chest as his gaze settles on his godchild and sees none of Lucius' crazy in him. None of his own misanthropy either. Draco is the upgraded version of Narcissa at her most charming; if Narcissa had ever lost her mind and became inexplicably fond of a bunch of working-class, harebrained Gryffindors. At least Draco's new circle is doing wonders for the Malfoy reputation. Maybe it'll turn out that Draco's latest love affair with all things thoroughly insufferable and goody-goody is, in fact, a craftily devised strategy meant to reshape his tarnished fortunes. That'd be a feat of cunning worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself.

"I'm sorry. That was- indelicate of me." Potter grumbles, and a strange sort of nostalgia closes Severus' throat. He remembers Draco: tiny, red-faced, and thoroughly grumpy at having been chastised for his bad behavior, delivering that very same primly-worded apology to him under the weight of Narcissas' disappointed glare. Severus shrugs, refusing to look Potter in the eye despite knowing the savior has turned in his chair and is currently staring at him contritely. The entire left side of Severus' face and neck tingles with the awareness of that look.

"Now you've done it!" Draco growls and kicks Potter under the table one more time, no subtlety involved in this attack whatsoever. "Make yourself useful and go get us some tea, will you?"

Potter scarpers towards the serving counter like a well-trained pup, and Severus levels Draco with his most unamused stare. "What game are the two of you playing?"

Draco has the decency to look guilty but still lies through his teeth. "We're not playing any games, godfather."

"Are you claiming that Potter has managed to disrupt the last leg of our weekly lunches for six months in a row by coincidence?

Draco wiggles uncomfortably in his chair, it's a tell he's had since he was five. It means he's about to spout only a half-truth. "I care a lot about Harry."

Severus' eyebrow twitches upwards. He doesn't know what to do with that particular confession. This isn't the type of disclosure he'd been expecting, although, to be fair, he doesn't exactly know what that was. Draco chuckles sheepishly. "I know. He's a bit rough 'round the edges, but he's— He's a mate, Severus. He's got my back when it counts."

"So he's your friend, and you love him," Severus deadpans. "What does that have to do with me?"

Draco shrugs, clearly uncomfortable, and traces the wet ring growing steadily around his empty cup. "I love you too. I thought you knew that."

"I do," Severus says, frowning at the ridiculous notion taking shape inside his head. "Just because you love us both doesn't mean we must get along. Please, don't ask impossible things of me. Potter and I— there's a lot of bad blood there, Draco."

"Is it really so impossible? I thought he apologized to you, and you agreed not to hold the stupid shite he pulled off at Hogwarts against him."

"Agreeing to remain civil when we happen to coincide at one venue or another isn't the same as pledging friendship. Our lives rarely overlap. I never expected to see much of him after the trials."

"But that's not how it turned out, Severus. I am here, linking you. And you two are some of my favorite people on Earth. He's willing to befriend you. Why won't you meet him halfway?"

Severus sits there, stunned. He realizes Draco is trying to manipulate him, at least to some degree, but can't imagine what he'll gain out of it. Yes, the boy likes Potter. They'd been friends for almost six years by now, and auror partners for two. So what? That has nothing whatsoever to do with Severus. Having said that, he can't see a future where Potter isn't by Draco's side in some way. Maybe Draco has come to a similar conclusion and is trying to provide his auror partner with the most Gryffindor-friendly companion in his Slytherin circle. Severus knows for a fact that Lucius and the savior can't stand one another. It makes for rather entertaining dinner parties at the manor.

"Your mother likes him. Isn't that enough?" He grumbles, hearing the whiny tone that’s creeping into his voice and refusing to cringe in shame. He doesn't like Potter. He doesn't like the idea of playing nice with the man, either, and Severus no longer needs to hide his true feelings about anything, so he doesn’t bother.

Draco sighs. His eyes dart over Severus' shoulder, and Potter must be on his way back already because Draco leans slightly forward before whispering. "Of course, it's not enough. Mother is lovely, but she is— soft. Harry is a warrior, Severus. They'll never connect properly. Not like Harry and you could."

Severus' lips flatten into a narrow, whitish line. He doesn't like this. Potter isn't as obnoxious as he used to be, assuming one feels inclined to ignore the savior's general rumpled air, terrible hair, and sunny disposition that leads him to beam his bright smile at unsuspecting passersby wherever he goes, of course. Potter is a rare combination of gentleness, courage, and sincerity. He is also nauseatingly chirpy and overly friendly to everyone he encounters, as far as Severus can tell. Severus has no idea whatsoever of what to do with the likes of him. "I hate you, so much, right now," he finally vents, and isn't in the mood to put up with Draco's smug smile and satisfied response:

"No, you don't. You could never hate me, godfather."

"Pft!" Severus harrumphs, just as Potter plonks a self-filling teapot and set of cups on the table between them.

"All right?" Potter asks Draco pointedly, looping his trainer-clad foot around the leg of the extra chair and bringing it close enough to collapse inelegantly into it.

"All right," Draco says, gray gaze darting meaningfully toward Severus. 'Oh, the two of you are definitely playing games,' Severus thinks unhappily, and that is neither here nor there. They're auror partners, after all. What truly galls Severus is that he has no idea how or why they'd decided to involve him in whatever scheme they're cooking. Warrior Potter nonsense aside, Severus' existence is peaceful, if predictable, and he has no intention of allowing these two to mess it up.
 

---

 

Severus doesn't know why, but he adds Draco's marjoram infused muscle relaxant, alongside some of the other potions he regularly brews for his godson, to his store's catalog, and sends a small publicity pamphlet to the headquarters of the Auror and Unspeakable departments. Buffington looks at him askance when Severus tells him they'll spend the week building up a decent stock of their new wares, but is clearly delighted to be allowed to brew some of Severus' personally patented formulas, a privilege he hasn't been granted until now. Severus rarely sells his own inventions. He prefers to keep his newly developed charms and potions under wraps since they give him -and the select number of people he trusts with them- unprecedented, and often life-saving, advantage.

It takes around three days for news of Severus' stock additions to reach Potter's ears. He shows up five minutes before closing, just as Buffington disappears down the road. There hadn't been much left to do around the store and Severus, eager to retire to his upstairs flat and try his hand at making that new curry recipe he'd found on the latest Agatha Beeches' cookbook, had let him off early. Now he's stuck alone with Potter, who is prancing aimlessly around his shop, ruining his perfectly wonderful evening plans without so much as a by your leave.

"I was just about to close, Potter. You'll have more time to browse if you return tomorrow. My apprentice will be glad to assist you, then. We open at eight-thirty on the dot."

"But you haven't closed up yet. I've still got five minutes, don't I?" Potter wheedles. How uncouth.

"Five minutes won’t help you much unless you’ve already decided what you wish to purchase."

"You know exactly what I'm after, Snape. Why else would you have added those potions to your catalog if not to ensure I pay for my own supply and leave Draco's alone?" Potter huffs, stomping noisily forward, and it takes every bit of Severus' patience to refrain from rolling his eyes. Potter lumbers up to the counter, green eyes bright and unnecessarily determined, and plonks a pair of loosely-held fists atop the pristine mahogany surface. Severus stares at Potter, who stares right back at him, and swallows uncomfortably. Well, fuck, he's all alone in the store with the savior. No Draco to run interference. No Buffington around either. This hadn't been part of the plan.

"I take it you're here for the marjoram-infused muscle relaxant?" He inquires, as politely as possible. Selling the stuff is a good business decision. Still, he'd taken the step as an olive branch offering of sorts, something to appease Draco, and maybe even Potter. Something to convince them both that he'd thawed enough towards the Gryffindor that there is no need to keep engineering accidental meetings between them.

"I'd also like a jar of the blue burn paste, a bottle of the healing salve that smells like lavender, another one of the slimy green one that gets rid of nerve pain, and a vial of the disinfecting yellow powder thing that makes your skin tingle for thirty minutes after using it."

"My, my, Auror Potter, sounds like you've benefited immensely from Draco's generosity." Severus sneers.

Surprisingly, Potter doesn't answer him in kind. He stands there, all green eyes and hurt expression, looking for all the world like an unjustly kicked puppy for five minutes straight. Then, he whispers, "Draco said you'd promised him you wouldn't be horrible to me anymore."

Another silence settles between them at that point because Severus doesn't know how to respond. What makes Potter imagine that his puppy eyes have what it takes to make Severus feel guilty? What the hell does this brat want from him? He'd love to scoff, roll his eyes, and generally show how unimpressed he is with Potter's shenanigans but finds himself too lost staring at those pretty green eyes to follow his usual script. "I haven't been horrible to you since the trials, Potter."

"You haven't been nice either."

"I don't see why that should bother you."

"You wouldn't. You're too insular to care about what goes on outside your microscopically small circle."

Severus can't tell if he's just been insulted to his face or not. He is briefly horrified by the notion that Potter, of all people, may have become inscrutable enough to get away with such a thing. "You want in, I assume. Or at least Draco wants you there," Severus prods cautiously, and can't decide which of those options is worse.

"Yes. I want inside your circle. But not at your expense, Snape. If you're not on board with it, I can convince Draco to-

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! What's a polite, ten-minute lunch conversation every Friday in the big scheme of things? If Draco wants us to get along, then we shall strive to do so."

Potter shakes his head from left to right, shoulders slumped as he curls in on himself. It's a relatively open display of disappointed hopes that sticks in Severus' craw something fierce. It's perfectly apparent that he's failed to deliver whatever it is Potter came here looking for. So what? He's never managed to please anyone, so far. One more disappointed acquaintance will hardly break the mold, will it?

"Neither of us wants you out of your comfort zone, Snape. This isn't about sacrifice."

"What is it about, then?"

"It's about moving on and making connections. The war is over, and I— I don't think you realize how much I admire you. I'd like for-

Severs can't help the snort that escapes him. He hasn't heard anything more ridiculous since Millicent Bulstrode told him that she wanted to run away from home and train as a muggle ballerina during her second year at Hogwarts. Potter looks thoroughly affronted, though, so maybe it wasn't a joke.

"I'm not lying!" Potter hisses, and Severus is taken aback by the ferociousness of his tone.

"I never said you were." He replies calmly, attempting to prevent a full-on Gryffindor tantrum. Minerva does those spectacularly. Molly Weasley too. And, now that he thinks about it, Severus remembers that the teenage version of Potter could have given either woman a run for their money.

"We both know I've already said this, but maybe you need to hear it again: I'm sorry I hated your guts while I was in school, Snape. I'm sorry I believed you were Voldemort's toady. I'm sorry I called you a coward and tried to duel with you the night Dumbledore died, instead of questioning what was happening. I knew he trusted you above everyone else, and I should have seen it was mutual. In my defense, you followed his dammed script to the letter, and he meant to keep me fooled until the bitter end."

"Potter-

"The war is over. And we survived it. I need… I just- Please, let it be over. Please."

Severus shivers. His throat all but closes, and the back of his eyes begins to burn. He can't look Potter in the face. Has no desire whatsoever to see the shadows lurking inside his gaze. An awkward silence grows in the store as Potter stares at him pleadingly while Severus' eyes examine the darkening window over the other man's increasingly rigid shoulder. This is such a terrible conversation to have twice in one’s lifetime. Honestly! He'd had enough of it the first time around.

"If you give me a moment, I'll prepare your order," Severus says in the end. He's striving for normality, but his voice is soft and quiet, gentler than it has any right to be when directed at a mere customer. Or his godchild's auror partner.

Potter deflates. His eyes close in frustration, and Severus is thoroughly shocked to realize that he can't stand the man's air of defeat. He stalks towards the shelves containing the items Potter wants to purchase, frowning thunderously at each elegantly labeled bottle as he collects it and stashes it inside one of the store's monogrammed black pouches. "May I ask you something?" He inquires when he finally turns back to face Potter, and isn't very impressed with the man's decision to signal permission in the shape of an uncouth half-shrug. "What would you do with a 'connection' between us, Potter? It's not like we're close in age, share the same interests, or have similar aspirations. What links us, besides Draco?"

"I don't know yet," Potter replies unhelpfully, "Isn't that the entire point of connecting? We'll never know what we could become to one another until we give it a try. I'm game if you are."

Severus sighs. He's tempted to inform the brat that he doesn't play games and send him packing, but he did sort of promise Draco that he’d meet the savior’s overtures half-way. "I suppose we have nothing to lose," He concedes warily, ringing up Potter's order and laying the bill on the counter. Potter’s galleons tinkle against the polished mahogany as he counts them. Severus collects the coins and stores them carefully inside the till before looking up, not quite meeting the Gryffindor’s eyes, but almost there. Potter leans closer and whispers with a hint of ferocity:

"I've lost quite enough already. We both have. I no longer base my decisions on having nothing to lose, and neither should you. Maybe it’s time you think about that, Snape."

Severus has no idea how to respond, so he remains silent. Potter doesn't seem to mind. He walks away, monogrammed potion pouch in tow, stomping down the road as if he has complete control over every aspect of his existence. Maybe he does. Severus can't help but envy that type of unshakable self-confidence. It's an attractive trait. Mature. Admirable.

Now, he is impressed. 
 

---

Severus positively adores cappuccinos. They are a not so secret pleasure he loves to indulge in on quiet afternoons. Back when he was a Hogwarts professor, he'd had so much to prove. He'd been the youngest teacher the school had ever hired. He'd been barely twenty one and already in possession of both a checkered past and an uncertain future. He hadn't been able to afford showing a single weakness lest he'd be judged unfavorably by his colleges, the school board members, the students' concerned parents, and Wizarding society in general. In the end, most people had viewed him negatively and judged him accordingly, anyway. Not that he hadn't deserved it, or that he'd bothered to explain the plot he and Albus had hatched to destroy his already tarnished reputation for the greater good, but still.

The Second Wizarding War taught him to shrug his shoulders and say 'fuck you' to the world at large, and it's never-ending host of impossible expectations. Gosh, he'd never even been on vacation until he'd finally rid himself of the noose Hogwarts had tied around his neck for twenty long years. He'd never worn flip-flops on a French beach, spent half a day staring dazedly at a gorgeous muggle sculpture or managed to pull a hot stranger at a bar. He'd never danced in a nightclub until dawn, drunk on cheap beer and hard-won freedom. Never sang horribly off-key as he traipsed night-quiet cobbled streets on his way home. He'd never had any fun before the end of the war, and he'd been at death's door by the end of it. Even now, so many years later, that's the thought that wakes him up at night, nightmare-induced chills running down his spine. He could have died, died, before he'd ever lived.

Severus had gone a bit crazy after the final battle. He'd been desperate to live, desperate to experience as much as possible. He'd walked away from his trial and straight into a Portkey station. Had traveled the world for a while, done whatever insane thing had crossed his mind. He'd needed oblivion, absolution, adventure, and he'd gone looking for them. He'd found them all in unexpected places, enjoyed every instant immensely, and learned a lot about himself along the way. He'd grown tired of it eventually, for he's never been a man of casual pleasures, and now here he is, living as close a life as the one he wants for himself as humanly possible. Post-war Severus Snape isn't precisely an irresponsible hippie, but he no longer wastes his life on work alone.He may lack a romantic partner, but he has friends. He has his godson. Furthermore, he has his shop, and although he loves the pokey little place to bits, Buffington can take good care of it for an hour or two every afternoon while Severus sits in the coffee shop across the street and savors a cappuccino and a sinfully flaky fruit scone -or two- while tackling the daily crossword.

Severus is stuck on number three across, nine letters, when a shadow falls across his page. "You're blocking my light." He huffs without lifting his head, expecting it to be Buffington, coming to complain again about the weak color of his Earwax Removal Elixir. He is tired of telling the man to be more sparse with the Shrivelfigs, but the fool never listens.

"So it's true. You drink fru-fru coffee for real. Draco kept claiming you have a sweet tooth to rival his, but I was convinced he was pulling my leg." Potter says wonderingly, and Severus lifts his head in surprise.

"Potter! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be busy chasing dark wizards in garbage-filled alleys?"

Potter laughs, "It's my day off, Snape. Someone else can work their tails off while I enjoy the sunshine."

"Well, you're still blocking off mine, so I can't say I approve."

Shockingly, Potter laughs instead of huffing off in a strop, and shifts obligingly to the side. "He didn't put you up to this, did he?"

Severus frowns. "Who?"

"Draco. He's always telling all these unbelievable stories about you. I'm convinced the arsehole makes up at least half of them, but I can't tell which half. And now, here you are. Drinking that. It's a shock, you know? I'd have bet Grimmauld on the notion that you only ever drank tea."

"I drink tea." Severus points out warily. "It's just not the only beverage I enjoy."

"Is it true that you don't like red wine, then? I'd have thought you'd go for all sorts of posh stuff, but Draco claims you're more of a pint man."

"Why is Draco divulging such personal information about me? Don't the two of you have more important things to discuss, like which crooked wizard you'll be sending to Azkaban next?"

"Bah! We can only talk so much shop before it drives us crazy. We spend a lot of time on stake-out, you know? Talking about stuff is a great way to spend a cold and boring evening. Draco laughed so hard when I told him all about the Weasleys' gnome swinging competition that I thought the bloke we were tracking had heard us."

Severus blinks at the unexpectedly detailed reply, and the banter they've managed to sustain so far comes to a stop. They stare at one another in silence for a few awkward seconds before Severus realizes they're alone, together, for the first time since the other night's weird conversation. Had they agreed to 'connect' or not in the end? Is he now expected to make small talk with Potter? Merlin, how in the fuck is he going to get himself out of this?

"You're speechless. That's a first." Potter points out before Severus can come up with a plausible excuse to leave, and now he's damned if he is going to run back to the shop like a scared little rabbit.

"The two of you pass the time gossiping like teenage girls when you're on surveillance duty. There isn't much I can say to that, Potter." He manages to scoff. It's a rather weak riposte, but it's better than nothing, isn't it?

"Hmm," Potter says, and the ambiguity of such an answer shows more wit than Severus thought he'd have. He's intrigued now. Tempted into allowing Potter to invade the chair across from his by the power of that single, well-timed, hmm.

"I assume you wish to impose?" He asks bluntly, motioning toward the empty chair with the hand still holding his crossword.

Potter snorts but takes his seat so fast anyone would believe there's a veritable wild horde waiting to snatch it away from him. "You've got the weirdest way of inviting a bloke to tea, Snape. That sounded almost like you wanted me to refuse."

Severus shrugs. "Maybe I did."

Potter stiffens. "I can leave if I'm not welcome."

"What's the point? You're already here."

"The point is that there's a difference between me wishing you a good afternoon before going on my way and me taking a seat here, hoping to monopolize the next twenty minutes of your life."

"I could hardly begrudge you twenty minutes, Potter."

"And yet those twenty minutes are yours to spend, and they're never coming back. Why would you waste them, Snape?"

"Who said I would?"

"You?" Potter shrugs. "I can't tell if you mean it or not when you try to shoo me off. It drives me crazy."

"Merlin, Potter. Are you always this exhaustingly intense? Take a deep breath and let yourself be for a moment."

Potter chuckles sheepishly. "Sorry. Draco keeps asking me to chill, too. It's just that I'm— I want things. It's hard not knowing if I can have them. My friends tell me I've grown impatient in my old age."

"You were always impatient." Severus points out, remembering the hundreds of harebrained schemes the brat had run heedlessly into while he'd been at Hogwarts.

"It's getting worse," Potter claims, and Severus doesn't entirely fake the full-body shudder that rakes his frame as he replies wryly:

"Perish the thought."

Potter laughs once again. It's a bright, lighthearted sound that makes the auror's eyes twinkle with mirth. Severus doesn't know what to make of the equally lighthearted gladness that warms his chest upon hearing it. He's made Potter laugh twice in under five minutes, and it hasn't been that hard. Maybe Draco isn't entirely off his rocker. Perhaps it's possible for him to get along with Potter. Who'd have thought it?

Potter's amusement comes to a natural end, and they stare at one another in the small silence that ensues. Potter seems to be waiting for something, a sign, maybe. Or some form of verbal direction from Severus. It feels ridiculously strange to catch the Savior Of The Wizarding World consciously seeking his guidance. Against all common sense, Severus finds it flattering.

Coming up to a decision he sincerely hopes he won't live to regret, Severus lifts his free hand and waves the waitress forward. "Let's order a pot of Earl Grey to share, and a plate of blueberry scones. They're to die for, Potter." He offers calmly and, just like that, it is decided. They're doing this, after all. They’re going to sit here together and aim for a couple more laughs. They'll drink tea, enjoy the afternoon sunshine, and try to move on if they can. They’re going to give this weird connecting business a try.
 

---

Over the next few months, Friday lunches with Draco come and go without fanfare. Potter continues to arrive in time to intrude on the last fifteen minutes or so, but the interruptions don’t irk Severus as much as they used to. The three of them have a similar sense of humor, and Draco’s penchant for regaling Severus with hilarious descriptions of the criminals’ ridiculous shenanigans as they attempt to evade arrest has them in stitches more often than not. It’s nice, Severus thinks, being a group of three instead of two. He enjoys having a godson and a prospective new friend, instead of only the former.

Today the boys are buzzing with adrenaline leftover from an early-morning chase that took them all over Wizarding London and half the muggle side too. They’re grinning like a pair of lunatics and talking over one another in rapid bursts that become a jumbled mess of lighthearted jibes and half-completed sentences. Severus drinks his tea calmly, humming from time to time to show he’s paying attention, and feels grateful to his bones that he’s no longer in the position of having to supervise them. Merlin knows what antics they’ll get into once they’re back behind their desks since neither is in the right frame of mind to tackle paperwork at this point.

Draco steals the last half of Severus’ caramel and apple muffin, earning himself an unimpressed huff, and Potter decides to pout. “How come you get away with stealing from Snape’s plate when he’d hex me into next Sunday if I tried it?” He whines, and Severus can’t tell if he does so playfully or not, so he doesn’t dare intervene yet.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Draco drawls, playing the obnoxious pureblood heir to perfection, “Severus likes me better, since I’m his godson and all. You, on the other hand, are a skinny Gryffindor troublemaker. He’s never been fond of those.”

“I’m not skinny, you, git. I’m slender, like you.”

“And short, unlike me.”

“Hey! You’re taller by two inches. We’d be level if you hadn’t inherited that giraffe neck from your mother.”

“Stop that. Mother doesn’t have a giraffe neck and neither do I.” Draco throws a chunk of muffin at Potter only to stare at him in disbelief when Potter picks the slightly smashed treat off his shirt and eats it really loudly.

“Got some of Snape’s muffin, after all. That was yummy. Thank you, Draco.”

“Eww! That was effective but gross, Harry. Gross. You could have asked me for some if you wanted it that much,” Draco says sternly while Severus can’t decide if he’s more revolted or amused by their utter lack of manners. If this is the sort of shenanigans they get up to in a public place, Severus may never be ready to witness what goes on inside their office.

“You’d have eaten it faster, and you know it,” Potter accuses, “Last Monday Pippy dropped that huge chocolate cake on your desk, and-

“Merlin, stop complaining about that already. Haven’t I apologized a million times for eating it all?”

“I asked you for a piece. Twice.”

“Seriously, Harry, why are we discussing this again?”

“Because you ate all of it, you greedy git!”

“But it was my favorite. You know I love chocolate gateau, and Pippy’s is the best. Severus, help me out here, please. Tell him there’s no way I could have resisted eating every single crumb of Pippy’s black forest gateau.”

Potter turns towards him with a glare. “Don’t you dare take his side, Snape. He’s an evil chocolate hoarder, and he wouldn’t have shared regardless of the type of cake. He never does.”

“Of course he does. He used to give Bloffy’s pumpkin spice cakes to Theodore. It’s entirely possible he still does.”

“Theodore?” Potter frowns, confused.

“He means Nott, you prat.” Draco explains, whacking Potter lightly on the arm before continuing, “His house elves hate his entire family, so they never bake any goodies. Going to their place for tea is such a bother. There’s nothing but cucumber sandwiches as far as the eye can see.”

Potter chuckles. “Is that why you turn green every time I pack cucumber sandwiches for lunch?”

“Sandwiches for lunch are proletarian, Harry. There are a plethora of delicious, light meals you could pack instead.”

“Says the man whose house elves Apparate daily into the office at noon on the dot to deliver him a feast worthy of kings.”

Draco preens. “I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m a Malfoy, you git. We have standards.”

“Standards, pfft! You mean you’re a bunch of pretentious pricks.”

“Hey! Mother isn’t a prick.” Draco protests instantly, and Potter’s teasing expression softens.

“My bad, mate. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Draco shrugs off both the slight and its apology, and they grin at one another with the type of understanding Severus wouldn’t have bet they could achieve. He’s still marveling at how much their relationship has changed since their school years when Potter turns toward him with a curious smile, “What’s your poison for lunch, Snape?”

“Soup,” Severus replies succinctly, thrown off by his unexpected inclusion in the conversation. Potter blinks in bewilderment at the one-word answer and Draco bursts out laughing, the fiend.

“Ooookkkaaay,” Potter says, in a tone gone soft with surprising caution, “Soup. I can see that. Do you cook it yourself or do you have an army of dedicated house elves stashed somewhere?”

“I have nothing to my name other than my shop, Potter.”

“So you cook it yourself,” Potter says, dismissing the bluntness of Severus’ reply with incredible aplomb. “I bet you’re a good cook too. I mean you’re a potion master, yeah? That’s pretty much cooking round the clock.”

“Cooking has nothing to do with potion-making. One is a skill anyone with enough patience can learn, the other is both art and science.”

“Hmm.” Potter bypasses answering entirely by using that humming trick of his. Severus finds the tactic fascinating.

“Rumor has it you’re a decent cook yourself, Potter. Yet the same can not be said of your potion-making skills.” Severus persists.

“The odious muggles who raised him forced him to make their meals, godfather. Harry doesn’t care for cooking. He survives on takeaway and cold sandwiches. It’s unhealthy, expensive, and an utter disgrace.”

“What happened to Black’s elf?” Severus asks, ignoring the embarrassed ‘Oi!’ Potter directs at Draco. “Didn’t you inherit him along with Grimmauld Place?”

“Kreacher is at Hogwarts now. He’s much happier over there,” Potter explains, “He’s never been much of a cook anyway.”

“You need to find yourself a proper elf, Harry. I can give you the name of an agency that-

“Nope. That’s not happening. You know Hermione would kill me.”

“What if I give you one for your birthday?” Draco offers “That’s only a few months away.”

“Then she’ll kill us both,” Potter predicts glumly, and Severus watches in amusement as the two of them sigh despondently at exactly the same time. He wonders how many rehearsal hours it took to make that move look so seamless.

“Have you considered finding yourself a partner willing to take over the kitchen, Potter? That should solve your problem with no murdering involved,” Severus suggests, “Surely the Savior of the Wizarding World has no shortage of dreamy-eyed suitors.”

“If by suitors you mean stalkers then yes, I’ve no shortage of those,” Potter snarks, “It’s much harder to find an honest man who isn’t dazzled by the Boy Who Lived hype.”

“Pay no mind to Harry’s whining, godfather. He’s just bitter that his Mr. tall, dark and handsome hardly gives him the time of day.”

“You’d be huffy too if you’d been peacocking as hard as I’m peacocking, and the bloke of your dreams decided to go weak at the knees for bloody Buffington instead.” Potter snarls, giving Draco a kick in the shin, judging by his godson’s pained yelp.

“Buffington has an admirer?” Severus intervenes before any more violence occurs. He’d agree that Draco had deserved his auror partner’s kick, but there’s only so much of that sort of thing Severus will condone. He positively abhors watching Draco get hurt. It’s a hangup left over from the war.

“Yes.” Potter claims at the same time Draco scoffs “Of course not!” and Severus blinks at them in increasing bewilderment.

“Which is it then?”

“Obviously I’m right and Harry here is allowing a moronic bout of jealousy to cloud his otherwise excellent deductive skills,” Draco explains.

“I am not!” Potter denies hotly.

“Where’s your proof then?” Draco challenges, “Have you ever caught them snogging? Have you seen them together at a club, or a pub, or having a romantic dinner somewhere? Even better, have you ever spotted them going at it like rabbits in a smelly dark alley?”

“You know perfectly well that I haven’t,” Potter growls, and Draco rolls his eyes when the Gryffindor catches sight of Severus, blushes to the tips of his ears, chokes on evident embarrassment, and clams up tight.

“Harry-

“Don’t. Just- Don’t do this to me, Draco. Not in front of him.”

“I might be able to shed light on your mystery, Potter. Buffington is my apprentice, after all,” Severus offers softly, ignoring the feeling of hurt currently bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He realizes they’re not yet the best of friends, but to find himself so easily dismissed when their discussion turns personal is a slight he hadn’t been expecting. Potter looks him straight in the eye, there’s something so very pained and full of longing lurking in the depths of that green gaze that Severus feels he could drown in it. His heartbeat trips alongside his breath as the moment stretches into something that feels as if it could last forever with very little effort. Severus had almost forgotten the exhilarating touch of this type of magic.

“I’m not ready,” Potter says in the end, cutting their strange instant of communion, and Severus can’t tell whether the auror means he’s not ready to share the name of his crush or he’s not ready to find out for sure if the man is involved with Buffington or not. Severus supposes the why of it doesn’t matter much in the big scheme of things. Potter has decided to hold onto his hope, -or is it his ghost?- for a bit longer.

“Very well.” He agrees without further ado. There’s nothing else he can do, after all. On the other side of the table, Draco groans aloud.

“You’re so damned stupid, Harry,” he complains, disapproval dripping off every syllable.

“Draco, you can’t-

“Let’s leave it, Severus. Shall we?” His godson cuts his attempt to intervene on Potter’s behalf, “There’s nothing either you or I can do to ease this moron’s heartache today. He’s taken a coward’s way out, and now he must suffer the consequences. Come on, intrepid savior, let’s head back to the office. Our break ended ten minutes ago, and I’m not putting up with any of Dawlish’s shite for you today.”

Shockingly, Potter doesn’t protest Draco’s harsh handling. He stands up, still blushing to the roots of his hair, still embarrassed, and avoids Severus’ gaze as he whispers a forlorn goodbye. They walk away in the next second leaving behind their empty cups, the good mood and laughter they’d brought in, and the shattered remnants of Severus’ peace of mind.

He hadn’t imagined that almost-moment with Potter, had he? Gosh! He’s got the worst timing imaginable. How in the heck had he managed to stumble upon the realization that he finds Potter attractive a mere second after learning the man isn’t available?

Fuck it all to hell and back. He’s got the worst luck in the world when it comes to romance. And he’s damned tired of it. 
 

---

 
Realizing he could potentially develop the hots for Potter puts a significant damper on Severus' willingness to 'connect' with the man. He manages to find reasonable excuses to cut short his lunches with Draco for two weeks in a row, escaping their regular bistro with enough time to Apparate back to his shop before the Gryffindor shows up. To say that Draco is unhappy with this state of affairs would be akin to claiming Stonehenge is a piddly rock circle. Although Severus isn't precisely happy about disappointing his precious godchild, he's unwilling to walk down a path that could lead him straight into the uncaring arms of unrequited affection. He's been there, done that, and hadn't enjoyed it in the slightest. Some other deluded idiot can go in and get the shirt this time around.

Severus' attempts to pump Buffington for information prove fruitless. The man is gorgeous but simple. He's into potions, thimble collections, too-strong beers, pickled cabbage, and very little else. In desperation, Severus takes him to the pub one evening, buys him a very expensive imported German pint that apparently reminds the bloke of his hometown, and endures the dullest conversation he's had since Willoughby Frankinton The Third attempted to convince him that luminescent blue slugs were an actually fascinating species. They're not. They're just smelly blue slugs. They're not even useful in potions, for Merlin's sake.

Severus nods along to Buffington's jaw-droppingly dull description of the little German village in which he was born. He also listens to a surprisingly ferocious rant about British cuisine's awful blandness when compared with amazing delicacies such as 'properly cooked sausage with mashed potatoes and a healthy pile of pickled cabbage.' By the time he's on his third expensive beer, Buffington has moved onto an involved discussion on the marvels of old thimbles. Severus is so unhappy with his life-choices that he smiles with relief when he catches sight of Potter and, stupidly, waves his hand in greeting and signals for the man to come over.

It isn't until he is confronted with the startled look on Potter's face that Severus remembers that, one: he is currently avoiding Potter, and two: Potter doesn't like Buffington. The Gryffindor joins them before Severus has time to berate himself for acting like a thoughtless moron. He's forced to put a smile on it as he finally manages to end Buffington's tedious droning. "Klaus, allow me to introduce you to Draco's auror partner, Harry Potter. Potter, this is my apprentice, Klaus Buffington."

"Herr Potter?" Buffington squeaks, wide-eyed in delighted surprise, and then flails wildly in his chair while attempting to stand up politely. Potter, bless his chivalrous soul, indicates he should remain seated via frantic hand wave but doesn't manage to curve Buffington's starry-eyed enthusiasm in the slightest, "I-Oh! Forgive me, Herr Potter. I'm not dressed for such an exalted company. I'd have brought my dinner jacket if I'd known you would join us."

"That's alright, Mr. Buffington."

"Klaus, Herr Potter. If you would be so kind."

"Er- Klaus, then. You can call me Harry, I guess. Although Snape here might frown at both of us for that. He's not into casual greetings."

Buffington blinks at Potter, halfway between ecstatic at having permission to call a world-famous hero by his given name and appalled at the idea of disparaging Severus' penchant for formality to his face. "I-er Master Snape's respect for the old ways is commendable. Should I ever be so lucky as to adopt both his patience and restraint in social gatherings, I'd be one step closer to becoming the gentleman my parents wish me to be."

"Please remember that flattery will get you nowhere, Buffington," Severus says dryly.

"I remember, Master Snape. And I do not seek your favor, merely your knowledge and your respect. That's how you know I'm telling the truth, Sir." Buffington replies smoothly, bowing his head in a charming gesture of professional deference. Severus can't help the pleased smirk that curls his thin lips upwards as he inclines his head in graceful acceptance of his apprentice's esteem.

"With arse-kissing like that, it's no wonder Snape likes you," Potter grumbles, and both Buffington and Severus stare at him in horror.

"Potter!" Snape snaps and is on the verge of opening his mouth to rip the savior a new one as ferociously as he knows how when Buffington weighs in.

"I assure you, Herr Potter, that I'm no mindless toady. I am a Buffington first and foremost, and I've no reason to seek worth I haven't earned through diligence and hard work."

Potter has the decency to look sheepish, "Gosh! I like you. And I really didn't think I would," Potter says cryptically, and Severus starts regretting in earnest his decision to invite him over.

"You've thought about meeting me before?" Buffington gasps, too excited by the concept to mind the fact that Potter has all but admitted to having an issue with him. "I didn't realize you knew I existed!"

Potter shrugs and slides into the booth's seat, next to Severus. "I keep an eye on anyone new who comes into the lives of people I care about. I made a lot of enemies during the war. And so did Snape."

"He was a spy," Buffington agrees enthusiastically, "Doesn't that make him the bravest order member of all? I've always thought so. Spies must be both cunning and unflappable. Courageous in the face of constant danger. Sometimes I can't believe my luck. Some nights I lie in bed and pinch myself to make certain it is true: I am being taught by a legend. I'm grateful every day that a man such as Master Snape accepted my mentorship application."

"You make my role in the war sound far grander than it was," Severus feels the need to point out. He is inexplicably embarrassed by his apprentice's ardent praise. "Spying on the Dark Lord required a lot less cunning than you imagine and a lot more bowing and scrapping."

Buffington shakes his head fondly and shares a smile of complicity with Potter, "And he is humble when he has no reason to be, wouldn't you agree?"

Potter does so with unexpected enthusiasm and throws such a devilish smirk Severus' way as he is opening his mouth that Severus feels the need to brace himself. "They don't make men like him anymore, do they? I think Merlin broke Snape's mold after popping him out."

"I concur," Buffington laughs. "Master Snape is unique in all the world."

In desperation, Severus takes a long sip of his pint, and it goes the wrong way. He starts hacking almost instantly, and Potter turns concerned green eyes on him and pats him firmly on the back, "You alright, Snape?" he asks as soon as Severus manages to bring his cough under control, warm palm still tracing soothing circles on the back of Severus' shirt.

"Yes, I'm fine, Potter. Thank you," Potter smiles at him softly.

"You sure? You look pale. Maybe you should call it a night."

"Nonsense," Severus rejects the idea out of principle. He's not hiding at home like an old man, not after choking on a drink like a bumbling firstie. That would be utterly humiliating.

Potter hmms, instead of arguing with him further, and Severus is half tempted to needle him for playing that vague word game with him. Potter has never been one for politeness, or tactical retreats, at least not when it comes to Severus. It's unsettling to see his conscious attempts to do so.

"Do you want another pint then, Master Snape? I was just thinking of getting Herr Potter one, anyway." Buffington asks, drawing their attention, and Severus feels himself agreeing to another pint, even though he's had enough. His apprentice nods and strides towards the bar, leaving him alone with Potter for the first since Severus realized he's attracted to the bloody Gryffindor.

"He's nice, your Buffington. It's impossible to dislike him," Potter says quietly, breaking the small silence left in the apprentice's wake. Severus looks over his shoulder towards the bar, dislodging Potter's hand from his back along the way.

"He is a talented potioneer. He'll do well if he ever learns to weigh his live ingredients properly."

Potter smiles at him genuinely for what feels like the first time all night. Severus has to admit —if only to himself— that he finds that smile impossibly charming. "Squeamish, is he? Does he chop his slugs in too-large chunks for your taste?"

"Yes. He does, as a matter of fact." Severus responds, thrown off by Potter's unexpectedly gentle teasing.

"I can see it. The two of you bickering over the right way to chop some smelly ingredient or other in the back of your shop, then coming out to chill and share a pint. Is this what makes you happy, Snape?"

Severus frowns at the strange question, "I wouldn't be doing it if it didn't."

"I see," Potter says, his lovely smile far less bright in the shadowy booth.

"Are you alright, Potter?" Severus can't help but ask, growing concerned at the way the Gryffindor's shoulders have hunched. Potter looks like a man about to walk out on a treasure. It's a look Severus is unfortunately familiar with. He's sacrificed much in the course of his life.

"I will be, eventually," Potter claims easily. Severus doesn't believe him, but that's neither here nor there. Over at the bar, Buffington seems to have gotten himself waylaid by Oliver Wood. They're conversing rather animatedly for perfect strangers, so they must know one another from somewhere. Severus' gaze narrows as the thought that Wood is tall, dark-haired, and gorgeous crosses his mind. This must be Buffington's admirer. The fact that Potter has finally caught them together, chatting up a storm at a crowded bar, perfectly explains the man's sudden dejection.

"I should go break that up," Severus says, hoping to high heaven that Potter doesn't realize he'd be doing so for his benefit.

"Gosh! I should go," Potter sighs, sounding heartbroken and desperate. Severus doesn't dare place a hand upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Potter looks like he might break if he does so.

"You're not waiting for your pint?" Severus asks clumsily, feeling thoroughly inadequate to console the man before him. He's always been good at holding fragile things, but not so great at mending them when they shatter.

"Tell Klaus to drink it for me, will you? I've got an early meeting with Dawlish tomorrow, and Draco will kill me if I'm late."

"I see," Severus says, and watches Potter come to his feet without uttering another word. What can he possibly say? It's not as if Potter is ready to hear that he's young enough that his broken heart will mend. He'll fall for another tall, dark, and handsome bloke eventually. And whoever earns his heart next will probably decide to keep it.

"Good night, Snape, I hope to see you next Friday. Draco is ready to skin you alive for bailing on him, and I- I look forward to friendship with you. I'll take whatever I can get, for as long as I can get it."

Severus swallows despite the growing tightness in his throat, "I'll be there," he promises, and earns himself a smile that is wan and pale and full of shadows before Potter takes a half-turn and Dissapparates on the spot. Severus blinks at the empty space beside him, feeling curiously cold and unsettled. He can't help but think he's lost a treasure too. Even though he's not the one in love with Oliver Wood. Or even with Potter.
 

---

 

Friday arrives far too soon for Severus’ liking. He’s spent the last few days thinking about the horribly haunted look on Potter’s face when he’d claimed he’d be fine eventually. Severus has now arrived at the conclusion that Oliver Wood is an insufferable arsehole with the worst taste in men in the entirety of Britain. Who in their right mind would pass up a gorgeous, heroic and funny bloke like Potter and choose boring, stuffy Buffington instead? Worst of all, it turns out that, despite his shining Quidditch career and indisputable good looks, Wood might actually be as mind-numbingly uninteresting as Buffington, which means Potter has terrible taste in men too. Severus now knows that Buffington and Wood share a mutual passion for Grindelwald-era thimbles, and initially bonded over it. Severus sincerely hopes Potter isn’t aware of that particular detail, for he might lose all respect for the Gryffindor if he finds proof that insupportably earnest thimble collectors turn him on.

Draco acts strangely all through lunch. He keeps sending little puzzled looks Severus’ way but fails to explain what prompts them. Severus has always been patient with Draco. His godchild is a bright and curious soul with a lot of diva in him. It’s never advisable to challenge Draco directly or to demand he explain himself before he’s ready. Still, it’s been a long time indeed since Severus has been on the receiving end of such cagey behavior, and it’s getting on his nerves.

“So… Buffington, eh?” Draco says suddenly, apropos of nothing, and Severus frowns, bewildered.

“What about him?”

“Harry says he saw the two of you at the pub, all cozy like.”

“Is this about Wood?” Severus asks, lowering his tone to avoid being overheard. He’s got no desire to air Potter’s dirty laundry in public, especially not one so personally painful.

Draco instantly perks up, “Oliver Wood is involved?”

Severus’ confusion increases, “Isn’t he?”

“I thought it was just Buffington and you at the pub,” Draco stalls, giving nothing away, and Severus can not tell if he’s trying to protect Potter’s confidence or had genuinely no idea that Wood had been around.

“Buffington adores thimbles, and so does Wood,” Severus explains, and the tight band that’s been compressing his chest lately loosens slightly upon hearing his godson’s startled bark of laughter.

“They do? That’s just precious!”

“Does Potter know?” Severus can’t help but ask. Draco smirks at him so knowingly that Severus feels like hiding behind the nearest pillar, which he can’t do anyway because he’ll never live it down.

“You think Harry is into Wood, don’t you?”

Severus blinks, “Isn’t he?”

“Wood is straight as an arrow, Severus. He’s dating that Italian beater with the face full of freckles. Marian something or other.”

“Oh!” Severus says dumbly, so relieved upon hearing the news that he forgets to mask his reaction.

“You like him,” Draco guesses, direct in a way few others dare to be when it comes to Severus.

“Of course, I like Wood. He’s a lovely, if boring, gentleman,” Severus deflects, not that it’d do him much good since Draco has never been one to give up, but at least it stalls the conversation long enough to give him breathing space.

“I meant Harry, and you know it,” Draco persists, and Severus is on the brink of crafting the biggest lie of his life when the man they’re discussing slides into the chair beside his.

“What about me?” Potter asks, gaze swinging expectantly from one to the other.

“I’m saying Severus here likes you,” Draco pipes up before Severus can come up with a suitable diversion. Potter stares at his auror partner like he wants to kick him in the teeth.

“Very funny, Malfoy.”

“It’s true!” Draco ignores Potter’s dark look and waves an elegant hand back and forth between him and Severus. “Severus thinks you’re the bee’s knees. Tell him, godfather.”

“You are the bee’s knees, Potter,” Severus repeats dryly, and although the Gryffindor bursts out laughing, Draco sends him a dirty look before flopping dramatically against the backrest of his chair.

“You two are insufferable. Thick as rocks as well. Fine! I’ll let you act like a pair of brats for now, but I expect you to share at least one dance at my birthday party.”

“You know I don’t dance, mate,” Potter shoots down the idea so fast that Severus decides he has reason to feel insulted. Draco doesn’t even bother to blink in either shock or surprise, but he doesn’t take Potter seriously.

“You’ll make an exception for Severus. He loves waltzing, and I’ll be busy. You can’t possibly leave him alone around my father’s french cousins. They adore him something fierce. Don’t you remember what happened last year when André tried to corral him behind Mother’s singing rose bushes?”

Severus feels himself blush scarlet, “Do we have to talk about that?”

“Your father invited André?” Potter screeches over him, “I thought your mother had banned him from the manor.”

“Father didn’t invite André, I did. And Mother can’t ban the man from attending my birthday party. That would be a scandal of epic proportions. André is the head of the French branch of the family. Should misfortune ever befall cousin Émile, I’d become André’s de facto heir. Everyone expects him to attend the celebration, and he has explicitly requested Severus’ company at the dinner table.”

“I can’t believe the nerve of that grabby french git!” Potter growls, “I wish Snape had done worse than hexing him bald for the evening. The man tried to kiss him, for Merlin’s sake!”

“André’s flirting is harmless, Potter,” Severus sighs, “He was unusually drunk last year. That’s what led to that unpleasantness. I’m sure he’ll be on his best behavior this time around. He’s too fond of his dignity to put it in jeopardy twice over little ol’ me.”

“Little ol’ you is worth ten of him, Snape. I’d risk my dignity as many times as it takes for a man of your caliber, so why wouldn’t he?” Potter snaps, and Severus’ heart expands inside his chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Because I’m dirt-poor and a half-blood to boot. André is a Malfoy. They don’t risk social disgrace over people like me. Even our fair Draco has chosen a lovely pureblood to marry.”

“Hey! Daphne is an angel, and I love her. That she’s a rich pureblood is coincidental,” Draco protests, and although he speaks the truth, it’s also irrefutable that his choice in romantic partner proves Severus’ point.

“Isn’t Buffington a pureblood too?” Potter asks, piercing green gaze fixing upon Severus with unbearable intensity.

“Yes. He is,” Severus replies, looking deeply into those eyes and half fearing he’ll never be able to stop staring.

“You think he’d risk his dignity for you?” Potter demands, and Severus doesn’t understand where the question comes from.

“He might. If he wanted to. He is undoubtedly strong-headed enough, but I don’t see why he would."

“Harry, you’re barking at the wrong tree there, mate. Severus doesn’t care for-

“I know he doesn’t, but he should. He deserves better than André’s special brand of lecherous pawing.”

Draco sighs with frustration, ”That’s not what I was going to say, but I agree with the sentiment. That’s why I need you to run interference between the two of them at the party.”

“I don’t require help keeping André on the straight and narrow, Draco,” Severus interjects, earning himself a glare from his godson.

“There’s not a single straight bone in André’s body. He might be terrified of mother, but he’s got a dick with a crush on you, and he’d like to indulge it. He’s grown increasingly restless since his divorce. I think the memory of rattling around inside his empty mansion all by himself will make him bolder.”

“That’s neither here nor there. André mentioned he’s got no intention of settling down again the last time I saw him. He’s aware I abhor casual affairs,” Severus explains, but Draco has no interest whatsoever in listening to reason.

“André’s wish to avoid another marriage doesn’t preclude him from finding himself a discrete lover and living in sin with him under the flimsy pretense of a ‘special friendship,’ godfather. André has been attracted to you for years, and your retiring nature is ideal for that type of arrangement. I’m sure he plans to make a proper pass at you at my party. Harry won’t mind running interference unless you want me to invite Buffington so you can introduce him as your lover instead?”

“There’s no need,” Severus hurries to cut off that terrible idea before it grows out of hand. He can’t imagine anything more unendurable than the agony of spending a Malfoy standard seven-course meal trapped between Buffington’s tedious monologuing and André’s under the table pawing.

Potter gapes at him, looking insultingly shocked at the notion that Severus has enough sense to keep Buffington as far away as possible from his personal affairs. Draco smirks smugly, and seals their fate with an imperious hand wave, “It’s settled then,” he declares, and skillfully directs the conversation toward the types of gifts he’d prefer, which is both typically Draco and also vaguely suspicious. Severus instinctively understands that there’s something strange going on. He just can’t pinpoint yet what it is.
 

---

 

Draco's party is precisely as elegant and posh as Draco himself. Which is par for the course for a Malfoy soiree. A string quartet plays melodiously from a little raised dais while impeccably suited elves move around the tables, serving dish upon dish of exquisitely plated morsels.

As soon as they'd arrived, Potter had walked up to the high table and blatantly exchanged the seating card inscribed with Severus' name for his own, thus placing himself squarely between André and Severus. To say that André had been dismayed to find himself seated beside the Savior Of The Wizarding World for the meal would be the understatement of the century. André has been unusually surly throughout the meal, refusing to acknowledge Potter's polite conversational efforts, sparse as those have been.

Draco is smirking up a storm on the other side of the table, looking so smug in his triumph, that Severus is half tempted to kick him in the shin under the cover of Narcissa's splendid Damascus tablecloth.

Since Severus is occupying Potter's original seat, his other neighbor happens to be young Blaise Zabini, who Narcissa probably intended to act as an engaging dinner partner for Potter. Zabini has been Draco's best friend for so long that they may as well be brothers, so Severus is especially fond of him and perfectly happy to catch up with the latest news regarding the Italian vineyard his ex-student is currently managing. They'd been engaged for the last forty minutes in a thoroughly fascinating discussion about the aging and fermenting potions involved in Brandy creation when Potter's unforgivably loud sigh brings their exchange to a startled halt.

"Is something the matter, Harry?" Blaise asks politely, leaning toward the table to better catch the Gryffindor's gaze.

"Can't the two of you talk about something else for five seconds? I've no interest in either smelly fermenting potions or winemaking, and I've been sitting here like a lump with nothing to do except stuffing my mouth or stare at my napkin for almost an hour."

"Apologies. I didn't realize you were interested in conversing with us. I'd been dying to pick Severus' brain when it comes to these potions for half a year," Blaise explains in that charming way of his that never fails to soothe ruffled feathers.

"I understand you wanting to get Snape's input on your project, Blaise. Draco is dying to be your first customer, so I know exactly how much effort you're putting into developing your own label, but- we're at a party, you know? Talking shop non-stop is just not on, man."

Blaise laughs, sheepish. "You're right, of course. And I'm afraid we'd have continued to act in that terribly gauche manner had you not called us out on our behavior."

Potter's eyes widen, utter disbelief evident in his expression. "Are you telling me neither of you would have tired of talking about grapes?"

"Of course not. That's the problem with us, Slytherins, Harry. We're all or nothing in our passions," Blaise explains patiently, "Draco loves chocolate to the point of distraction. Severus and I feel the same about our vineyard and potion business, respectively. You should have known it'd get this bad as soon as you realized we were sitting together. "

"I've noticed the obsessive preoccupation with one thing or another in all of you, but hadn't realized it was so all-consuming."

"Trust me, it is," Blaise says, a self-deprecating smile turning his attractive face into a sigh-worthy work of art. "I fear I would kill for the perfect vine bare-root. Or fermenting potion. Wouldn't you murder for potions, Severus?"

"I'd murder with potions, but for them? I'm not sure, Blaise. I've branched out in my passions since I taught at Hogwarts."

"Is that so?" Blaise inquires, soft-voiced and brimming with curiosity, "And what, pray tell, stirs your heart these days?"

Severus shrugs, "Nothing in particular or, better said, a variety of simple things. I've decided to care about what gives me pleasure. It does wonders for my mood."

"Does that mean you'll fight me to death if I ever try to finish your crossword? Or take a sip of your Cappuccino?" Potter wonders aloud, shocking them both silent.

"I-er-" Severus stutters incoherently, before coming up with a shamefully weak riposte, "You wouldn't dare."

Blaise snorts, the little traitor, as Potter proceeds to take a leaf out of Severus' playbook and lifts an eyebrow in challenge, "Wouldn't I?"

"I corrected your essays for years, Potter. I know for a fact that you don't have enough vocabulary to finish a crossword."

"Ouch!" Blaise bursts out laughing. Potter crosses his mouthwateringly muscular arms across his equally muscular chest, and pouts like a kid. He looks positively edible in his formal robes, and Severus could do without any further displays of manly adorableness. He's tempted enough to kiss the idiot breathless as it is.

"I could always use a dictionary. Or firecall Hermione. There's nothing in the rules that says you've got to finish a crossword in one go like a word-obsessed lunatic."

"You realize the moment you let go of the paper, your chances of finishing my puzzle would be over, don't you, Potter?" Severus points out dryly, "Unlike you, I'm perfectly able to complete a crossword without aid in a single sitting."

"Oh, stop boasting!" Potter pouts and is about to launch into what promises to be a reasonably entertaining tirade when the head elf rings the gong announcing the official end of the meal. André is out of his chair, and beside Severus' so fast, they all stare at him in shocked stupor.

"I respectfully request your first dance. And third. And Fifth. And last, Severus," He says suavely, lovely french accent wrapping around the vowels and making him sound like a summer night dream.

"Snape is here with me, André, and I'm not in the mood to share him," Potter snaps before Severus can come up with a polite way to refuse.

"You don't dance, Potter," André dismisses the Gryffindor's objection without bothering to look him in the eye, "Severus loves waltzing. He deserves to enjoy himself. You'll prove yourself a terrible partner if you stand between him and his pleasure."

"His pleasure is none of your business," Potter growls, "I thought he made that perfectly clear last year. Loved the bald look, by the way. It suited you."

Severus chokes on the reprimand he'd been about to direct Potter's way. Blaise's eyes bug out in delighted shock, and André looks positively apoplectic at the boldness of the Gryffindor's strike, "You are so plebeian, Potter," he sniffs, "Severus will be glad of the respite dancing with me will provide him if he's forced to endure your boorish company for the rest of the evening."

"He's not getting a respite since he won't be dancing with you, but I'm sure he appreciates your worry," Potter replies, unfazed.

"He can speak for himself," Severus manages to snap, instantly drawing their attention, "I'll be dancing with Blaise instead, thank you both very much," He states firmly and, wrapping a long-fingered hand around his ex-student's arm, manages to extract them both from whatever peacocking match the other two are determined to have. Severus has no intention whatsoever of drawing Narcissa's ire for the second year in a row.

"I must thank you for the spectacle, Severus. That was the most fascinating thing ever to happen at a party of Draco's," Blaise whispers confidentially as they make it to the dance floor.

"It had nothing to do with me. André and Potter don't get along. Just like Potter and Lucius. I wager it's safer for boy wonder to get into a dick fight with the foreign cousin than to get huffy at his auror partner's father."

"So you believe they're fighting a proxy war," Blaise hums thoughtfully as he falls perfectly into step with both Severus and the rhythm of the first waltz of the night.

"Why else would they be acting like a pair of brawling goblins?" Severus questions distractedly. He is more interested in losing himself in the moment. He does love waltzing, and opportunities to indulge this particular weakness of his are, unfortunately, rare.

"Lust?" Blaise asks, and Severus is so startled by the unexpected assessment that he almost trips on thin air.

"You think there's attraction between them?" Severus questions, looking over his companion's shoulder towards the still hissing pair, "They don't look the slightest bit happy in each other's company, Blaise."

Blaise grins wickedly and leans close enough to whisper in Severus' ear, "That's because they're both lusting after you, Master Snape."

Severus shakes his head, "André might be, but Potter? Nah. He's got the hots for some mystery suitor of Buffington's."

"Buffington can't possibly have a mystery suitor. The man is an utter bore."

Severus can't help but agree, even though it feels disloyal of him. Buffington is a kind and industrious soul. Severus can't help but feel a fatherly fondness toward him, but he can't possibly deny the man's dullness, "Nevertheless, he's managed to snare the interest of the man Potter wants."

"Are you certain that man isn't you?"

"I'm not involved with Buffington, am I?"

"True," They lapse into glum silence for a couple of turns, while Blaise studies his face pensively, "You like him though. Potter, I mean. Not Buffington."

Severus sighs, frustrated, "What is it about my face that gives it away? It's not like I spend every second mooing over bloody Potter."

"You were checking him out from the corner of your eye all through dinner. It's a miracle he hasn't noticed."

"Merlin, AK me now, will you? It's no wonder Draco smirks smugly whenever I so much as sneeze in his auror partner's direction. He's having the time of his life at my expense."

"Seriously, I think Potter is interested, Severus. He's giving me the stink eye as we speak."

"That is his wounded pride rearing its ugly head. We've been getting closer lately, and he hasn't shown interest in anything other than friendship," Severus replies quietly, "Let's not talk about this anymore, please. I refuse to spend the night pining over the bloody savior when I have such a fine dance partner in my arms."

Blaise laughs with delight and allows himself to be guided into a showy twirl. Severus smiles as the music fills his senses. He adores dancing, and Draco, and even Blaise. He loves laughing with his friends under the light of Lucius' fancy chandeliers; adores drinking exquisite champagne from delicate crystal flutes, and catching sight of Narcissa's glowing smile as she flutters from guest to guest like a bejeweled butterfly. Severus loves being a friend, a mentor, a godfather. That's all that matters tonight. 
 

---

The week following Draco's birthday party, Severus is forced to cancel their weekly lunch because Buffington decides he can't possibly miss Spargelzeit, which sounds even more disturbing a hobby than thimble collecting since Severus can't imagine there's any fun whatsoever in asparagus gathering, and Portkeys back to Germany. Britain is smack bang in the middle of a heatwave, and the shop is exceedingly busy since the students are out of Hogwarts and, therefore under the care of their families, which means everybody needs at least a bottle of Fever Reducer, Burn salve, Pepper-up, Skele-gro, and ScratchBgone. Severus spends his days dashing madly between the shop's front counter and his cramped —and now also unbearably overheated— laboratory, brewing up a storm as his supplies dwindle.

It's quarter to nine in the evening, and Severus is half-dozing in exhaustion under the pleasant waft of a Fan spell when someone knocks on his door. He groans out loud, too tired to bother going down the stairs to answer. Anyone he might care to see right now has permission to Apparate into his little apartment or knows his floo address. He's never been one to indulge door to door salesmen or charity collectors, and it's too hot to have fun running rings around them before shutting the door in their hopeful, greedy faces.

"Snape, it's me, Harry. I know you're home. I can see the light in your window." Potter suddenly hollers, presumably from the front stoop of the store, and Severus closes his dark eyes in utter frustration. He can't possibly leave Potter standing there. He'll make a scene. It'll be terrible for business if it gets around that the savior needed his wares, and Severus hadn't bothered to provide them even though he'd closed his shop almost an hour ago.

Sighing heavily, Severus casts Finite on his Fan spell and walks wearily downstairs. It's been a hard day indeed. He sincerely hopes Potter is fast about his business because Severus might just crumble into an overheated heap at his feet if the Gryffindor keeps him away from his couch and his Fan spell for too long.

Severus yanks the door open with the most unfriendly mien he can muster, which mustn't be up to his usual standards because it makes Potter's cheerful enough expression soften with concern the instant the man's green gaze settles upon him, "What's wrong, Snape? You look terrible."

"I feel terrible," Severus grumbles unhappily, standing aside so Potter can come in, "What the hell do you want at this time of night? I close at eight o'clock on the dot, and you know it."

"I came over to check on you. I haven't seen you in ages. I spent all afternoon in Diagon Alley and couldn't spot your industrious dark head bent over your crossword puzzle at that fru-fru coffee place you like."

"That sounds horribly close to stalking, Potter," Severus points out warily.

"It was my day off, you, git. I just happened to remember meeting you over there after lunch the last time I was around and decided to say hi."

"Hi," Severus deadpans, "There! Mission accomplished. Can you pretty please leave now?"

"You look dead on your feet and are sweating up a storm. Have you eaten?" Potter asks apropos of nothing and then answers his own question before Severus can do so, "Of course not. Never mind. I brought some homemade Gazpacho since you like soups so much. It's been chilling for a few hours. It'll help cool you down some."

Severus blinks in bewilderment. This is the strangest conversation he's ever had with Potter, "I thought you hated to cook."

"I do, so you better be feeling pretty dammed special right now, Snape," Potter snarks, grabbing him by the wrist and heading unerringly toward the private stairs that lead to Severus' first floor flat, "This is the way home, isn't it?" Potter asks as he settles his trainer-clad feet on the first step. Severus is unable to come up with a polite enough course of action that doesn't involve giving an affirmative response, thus condemning himself to spend at least the next hour with the savior.

Potter railroads him into his fireside chair within five seconds of closing the door behind them. The Gryffindor then proceeds to cast a much more powerful Fan spell than Severus could ever manage —the show-off,— and spells the back window open to let in the evening breeze. Severus groans in relief, sags against the backrest of his chair, and witnesses Potter's pragmatic invasion of his home, feeling strangely helpless. Seeing Potter against the backdrop of his cramped living room is unfamiliar, but not precisely intrusive. Severus doesn't know what to do with the fluttering butterflies currently flapping their wings in the pit of his stomach, so he sits there and stares as Potter Accios a couple of bowls from the kitchen, casts a Chilling charm over the surface, takes a shrunken parcel from his pocket, and enlarges it until it becomes a full-sized tureen.

"That's a bloody Black family heirloom," Severus objects, as if the container that houses the homemade soup a man who hates cooking cooked for him, is the only questionable part of the strange situation. Which it isn't. Not by a long shot.

"It's mine now. And it has been gathering dust inside a cupboard since I inherited Grimmauld. I was afraid you wouldn't appreciate a plastic takeaway container." Potter replies distractedly, pouring the soup carefully into the bowls before Accioing a pair of spoons.

"Merlin. Black must be turning in his grave."

"Sirius would have warmed to you, eventually. You were one of us, after all. He'd have swallowed his pride and apologized for being a dick, just like I did."

"I'm not sure I'd have accepted his apology," Severus musses, "Playing nice with the man would have felt too bloody weird."

"Oh, you'd have accepted it, Snape. You aren't as much of a prat as you'd like everyone to believe."

"You have more faith in me than is advisable. Draco must be rubbing off on you," Severus says, accepting the bowl Potter hands him with an appreciative -if exhausted- little smile, "It looks wonderful. Thank you, Potter."

"Don't thank me until you've tasted it. You might hex me yet for putting in too much pepper or something equally picky."

"That'd be unforgivably ungrateful of me. I'm only ever picky about potions, and my fastidiousness there is entirely justified. Depending on the brew, adding too much or too little of something could kill you."

"I wish you had said exactly those words in that reasonable tone during my first potion class. It'd have helped me understand you better, and I'd had learned more from you than I did."

"There's no point losing sleep over what-ifs, Potter. What's done is done, and none of us can change it," Severus points out, lifting a spoonful of Gazpacho to his mouth and closing his thin lips around it. He sighs in bliss the moment the rich tomato flavor hits his taste-buds. The refreshing coolness of the dish makes him feel instantly better.

"This is really good, Potter," He praises honestly and feels flustered upon catching sight of the bashful blush that spreads over Potter's cheeks. Potter accepts the compliment with an awkward shrug and lowers his head towards his own bowl, looking suddenly shy.

"It's a simple enough dish. I'm glad you like it."

"Your decision to visit, to bring dinner, it's- fairly decent of you, Potter. I'm not exactly sure what I've done to deserve it," Severus says cautiously. He doesn't want to spook Potter, but he's also thoroughly bemused by the man's actions.

"You're overwhelmed at work. Draco said Buffington buggered back to Germany in the middle of the summer rush. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a summer rush in the potions business."

"It's always a bit chaotic when the kids come home from Hogwarts, and when they go back. There's more demand than usual for either certain brews or certain ingredients at those times of the year."

"I see. Couldn't Buffington have waited until the rush was over before taking his vacation? Sounds like he should have known you'd be run off your feet."

"Asparagus harvesting doesn't wait for anyone, apparently. He was adamant there'd be nothing left to gather past the 24th."

"He's gone asparagus gathering?" Potter googles, "That's er- completely fucking weird."

Severus can't help but laugh, "He's a strange one, I'd admit."

They stare at one another with the dawning awareness that they're alone together in Severus' cramped living room, sharing dinner. It's a shocking if unexpectedly pleasant development and Severus doesn't know what to do -or think- about it. The small silence that is settling between them has the potential to become positively awkward. Severus is wrecking his brain trying to come up with a safe topic to discuss when Potter suddenly pipes up, "You danced beautifully, at the party."

Severus blinks, "I-er, yes. Lucius insisted I suffer along with him if he had to take private lessons, so Abraxas financed my instruction in that particular 'gentlemanly art,' as he called it."

"Malfoy senior's skill wasn't a match to yours, as far as I could see."

"Lucius has never been one for waltzing. He's always preferred Quidditch," Severus explains, and can't help the amused smirk that breaks across his lips as a hundred memories of disgruntled dance-lesson related ranting flood his mind.

"Draco is pissed we didn't dance together like he wanted."

"I thought you don't waltz, Potter," Severus says distractedly, leaning forward to place his empty bowl on the coffee table that sits between their chairs.

"I don't," Potter agrees, "I don't know how. It's embarrassing to go out into the dance-floor knowing I'm going to make a hash of it."

"Then learn, if you're interested. You've mastered harder skills."

"I'd love to. I just— Would you be kind enough to teach me, Snape? I promise to apply myself."

Severus hesitates, "I'm not a professional dance instructor. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Please. I trust you. I-er- It's hard to find people who'd send a reporter packing when presented with the chance of earning an extra-galleon or two at the expense of my privacy. I'd rather avoid the morning edition spread of ghastly pictures displaying my two left feet for all to see."

Severus feels incredibly touched by Potter's trust. It's a treasure he hadn't realized could be placed in his hands. He swallows with difficulty and looks out towards the window, trying to avoid Potter's gaze. It won't do to show his true feelings. Potter is not attracted to him. "Why the sudden interest?" He manages to ask, curiosity getting the better of him, and giving him the strength to finally look at the Gryffindor.

Potter shrugs, "It was beautiful. Watching you dance with Blasie at Draco's party. You had this huge, bright smile on your face, and I- I decided I want that for myself. All of it."

Severus' heart climbs into his throat, making it hard to breathe. He stares helplessly into Potter's gorgeous green eyes, feels himself perilously close to drowning, and has no idea of what the hell is happening between them. Potter can't possibly be flirting with him, Severus thinks wildly as he watches the man lean forward to place his now empty bowl beside Severus'. Potter is closer than ever, so much so that Severus catches a delicious whiff of a sandalwood-based aftershave. He watches dazedly as the Gryffindor's eyes dart briefly towards his mouth, darkening with something that can't possibly be arousal because Potter— Potter has a crush on someone else. Someone with terrible taste in men, and more luck than he deserves. It takes every ounce of Severus' self-control to lean back against his seat and break their eye contact. The big sigh Potter releases in reaction sounds incredibly frustrated, and Severus studiously refuses to acknowledge it.

"Draco says Buffington can't dance to save his life," Potter points out randomly, and Severus blinks at him in utter bewilderment.

"Yes. He's hopelessly uncoordinated, the poor sod."

"He's— unwilling to learn?"

"Oh, no. He knows how to do it. He's just terrible at it."

Potter's hands clench tightly around the armrests of his chair, "He could practice, for your sake."

Severus frowns, "There's no point. He doesn't enjoy it."

"He doesn't enjoy watching you smile as you whirl around a dance floor?" Potter growls, "Maybe you'd be better off without him."

"Oh, no. I definitely need him," Severus laughs, "I'll never survive the back to school rush if he's not here to help. Dancing skills hardly matter in a brewing lab, Potter."

"I see," Potter says, expression suddenly blank with polite blandness, "Well, as long as you're happy," He adds haltingly, green gaze falling to the soup bowls as he leans clumsily forward to collect them, "It's getting late, and I should let you sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day, won't it?"

"Yes." Severus agrees, getting to his feet and hovering uncertainly around the coffee table. He watches Potter take the bowls manually into the kitchen, and set them to wash themselves inside the sink.

"Goodnight, then," Potter says, smiling tightly in farewell as he shrinks his heirloom tureen.

"I- Thank you for the soup, Potter. It was decent of you to show up, and I— Oh! I never agreed to teach you waltzing. Which I will. If you still want to."

"Yes, of course I want to," Potter's oddly restrained expression softens. His gaze settles, somewhat longingly, upon Severus, as warm and bright as spring grass, "I'll owl you about it, alright? See you on Friday."

"Friday, yes. I'll be there."

Potter nods, looks at him intently for a second too long, and then points towards the door, "I'll let myself out, shall I? I'll ward the shop's door behind me, so you don't have to worry about going back down. Sleep tight, Snape."

"Thank you," Severus says softly, and stands, rooted to the spot, as Potter leaves. The flat's familiar silence feels heavier somehow. Unfriendlier. Severus' beloved quietude becomes loneliness for the first time since the end of the war.
 

---

Buffington arrives back in Britain dragging a barrel full of heavily preserved white asparaguses, which he places at Severus’ feet with the same reverence any other potioneer would have used to gift unicorn-horn powder. Severus thanks him for the present and sends him hastily towards the till, lest the man feels inclined to regale him with a tedious account of his harvesting trials.

Life goes back to its usual rhythm, and Severus is relieved to return to his crosswords, his cappuccinos, his bickering with Buffington, and his Friday lunches with Draco.

His godson spends an entire hour grinning left and right upon finding out about Severus’ efforts to teach the waltz to Potter, but doesn’t seem particularly inclined to tease his auror partner mercilessly about it, which makes Severus feel positively faint with embarrassment. He suspects Draco is being circumspect for his benefit, since the brat is thoroughly aware of Severus’ oh-so-obvious infatuation with the Savior Of The Wizarding World. Severus supposes he has reason to be grateful since Draco’s loyalty toward him means he’ll never tell Potter about Severus' shameful crush or laugh at him behind his back.

Severus does his best to ignore his growing interest in the Gryffindor. Pushes it ruthlessly aside whenever he encounters the man, and prays to Merlin for relief. He’s got to get over this sooner or later, preferably before Buffington finishes his apprenticeship and buggers off back to Germany, leaving Potter’s mystery crush free to pursue someone else. Their dancing lessons become an exquisite torture, for Severus does so enjoy holding Potter’s compact, muscular body close to his. The auror is unfairly gorgeous, especially when he’s melting into Severus’ arms and allowing himself to be swayed back and forth across the floor of Severus’ empty shop. There’s a comforting atmosphere of serenity about the store after hours. It’s a feeling that Severus has always enjoyed and, now that he’s sharing it with Potter, it has the weight of something far more intimate, something special.

In the first week of July, the auror discloses that the Ministry is holding a special birthday celebration in his honor. Severus gapes at him, beyond stunned, “Haven’t they tried to play that trick every year since the end of the war? It's never worked so far.”

Potter rubs the scuffed tip of his trainer against Severus’ spotless hardwood floor, “It’s different this year.”

“Why? Are the Weasley’s planning a mass migration to the moon?”

Potter avoids eye-contact as he hangs his outer robes on a peg, “They’re invited. To the ball. There’s going to be a string quartet and everything. You’re invited too, by the way.”

Severus’ left eyebrow climbs as far up his forehead as it possibly can, “I’ve received no such invitation.”

“You will,” Potter assures him, “The party thing is a recent development. I was telling Kingsley all about our waltzing and it sort of spiraled from there.”

“It did?”

“Yes. It’s a long story, Snape. And we’re running out of time to get this clumsy Cinderella ready for the ball.”

Severus smirks, “At least you won’t have to dance in glass slippers.”

Potter laughs, “Thank Merlin for small mercies.”

They double their practice hours from then on, meeting almost every evening unless Potter is working the night shift. The Gryffindor's dancing skill improves in leaps and bounds and, although it isn’t great yet, Severus can see it has improved so much that it'll be the talk of the ball. He wonders if Potter’s plus one is aware of how dammed lucky he is. He'll be hanging off the savior’s arm as Potter takes his first proper twirl around a dance floor. Potter’s date will be trusted with the gift of one of Potter’s dwindling first times. Severus doubts there are many of those remaining. That’s the true tragedy of aging, to know exactly what parts of yourself you’ve wasted on the unworthy.

Whoever Potter ends up with romantically will have everything Severus wants, the bastard. He’ll nab himself both the glorious hero and the boy next door. The thoughtful, kind partner and the debonair gentleman able to whirl him around a dance floor with the impeccable grace and aplomb Severus has so painstakingly taught Potter. Severus is green with envy, for he’d love to snare himself such a prize. Instead, he finds himself once again on the wrong side of the door that leads to the heart he craves.
 

---

 
The rest of July crawls by in a messy jumble of busy days, evenings brimming with dance, heartbreaking longing, and moments of paralyzing terror. Severus is too worldly a man to remain unaware that life doesn't stand still for long. Change is coming. He can feel it in his bones, and he knows it can't possibly favor him. He's committed the ultimate act of stupidity. Has fallen in love with a man he can't have. And now every second that passes brings him closer to the instant he'll lose Potter. Their dancing lessons will probably end with the month. Then he'll only have Friday lunches and a casual encounter or two outside his favorite cafe on the Gryffindor's days off. Severus isn't ready to contemplate what will happen when Potter finds himself another paramour or tries his hand at consoling Buffington's mysterious bloke. It'll be agony, he knows. Severus is too old by now to have given his heart lightly. He'll spend the rest of his life watching Potter from afar. Wanting him with every breath, knowing Potter has no bloody clue he's become a true love of his. Severus does his best to imagine a future of watching and wanting in silence, and realizes it'll be impossible to endure. He suspects he'll leave London behind when the time comes, for he's no longer the man he used to be. He's learned not to torture himself unduly. It's essential to hold onto pleasure for dear life, even when that pleasure isn't as wholehearted as it should be.
 

---

It’s twenty to three in the morning of the 31st of July when Severus is startled awake by the familiar wisp of Draco’s Patronus, glowing bright silver in the middle of his shadowy bedroom. Bloody Buffington is drunk off his arse, it seems. He’s been arrested for trying to swim naked on the Ministry’s atrium fountain. Who the fuck goes to the Ministry building when they’re plastered? Severus’ irritation has him dressing up in a huff and making his stomping way towards the Auror Department in the foulest of moods. He appreciates Draco’s decision to allow him to bail his moronic apprentice out of the overnight stay in the drunk tank the man so thoroughly deserves. Still, Severus isn’t amused. He’ll rip Buffington a new one as soon as the idiot’s currently pickled brain clears enough to understand the scale of the humongous pile of shitty shite he’s just dumped himself in.

Draco takes one look at the thunderous expression on his face and starts smirking, the utter prick, “You can’t murder him here, godfather. Too many witnesses.”

“I’m not going to murder him,” Severus growls, “But I’ll make him wish so dammed hard I had that he might decide to start digging his own grave.”

Buffington, listing drunkenly sideways on the chair by Draco’s desk, doesn’t pay the slightest attention to the discussion of his bleak fate. Potter, perched on his own desk across the room, snorts into the report he’s halfheartedly writing, “Don’t you start,” Severus warns him with a narrowed glare, “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“You might want to cut the poor sod some slack. Apparently, Seamus dropped him last night,” Potter explains, abandoning his report altogether.

“Seamus? Who the hell is Se-? You mean Finnegan? As in the Irish reprobate who spends his nights prowling Knockturn’s gay clubs, hoping to lure ridiculously shy twinks into his bed? Surely Buffington has enough sense not to get involved with that good for nothing Casanova.”

“Hey!” Potter protests and Severus can’t tell if it’s in mock outrage or not, “Seamus is a friend of mine. We were dorm mates for six years.”

“So?” Severus drawls, unimpressed, “I roomed with Amycus Carrow when I was a Hogwarts student, and he’s still a murderous dirt-bag with a penchant for disemboweling his victims.”

Draco bursts out laughing, “You’ve got to admit he’s got you there, Harry.”

Potter shrugs, "Your apprentice called you a bitter spargelsuppe, Snape."

Severus blinks, "Excuse me?"

"It's a white asparagus soup thing," Draco explains, "It's not supposed to be bitter, though."

“Is it true you didn't know Buffington has a thing for you?” Potter asks bluntly, drawing Severus' attention back to him.

“He doesn't.”

“He doesn't my arse," Potter huffs rudely, "Your apprentice goes all starry-eyed when he talks about your role in the war, Snape. He practically waxes lyric about how patient you’re with him, and how generously you spent hours working your hands to the bone, grinding those rare yellow berries which are so damned hard to prepare, so you could use them on an alternative recipe to his mother’s arthritis remedy when she developed an allergy to the regular ingredients.”

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs wearily, “What does that have to do with anything? It doesn’t mean squat. Buffington is a coddled, only child. He gets a hard-on for anyone who looks at him kindly, and I work with the prat. I can hardly go around glaring at my own apprentice for no reason.”

“Just to clarify, the two of you haven't been getting it on recently?” Potter persists on his bizarre line of questioning, and Severus throws him his most displeased get off my shoe, you piece of scum, death glare.

“Harry!” Draco screeches indignantly and is opening his mouth to berate the savior further when Severus beats him to it.

“What sort of question is that?”

“It’s an entirely relevant one. I originally assumed that Buffington here had lost the plot when you dumped him, so-

“I did nothing of the sort!” Severus thunders.

“You mean you’re thinking about getting together with him?” Potter looks positively sick.

“We’ve never been together, and we never will,” Severus states coldly, “Buffington is a young potioneer in his prime. He’s unwilling to travel the world and learn from different people, but that’s exactly what he should do. I’ve already had my fill of travel and desire to put down roots and dedicate my time to potion research. There’s no place in my future for him and vice-versa.”

Potter stares intently at him for so long that Severus starts worrying he might have broken the man. Business owners often have different life-goals from their assistants’. It’s not such a hard concept. “I take it you said that to his face recently?”

“Yes.”

“How recently?”

Severus balks at the intrusive question and is a breath away from hexing the nosy Gryffindor’s mouth shut when Draco’s pleading expression catches his eye, “Last week,” he answers tightly.

“I see,” Potter musses, “So Buffington came onto you at some point during the workweek, and got a strongly-worded version of the ‘thanks, but no, thanks’ speech that broke the poor bloke’s heart.”

“He didn’t come onto me, and I didn’t break his heart, for Merlin’s sake! He expressed a desire to remain in my employ indefinitely, and I refused to cripple his career thus. He’s much too bright to settle for an assistant’s job.”

“So, he never tried to kiss you or get into your bed?” Potter persists, and Severus loses all patience.

“Why would he have? He knows I’m not in the habit of casually screwing muscular young things into my mattress.”

“Godfather!” Draco chastises him, looking thoroughly scandalized.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You haven’t been a virgin since fifth year,” Severus snaps, getting increasingly angry.

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“How could I have possibly missed the happy event when you allowed yourself to be deflowered inside my private storage room at Hogwarts? The place was warded to high heaven, Draco!”

His godson has the decency to color all the way to the roots of his hair. Still, Severus can’t bask in the amusement such a sight would usually give him because he’s so irritated he feels like punching someone.

“I don’t think you realize how lonely Buffington feels. He’s a foreigner with no close ties to this country. You’re all he’s got here in England, Snape, and he— I think he wants more from you than remaining your apprentice. He went pub-crawling after you, I’m quoting here: ‘rejected’ him, and fell right in Seamus’ clutches.”

Severus blinks, aghast. His eyes dart towards Buffington, who smiles vacantly into space while they discuss his love-life, and something pretty close to guilt bubbles up the back of his throat. Severus had never even noticed their discussion was supposed to be a come on. He’d have rejected Buffington’s advances regardless. Still, he understands better than most the heartbreaking agony of going home to an empty room at the end of a long day of work, dreaming of a man you can't have. He doesn’t know how to put this right or even if doing such a thing is within his power. “So Finnegan fucked him raw when he was vulnerable and then kicked him to the curb.”

“Not straight away, no. Buffington became a little clingy, and Seamus decided to indulge him for a couple of nights. Things got messy pretty fast, though, and Seamus freaked out. They got into an argument after dinner, and Seamus ended up explaining the concept of casual sex to the poor bloke. It didn’t go down well.”

“At least Buffington nabbed himself one hell of a lover for about half a week,” Draco says. “Rumor has it Finnegan is amazing in the sack.”

“How can he not be?” Severus scoffs, “He doesn’t do much else.”

“No need to sound bitter, Severus. You could probably fuck at least half the blokes he’s fucked if you ever bothered to smile. Or go to the club.”

Severus glares at Draco, “Are you seriously implying I’ll find the love of my life in a Chlamydia-infested Knockturn club?”

“Are you even looking for the love of your life?” Potter pipes up, appearing flustered enough to be sporting a fever. Severus is too tired to put up with such a pointless conversation. He has a drunk and disillusioned apprentice to sober up.

“Isn’t everybody, Potter? Looking for love isn’t a privilege meant only for the young and the beautiful. All of us want hearth and home, and yes, that’s a dream I probably share with everyone in this room.”

Potter fiddles with his quill, fiddles with the parchment on his desk, fiddles with his hopelessly unruly hair. He opens his mouth to speak twice and closes it without uttering a word. Severus frowns and looks at Draco in bemusement, but Draco shrugs his shoulders to imply he’s no closer to understanding what’s going on than Severus is. The action seems one hundred percent fake to Severus, though. He knows most of Draco’s tells, and they’re currently screaming amused smugness at Potter’s bizarre behavior.

“But you don’t befriend anyone,” Potter finally explodes, looking nervous and stressed, “You don’t go out anywhere. Don’t even look up from your stupid crossword when an interested man spends forty fucking minutes strutting up and down the street right in front of your favorite fru-fru coffee shop. You don’t let yourself be kissed to within an inch of your life over a refreshing bowl of scrumptious Gazpacho. And you definitely don’t fucking bother grabbing hold of a perky butt-cheek when a hopeful bloke throws himself at you while practicing the bloody waltz for hours on end!”

Severus’ jaw hits the floor. He stands there stupidly, admiring Potter’s ferociously blushing face while Draco’s smirk grows smugger by the second. “Are y-you implying that you-?” Severus’ shocked stutter comes to a halt when his brain registers the question he’s asking, “Nah,” he dismisses the notion with a tired shake of his head. He is in the process of turning his head away when Potter bursts out of his chair, growling.

“Yes, for fuck’s sake: YES. I’m implying exactly what you think I’m implying, Snape. I’ve spent almost an entire year of my life doing nothing but implying it, you, idiot!”

“Oh!” Severus says moronically. He realizes it’s an underwhelming answer, but he’s honestly gobsmacked, and it’s the best he can do. Potter is fairly vibrating with frustration, and Draco finds it all so amusing that he bursts out laughing, the utter prat.

“Oh?” Potter mimics him, incensed, “You’ve got enough vocabulary to write your own fucking dictionary, and that’s the the best you can do?"

Severus twitches with a mixture of ashamed discomfort and growing elation. He’s not feeling very eloquent. This is the first time in his life a dream of his has come true, “I’m definitely looking. And I- I see you now, Potter.”

“Harry,” Potter says, and when Severus blinks at him uncomprehendingly, the git dares to grin smugly and clarifies, “If you’ve got the hots for me, then you better start calling me Harry, Snape. No lover of mine calls me Potter."

Severus’ wildly beating heart lodges in his throat. He can feel the hot blush spreading up his face towards the roots of his hair, but there’s nothing he can do to avoid looking flustered, “No lover of mine calls me Snape, Harry,” He answers softly, and feels positively weak at the knees when Pott-Harry looks at him with stars in his eyes and replies equally softly:

“That’s fair enough, Severus. And you’re now my official date to the ball since you’re my boyfriend and all.” 
 

---

Severus wakes the next day promptly at six, takes a look at Buffington, who is passed out on his living room couch, and pinches himself just in case. It hurts like a bitch, which brings a broad smile to his face. He’s more or less certain he hasn’t dreamed the events of the night before. He’s never had such vivid imagination to start with.

He takes a quick shower, changes into a fresh set of robes, and makes his way downstairs. There’s no point waking his apprentice. He’ll have too strong a hangover to be of much use until he finds relief from a potion anyway. Severus moves about the shop, tinkering with various bottles as he processes the fact that his life, as he knows it, is about to change forever. It hasn’t done so yet. But it will. He reflects on the peaceful existence he’s managed to lead since the end of the war and decides he will miss it, but not enough to pull away from becoming Harry’s partner. Boyfriends, they’re now boyfriends. What a strange label to feel giddy about at his age.

The doorknob rattles as someone outside attempts to open the door. Severus is about to hex the insupportable eager beaver into a toad when he recognizes the shape of Pot-Harry’s wild hair through the frosted glass. His hands start sweating unseemly, and a thousand butterflies wake up and take flight inside his belly. He casts Alohomora on the door and crosses the room towards the shop’s counter, attempting to look busy. That the solid wooden structure is strong enough to support his weight, should he faint with nerves, is a fact he sincerely hopes no one ever finds out.

Harry rushes inside, all wild hair, manic grin, and a steaming cup of freshly brewed cappuccino in tow, “Good morning, Severus,” He greets and then giggles softly under his breath, chipper with a joy that pours out of him in visible waves, “I can’t believe I’m allowed to call you that.”

“You are,” Severus agrees with a smile he fears is as goofy and utterly ridiculous as Harry’s.

“This is the best birthday ever!”

“Ah, yes. Happy birthday, Harry. I should have said so last night," They stare at one another like blithering idiots until Severus finds enough brainpower to add, "I’m afraid I left my gift upstairs. I wasn’t expecting to see you until this evening.”

“That’s alright. Whatever you’ve bought can wait,” Harry grins, closing the door behind him, “I came here to see you. I even brought fru-fru coffee.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you. I can’t help but feel I should be the one treating you since it’s your birthday and all.”

“Don’t worry, you will. I’ll get to dance with you all night long, and I won't even have to come up with an excuse to hog your attention. I was dreading that the most, especially after Draco promised he'd help. That prat has been laughing himself breathless at my expense since I told Kingsley I wanted a huge birthday party this year.”

Severus blinks, “The ball was your idea?”

“I told you I’d wanted to dance with you at Draco’s party but was too embarrassed to try.”

Severus blushes bright red, “That’s- you went through a lot of trouble for a mere waltz.”

“I’d go through a lot more just to see you smile at me like you smiled at Blaise that evening,” Harry confesses as he approaches him cautiously, puts the cup he carries reverently into Severus’ hands, and looks him right in the eyes, “Is this alright? You haven’t changed your mind since I last saw you?”

Severus looks down at the drink and can’t help but smile; there’s a foamy little heart floating bang in the middle of the cup, “No. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Good. That’s good,” Potter exhales. He sounds glad, relieved, and all kids of enthusiastic, “I was worried you might decide to backpedal. I come with a lot of baggage. There’s this crazy amount of public attention around everything I do, and you- you’re pretty attached to your privacy.”

Severus hears the worry in Harry’s voice, catches sight of the panic growing steadily in his gaze, and takes a small sip of his cappuccino to give himself enough time to think his answer through, “I can’t promise I’ll deal with any of it gracefully, but I’ll try my very best. I won’t run away, screaming, for anything other than an insurmountable problem between the two of us.”

“I’d rather you don’t run at all, Severus. Shout at me until I see sense, instead. And, please, pout all you like when I’m the one shouting at you if you must, but stick around so we can work through whatever it is together.”

“That sounds fair,” Severus says, and they stare at one another while he takes a self-conscious small sip from his coffee, “I’d offer you a drink, but shouldn’t you be sleeping right now? You’ve come out of a night shift, and your fancy ball is tonight. You sorely need your beauty sleep, Cinderella.”

“I can’t sleep,” Harry confesses, “I’m way too excited. I’ve been driving Draco nuts since you left the office.”

“I see.”

“Are you sure you won’t mind being paraded around on my arm tonight for the whole world to see? I don’t want to hide our relationship, but we can keep it under wraps for a little while, if you need more time, Severus.”

“No. I- I’d like to claim your first dance, Harry.”

“I won’t be my first. I took Parvati Patil to the Yule Ball.”

“I meant your first real dance. The Yule Ball was a travesty. You were shaking from head to toes, and never completed a full turn around the dance floor,” Severus points out quietly.

“Fair enough. I’ll give you my first real waltz then. I wish I could give you my first kiss too, and my first everything else.”

“That’s alright,” Severus says softly, "I’d rather take your last of those, anyway. Makes for a happier ending, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m not talking about endings today. This is our bloody beginning, Severus.”

“Do as you please,” Severus chuckles, feeling lighthearted all the way down to his toes.

“Hmm. May I kiss you, then?” Harry questions, and Severus’ breath hitches even as he bends his knees in order to tilt forwards and down.

Harry raises up on tiptoes, and their first kiss isn’t wild and all-consuming. It’s petal-soft and achingly sweet instead. Serene and delicately warmed by the heat wafting up from the cappuccino cup still cradled in Severus’ trembling hands. “I love you,” Harry says quietly, and Severus believes him with every fiber in his being.

“I love you too, Harry.”

 

The End.