CHAPTER 4: EPILOGUE

SEVERUS

Severus sits at the small table, breakfast long since cold and forgotten, staring at the photo. It's one of his favorites: Harry, the winter before the war. It's a grey day, all overcast skies and dirty snow. The photo looks almost black and white, save for Harry's burgundy Quidditch robes and the spots of color on his cheeks. He's laughing, eyes closed, arms outstretched on the broom, as he speeds forward, dives, rolls, and rights himself again.

Severus grips the edges of the frame in one hand, running the fingers of his other hand along the picture-Harry's cheek. As if he can feel the heat there, as if the smile is for him and him alone.

In the picture, Harry looks carefree and happy in a way he hasn't since the war, now all residual curse pain and battered muscles and bones that even Severus's strongest pain potions can't erase.

Every night in the hospital wing, Severus massages healing salves into Harry's skin, trying to coax the young man back to health. Severus persists until he can no longer stand Harry's thready breaths of pain, his young limbs trembling in agony. Then he gathers Harry into his arms, holding him tight, whispering words of comfort, making promises he doesn't know how he'll keep. No one understands the damage the Dark Lord did to Harry Potter; no one knows how to heal him.

Severus longs to give Harry back the carefree freedom he sees so clearly in this photo of a boy-not-quite-man. He'd do anything for this man he loves—this stubborn, foolish, courageous creature who's stolen past all of Severus's well-built defenses.

After breakfast, after brewing any potions Harry needs, Severus spends his days in the hospital wing with the young man, working with the healers and the therapists, trying to strengthen Harry's magic and Harry's body. Helping Harry to regain his strength after Voldemort nearly cost Harry his life, and Severus's too—if not in body, then in soul.

Severus can't imagine a life without Harry—colder and darker than any winter day.

And so he vows to give Harry his smile back. He vows it to the very depths of his soul. Even if he has absolutely no idea how he'll do it. He owes Harry that much, and so much more. He owes Harry everything.

HARRY

It's nearly Christmas and the needy bloke is buggering me senseless. Not that I'm complaining; there's no place in the world I'd rather be. The students have all gone home for the holidays. Severus's Dark Mark doesn't burn anymore, not after I killed The Bastard two months ago. A month in the hospital wing and I'm nearly as good as new.

My near death wrought a change in Severus. He doesn't hide his emotions so much anymore. He doesn't let his fears hold him back as much anymore either.

He doesn't like to let me out of his sight these days. His lingering touches and kisses follow me wherever I go.

"Worry wart," I call him, and he just gives me this strange, pained look, as if to say: I almost lost you once, I'm not going to risk losing you again.

When I go out to give speeches or dedications or interviews, he comes with me. Never in the spotlight, always in the background, watching my back, waiting to catch me if I fall, or falter.

"I love you," I whisper as he moves deep inside of me. He doesn't say it much, not aloud anyway, but I know that he does. I feel it in the way he touches me, as if I'm some exquisite creature to be cherished beyond all reason. It's in the way he gazes at me when he thinks I'm not looking. It's in the way his fingers trace adoration over my skin. It's enough.

It took us awhile to get to this point, but I don't mind. We almost got here before the war. And then he was called away. He didn't return—couldn't return—until after the war. Longest two weeks of my life. And afterward, I think it bothered him. Bothered him that he'd almost lost me without ever letting me know he loved me.

He made up for that when I was better. It's not that he hasn't been able to keep his hands off of me—he's still the same reserved man he always was. It's just that when he does touch me, when we do make love, he is present in a way he's never allowed himself to be before. He's one hundred percent in the moment. I imagine him chanting No Regrets over and over in his mind.

I cling to him, our bodies slick with sweat, as he rocks into me, chest to chest, his fingers tight on my shoulders, his cheek pressed to mine.

"Oh… yes…" I breathe, "Oh... Severussss…. Yesss…."

The words slip from my lips, a stream of unintelligible babble as my hands tighten around his hips, canting mine to pull him in deeper, needing him closer.

He keens and thrusts faster, my name spilling from his lips.

"Harry."

I drink it in, sucking his breath, his tongue into my mouth, feeling him moan against my lips.

Let go, I think. I've got you, you're safe. But I don't have to say the words anymore, not since after the war. Not since I almost died. Not since he took me in his arms the day they released me from the hospital wing, took me to his bed, and loved me like I'd never been loved before.

Now he's the one urging me to let go, let go of my mind, let go of my body.

Our lips break apart as my head falls back. I cry out, rising to meet him, wanting him as deep as possible inside of me as I climax, coating the space between us in hot jets of fluid, bonding us together. And then he's jerking frantically to meet me, coming with soft gasps and moans, his breath hot on my neck, his lips a brand against my skin. We stay locked together like that, rocking softly into each other, wanting to hold onto the moment as long as possible.

"Love you, Severus," I breathe, coming down off the high of our lovemaking. "Merlin, I love you."

I doubt he's heard me. It wasn't more than a slight exhalation of breath. But it doesn't matter. The words are as much a part of my release as they are a declaration to him.

Spent and sated, he collapses on top of me, his breathing harsh, his chest heaving against mine. I cradle him to me, thanking the stars that this heady, strong man, this battered, fragile soul, is entrusted to me for safekeeping. As I am to him.

Eventually, he rolls off of me, lies on his back, tries to catch his breath. He pulls me to him. I lie on my side, snug up against him, as I do each night. My head is pillowed in the hollow where his shoulder meets his chest, one arm draped across his ribs, one leg across his thigh. He reaches down to pull the sheets and blankets up over us both, kissing me on the top of my head as he settles in to sleep.

My eyes are closed as I drift happily, satisfied and relaxed.

When his words come, I barely hear them, caught as they are between awareness and dreams.

"I love you, too, Harry. More than you'll ever know."

~FIN~

A/N: There is an Outtake to the story called "Dark Charm Outtake: The Healing" that describes how Harry was saved (by Severus) from Voldemort's curse. Enjoy!