Harry woke the next morning swaddled in a large black cloak.

Thursday had dawned slightly brighter, and cheerful rays of sunlight illuminated the gaps in the curtains drawn around his four-poster bed. The smell of stringent chemicals and fragrant herbs was the first thing to hit Harry as he shrugged the cloak off and brought it up to his face to inspect, and he suspected he would have guessed whose article of clothing this was even if he didn't already know.

The Boy Who Lived sighed greatly and heaved himself upright in bed; he pulled the slightly incriminating article away from his face and folded it haphazardly into a square small enough to fit in his messenger bag to return later. For now, he shoved it under his pillow and rubbed his eyes fiercely; his late-night rendezvous with a certain Defence professor had resulted in a fractured sleep at best. Harry had returned to his dorm and immediately gone to bed, but his contented, dreamless sleep lasted no longer than a few hours before he started having a recurring dream where Snape demanded his cloak back in varying aggressive ways; from accusing Harry of stealing it to casting him from the Astronomy Tower for daring to take it when it was offered.

Harry wasn't entirely certain what these dreams were telling him, but he was sure it was down to a permeating disbelief that Snape had even considered giving it to him to stay warm in the first place. Like as if he expected the rug to be pulled unceremoniously from beneath him, and for the ex-Death Eater to regress into how Harry had seen him before; fiercely ruthless and undeniably ugly, his apparent sacrifices and the glimpses of kindness a fallacy.

But Harry knew that was rubbish. A large yawn disrupted his in-depth analysis of his own paranoia, and he kicked the duvet off his legs, psyching himself for the piercing sunlight he knew would be ready to assault his sleep-tired eyes when he opened the hangings.

However, he was saved the hassle of doing this himself, as the curtains were partly drawn back with a flick, revealing a scruffy-haired Ron Weasley haloed in morning light.

"Mate, there's been a bloody owl tapping the window for about twenty minutes; it's for you," Ron grouched, opening Harry's curtains further and shuffling aside for a majestic Eagle owl to soar in through the gap and land primly in on Harry's knee. It clicked its beak impatiently, and Harry had the feeling that even the owl had got fed up of waiting for him to rouse.

He shot his best friend an apologetic look before gingerly untying the letter from the owl's leg. For a second, the familiar cursive on the envelope made his heart jump into his throat, before he realised he recognised the writing for a different reason; Slughorn.

As Harry grudgingly began tearing into the letter, the owl gave one last impatient click and took off from his knee, landing on the windowsill. Ron decided his early wake-up call wasn't enough to belay his curiosity so sat down with as little grace as he could manage, his shoulder pressing up against Harry's in the small bed as he sprawled out.

Wrestled from its expensive, creamy confines, Harry unfolded the thick parchment and began to read over the contents with a small scowl.

Mister H Potter
The boys' dormitories
Gryffindor common room
Hogwarts

Harry,

You are cordially invited to attend my exclusive Victory Gala, which will be located on the 7th floor opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy (walk along this corridor thrice, asking for said event, and a door shall appear), beginning at 7 o'clock this Saturday the 6th of September.

As an existing member of the prestigious Slug Club, you are also welcomed to attend the after party, which commences as soon as the main event ends at 10 o'clock; Headmistress McGonagall has given special permission for those invited to be out past curfew.

You are encouraged to bring Miss Granger and Mister Weasley to both events alongside you, and a plus one as you see fit.

The dress code is smart-casual, but do not be discouraged from wearing a dress robe if you feel the occasion calls for it!

Please RSVP by this evening if you're able to attend.

All my best,

Prof H Slughorn

The words were blurry to Harry but he could just make them out if he squinted without his spectacles; when he was finished, he lowered the parchment and stared forlornly into the middle distance, discomfort stirring under his breast bone at the thought of the mass social gathering he had promised to attend. Ron just hummed inquisitively here and there next to him as he caught up reading the letter, and turned to Harry with a slightly sceptical look creasing his auburn brow.

"Dunno whether all of this is a bit... too soon? I mean, it's only been three months. What does he expect? Happy faces all 'round?" Ron mused, nudging Harry a little to bring him out of his own head.

Harry turned to look at his best friend and shrugged uncomfortably. "You're probably right, but I already agreed to go and you're coming with me. And 'Mione," he asserted, closing his fist around the letter and getting out of his bed the other way to avoid a now spluttering Ron.

"You what?! Why would you? This isn't sixth year any more Harry, you don't have to let him collect you!"

Digging through his bedside drawer and locating a self-inking quill, Harry shoved his glasses onto his nose and smoothed the letter out on top of the drawer. He began to write a messy RVSP on the bottom of the parchment, only acknowledging Ron's protests with half an ear.

"Yeah, I am perfectly aware of what year we're in, and no I'm not being collected. It's a favour."

"... a favour?"

"Yeah. Look, I get it. It is too soon, but I think he's just trying to make the most out of a shit situation. Also, we can't forget what Slughorn did for us in the end, how he fought for us. I owe him this if nothing else," Harry finished with a put-upon sigh, meeting Ron's sceptical stare resignedly and walking around his bed to the owl still waiting on the sill. He fixed the resealed letter to the owl's leg, and before he could even consider getting it treat, it took off with a defiant squawk back through the open window, diving from the tower and into the bright morning.

"So, I guess that means me and Hermione have to come..." Ron murmured, slouching back up off Harry's bed and watching the owl dip and twist in the crisp air before disappearing around a tall spire. Harry turned to look at Ron, but only detected a hint of dejection in his tone and posture; he mostly looked anticipatory.

"You don't have to do anything. I was mostly joking, but I would rather it if you were there," Harry admitted, scuffing his foot on the rich, red rug in between their four-posters.

"Of course we'll come Harry, we've literally followed you to war and back, why would we stop at some stupid party?" Ron's hand caught his shoulder and squeezed, his tone level and sure. In that moment, that almost meaningless gesture of support made Harry feel less alone than he had felt in months. Before he could stop himself, he swung around and grabbed his friend in a crushing hug, their respective heights bringing his head to press into Ron's collar bone.

Harry could feel his friend jerk in surprise, but he eventually returned the hug, patting Harry on the back with only a hint of stiffness. Harry whispered a soft thank you into the space between them, and Ron nodded back in acknowledgement; it's nothing mate the nod said, anytime.

The quiet, if not slightly awkward moment between two friends was broken when another hugger entered the fray, plastering themselves to Harry and Ron's sides and cackling madly.

"What's this lads, cuddle-therapy? I want in! Is this what we do now? We hug it out?" Seamus asked, his voice loud in the tight circle of limbs they had created. Harry couldn't help but let out a slightly hysterical laugh as Ron began to wrestle his way out of their hold, vehemently attempting to reassert his manliness by grappling with Seamus and denying all knowledge of such a thing as cuddle therapy.

Harry made it out unscathed and left the two at it; Seamus currently had Ron in a headlock and was aggressively attempting to manoeuvre him into another hug. He grabbed clothes for the day and his toothbrush, slipping past the commotion and into the bathroom; if he got ready now he could make it down to breakfast and grab a good seat at the end of Gryffindor, one with a clear view of the teacher's table.

He was eager but nervous at the same time to get a glimpse of Snape after everything that happened the night before. Tonight, he would serve his first detention, and then his next Defence class was first thing tomorrow morning, meaning he had plenty of time satisfy his oddly intense curiosity and concern surrounding his professor.

As Harry showered, he thought back to a different kind hug he had experienced the night before; enfolded in swathes of black and held in a tight, trembling grip. He remembered the split second Snape had given up all pretence pulled him in with firm hands, the moment so intense and surreal that Harry was half sure he may have dreamed it; Severus Snape hugged him, and that hug being somehow more satisfying than any he had the pleasure of experiencing to date? It felt near impossible.

But it wasn't. Harry knew what had happened was real, and knew that he had come on in leaps and bounds in trying to convince his professor to break down a few barriers between them.

Harry finished showering and getting ready, dodging Ron's slightly betrayed looks at leaving him at the mercy of Seamus's henceforth dubbed Morning Hug Club. He grabbed his messenger bag and joined his dorm mates as they all made for the stairs, belatedly realising he had left Snape's cloak under his pillow as they reached the common room.

He considered turning back to get it, but as Hermione meandered over to them through the morning crowds with a small smile just for them, he decided he could probably hold onto it for just a little bit longer.

Snape wouldn't mind.

Snape did mind, and was cursing his senseless and completely uncharacteristic sentimentality as he strode through the frigid dungeon corridors in just a light black teaching robe. He was terribly receptive to the cold of late, even on a mild September morning, mainly due to the continued medicinal potions he was consuming and the fatigue his body was experiencing during the healing process. An injury such as the one he had experienced was rare and almost always fatal, and it was frankly astounding he had even survived it at all.

Potter, bringer of miracles and tempter of fate.

And so, his thoughts pivoted back to Potter.

The Defence professor was so preoccupied with musings of the night before that he walked straight past a gaggle of nervous looking first years sharing out a bag of Puking Pastilles from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The group froze in abject horror, but their professor strode on unknowingly, a look of wicked concentration on his sallow face.

By the time Snape made it to the Great Hall to catch the tail end of breakfast, it was absolutely a packed to the rafters with ravenous students. His familiar sneer slid into place as he stalked to the teacher's table, spotting the only empty seat the opposite end to where he usually sat. He made for it with much disgruntled sighing, not missing Minerva McGonagall's eye roll at his theatrics; in retaliation he sighed louder as he dropped into the seat, next to none other than Horace Slughorn.

Their Potions Master gave him a crumby grin through his mouthful of toast, but in the meantime said nothing while in pursuit of his breakfast. Snape was eternally and silently grateful and proceeded to pick up the thing closest to him; a bowl of natural yoghurt decorated with plump, late-season blackberries. To say he had little appetite recently was exaggerating, but even he understood the importance of three-square meals a day. If the sickness allowed, he tried to eat something reasonable where and when he could.

Slughorn emerged from his feast when Snape was only halfway through his breakfast. He cleared his throat pre-emptively, and the ex-Potions Master had to count to ten under his breath before turning around with what could only be described as a grimace.

However, Slughorn had years of experience and kinship with aloof and prickly Slytherins; the look slid off him like water off a duck's back.

"Severus! So nice to see you, I hope you're keeping well?"

Snape raised a sceptical eyebrow at the comment, about to state the obvious, but Slughorn barrelled on without waiting for a response at his expression.

"Ah, as well as can be expected I suppose, as with all of us. I trust you received the invite to my Victory Gala this Saturday?" The round-faced professor leant in conspiratorially, lowering his voice so that only the teacher's table could hear, presumably as opposed to half of the Great Hall as before.

The invite in question had barely been given a cursory once-over before being tossed into Severus Snape's fiery hearth this morning.

The Defence professor sighed rudely in his colleague's face.

"I'm afraid I must decline your gracious invite, Horace. I have many important tasks vying for my attention, and I'd rather expend my energy attending to these rather than dallying in some faux-celebratory gathering, pretending like I wasn't mostly on the wrong side of the war," Snape finished dispassionately, watching Slughorn's hopeful expression dampen and crease with each passing second.

"Well yes, I was afraid you might say something...along those lines. Everyone knows the truth now Severus, you needn't concern yourself over such things!"

"Clearly," came the sharp and icy reply, and deciding that he had quite enough of this discussion, Snape turned to the remainder of his breakfast. He heard Slughorn fidgeting nervously next to him, obviously brimming with arguments to the contrary but too wary to voice them. Snape actually did appreciate that the man was one of the few people who still respected and trusted him, but had no time for stupid gatherings, and no time for licking any boots, as Slughorn had a tendency to do so when devising events for his little club of celebrities.

"You know, Harry Potter is going to be there..." Slughorn trailed off, sounding unsure of himself. Snape whipped around and levelled him with a glare fierce enough to cow a rampaging swarm of Cornish Pixies, abandoning his breakfast once again.

"That is my concern... because?"

"Well, because I was worried that he might need someone to... keep an eye on him? There are going to be some attending from outside of Hogwarts, can't be too careful and all..." the Potions Master tried, beginning to look more confident by the moment.

"You're telling me, that you don't care to vet those attending your little party, and feel that students may be at risk?"

"Oh, uh, no that's not quite what I mean Severus, I—"

"Will Mister Potter be in danger?" Snape deadpanned, looking viciously down his nose at the professor next to him and feeling his hackles rise.

"Of course not!"

"Well then, your point is?"

As Slughorn continued to splutter and prevaricate, Snape turned away from him and looked at the crowd of students before them, if only to calm his boiling anger with a distraction.

The one offered to him felt like a joke from the universe itself.

Harry Potter was looking straight at him, his benignly green stare piercing as their eyes met. He titled his head curiously, his eyes flicking over to Slughorn and back; they said are you ok? What's that about?

Snape continued to meet those eyes and felt an emotion not dissimilar to protectiveness seep involuntarily into his psyche. After everything, the thought of Potter being vulnerable at the gala, the thought of Potter being exposed in a room full of worshipers and obsessives and strangers felt disarming; and he suddenly knew he had to be there, even if just in a distantly watchful capacity.

In a moment of true absurdity, Potter's eyes stretched wide in apparent disbelief, as if he interpreted the fierce protectiveness reflected in the ex-Potion Master's expression, and a light flush bloomed across the bridge of his nose. Snape took his time cataloguing the look, feeling altogether ridiculous for the continued silent conversations they were having, but somehow oddly gratified all at once.

He still wasn't ready to observe the why and how of the situation, so stifled any of those burgeoning voices in his head and tore his gaze away from the flustered boy, looking instead at the now mystified expression his colleague was sporting.

"Severus...?" Slughorn tried, looking between the Defence professor and Potter in the crowd, his brow drawn sharp and confused. Snape pushed his still half-finished bowl away and rose in a swirl of black robes and barely contained agitation.

"I will be on the 7th floor an hour early to have an observable advantage on those who enter your... event. Any undesirables must be reported straight to me. I am attending in this capacity only, and shan't be expected to join in any frivolity. If you would excuse me Horace, I have classes to teach."

Snape strode away, leaving a flabbergasted Slughorn calling thanks in his wake and the headmistress raising an inquisitive eyebrow as he walked past. He rose his own in response, and continued down and out of the Great Hall, all the while making sure he didn't allow himself the frankly unusual pleasure of meeting Potter's eyes once again.

He thought back to the blush colouring The Saviour of the Wizarding World's usually pallid face as he bypassed the dungeons, making way for the staircases towards the Defence classroom.

He thought of those wide, green eyes as he unlocked the classroom door with a wandless incantation.

He thought of their recent tête-à-tête in the moonless dark of the Astronomy Tower as he sat behind his desk and pulled out his personal planner.

He thought about protectiveness and duty and obsession as his first class of the day filed in cautiously, and had the sense of mind to consider that maybe his misplaced loyalty, his legendary covetousness concerning Lily, had passed obscured until now from mother to son.

Merlin help me.

The moment Transfiguration let out for lunch, Harry bolted from the classroom as fast as socially acceptable. He had been fighting an acute sense of nervous embarrassment ever since breakfast, and he was more than ready to escape McGonagall's probing questions as to whether he felt quite well.

He knew he appeared flustered, but with Snape's almost feral look of intense protectiveness this morning, how could anyone blame him?

At least that's how he had interpreted it; one moment he and the Defence professor were sharing one of their neutral stares after Harry had noticed an oddly fraught exchange between him and Slughorn, then the next those black eyes had lit with something fierce. Something like the look many who had tried to protect him during the war had worn, but this one was so passionate in its seriousness that it felt different.

As soon as Harry had made sense of it, he had felt overwhelmingly discomposed in seconds, in the middle of the Great Hall and in front of all of his classmates; hiding the completely inconvenient blush that had decided to appear had been a feat in and of itself.

Thinking about the situation made his head hurt; he had already expended too much energy trying to wrap his head around Snape's resurrection and subsequent reintroduction into his life, and now he had to contend with weird feelings of obligation, respect and... affection.

Harry tried not to focus too much on the latter, plastering himself to the wall just outside of Transfiguration and waiting for Ron and Hermione to emerge. Students threw him curious and sometimes blatantly obtrusive stares on their way past, and he dropped his head low to avoid their prying eyes. Within the next few moments, Hermione appeared from around the threshold of the classroom, looking slightly harried as she spotted him, Ron just in tow with a confounded expression.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked immediately, catching him at the crook of his elbow and pulling him gently along with the flow of the lunchtime crowds. Ron was a comforting presence at his back as they began slowly towards the stairs, apparently letting Hermione go full mother-hen without intervention.

After a few moments of ambling along the corridors, Harry finally felt calm enough to answer, and acknowledged his bushy-haired friend quietly. "Nothing, promise. I've just been... you know, distracted."

"So, this isn't about Professor Snape?" Hermione asked shrewdly, and Harry could help but whip around to look at her, unable to hide his slightly aghast expression. She rolled her eyes at the look and gave his arm a firm squeeze as they descended the moving staircases.

"Harry, you don't think I know you by now? Come on, let's have a walk."

As they made it to the bottom of the staircases, Hermione began to steer him in the direction of Hufflepuff, but Ron made a groaning sound of utter protest from behind them.

"'Mione, lunch? Where're you off with him?"

"I'm taking Harry for a walk, we can stop by the kitchens to pick up a sandwich," she asserted with a pointed look, and it was Ron's turn to look aghast.

"Can't we, you know, go after? He'll be fine."

"Ronald Weasley, you are more than welcome to bugger off to the Great Hall, but Harry looks like he needs the space!"

"I'm right here you know..." Harry tried, staring as his friends talked about him like he wasn't there.

"Mate, you coming?" Ron addressed Harry, gazing at his girlfriend with reproach.

"I don't –"

"He needs a walk, don't you Harry?" Hermione cut Harry off, giving him a look that said it was best to just listen or suffer the nagging all day.

"Uh—"

"We'll see you later," she finished, and with that she pulled him back around and away from a bemused Ron, who shrugged to himself and made for the opposite direction. Harry allowed himself to be led without protest, and when they arrived at the entrance to the kitchens and Hermione tickled the pear, she instructed him to wait outside.

He felt like a spare part as he waited, ignoring the lunchtime stragglers in favour for fiddling with a loose button on the front of his school cloak. She emerged minutes later laden with a paper bag and two steaming flasks, and he immediately took the bag and one of the drinks as she approached; she smiled warmly at the gesture and linked their arms once again.

The weak September sun was gleaming off the great lake in the distance as they made it outside and walked through one of the courtyards. She took them straight through and down a grassy embankment, and the silence was wonderful; every other student was either indoors enjoying their lunchbreak or dispersed in small groups a great distance away from the pair.

They finally stopped just up a small knoll beside the lake, and thanks to the wonderfully (and surprisingly) dry day they were able to sit down on the grass. Harry turned to Hermione as she lowered herself to the ground, and the wisps of her hair were golden where they escaped her messy bun in the slight breeze.

"You're doing it again," was the first thing his friend said as she made herself comfortable, taking the bag from his hands as he sat and pulling out their lunches; rustic slices of thick white bread stuffed with slabs of golden cheese and a red apple each.

"What am I doing?" Harry took his lunch as it was handed to him, balancing the fruit on his knee and taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"You did it in sixth year and you're doing it again now. I've been here less than a day and I can see it."

"Doing what Hermione?"

"Obsessing. This time, not over a certain blonde-haired Slytherin, but a Slytherin nonetheless. You've been completely distracted and I think I know why..." she took a bite of her own lunch, and raised an eyebrow pointedly at the Saviour of the Wizarding World, a look that said you know who I mean, do I have to say it?

Harry felt the resignation on his face as he sighed hugely; he took another forlorn bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as he met his friend's warm gaze.

"I feel like I owe him 'Mione. After everything he did, after the sacrifices he made for me... for someone he obviously hates."

"I beg to differ Harry."

"What?"

"Severus Snape doesn't hate you, not anymore. I imagine he hates the memories and regrets that come with you, but he doesn't hate you," Hermione asserted firmly, but Harry just shrugged in response; who truly knew what Snape thought of him?

In that moment his mind assaulted him with images from the past few days: the comfort of the store cupboard after his panic attack, a tight embrace on windy night, a warm cloak draped around his shoulders.

Tentative touches and loaded stares. Weary truces and veiled kindnesses.

Harry didn't know what Snape felt about him, but he knew deep down that it wasn't quite hatred.

"So, what are you going to do about it? You want to help him, you say you owe him... what are you going to do?" Hermione didn't look like she thought he was being a bit nuts, if anything she sounded encouraging as she took a sip of tea from her charm-warmed cup.

"I didn't expect you to be so on board..."

"Harry, I know you'll do whatever you want to do without my input, so humour me," she caught Harry's eyes again and smirked; he knew she was probably right, because while he had always listened to his friend, his gut instinct had always won out.

"Like I told you before, I offered him help and he was less than pleased. But I think... well, we came to some sort of agreement last night..." at Hermione's bemused look he paused, tearing the crusts off his sandwich and chucking them across the grass for the birds. A host of blackbirds and finches swooped down immediately, chirping and pecking as they converged.

"I went and found him in the library. We talked, he took points and gave me detention for being out after curfew... but I think that was his way of letting me help? I've got to go every Tuesday and Thursday." The heavily redacted version sounded fake even to Harry's ears, and this was Hermione he was talking to; the woman was like a human lie detector.

But she seemed to except the short version of the story with ease, humming with apparent interest while she finished the rest of her lunch.

"I suppose you might be right... he could have sent you to do it with someone else," she agreed easily, and Harry felt like he may have just got away with keeping this conversation simple and emotion-free, until he heard her sigh in a resigned kind of way.

"Look Harry, I want you to be happy, and I want you to do whatever you feel gives you closure or acceptance. But please be careful; now is our time for healing. We were at war, and you gave so much for so long... its your time to rest. Don't sink too deep into this, ok?"

Hermione turned and grabbed his hand where it had been resting on his thigh; she wove their fingers together and leant in close, looking earnest and maternal.

All Harry could think is that he had already sunk too deep.

"I need this Hermione, I need to know him. I want to know the man who sacrificed his whole life for me is, and I want to know why. Not through a bunch of memories, or through someone else. He's one of the only ones left from before, and I need to know more..." Harry felt that now not-so unfamiliar feeling of righteousness flare whenever he discussed the man, and felt his shoulders begin to tense.

"I understand. Just be careful, ok? For all that Professor Snape did for you, he is a difficult man. Don't hurt yourself trying to know him," the kindness in her tone took the wind out of his sails; he suddenly felt exhausted, so tired of overthinking and caring too much. He leant sideways and propped his head on top of her bushy one, nodding when he was sure she'd be able to feel it, pressed together as they were.

He looked out across the sunlit lake, catching a glimpse of the giant squid's flailing tentacle as it broke through the shining surface for a split second and then vanished with a splash, leaving serene ripples in its wake.

"You're probably right..."

"Harry, I'm always right, I thought you knew that by now?" She replied cheekily, and he couldn't help the laugh that escaped his chest at that, somewhat soothing the congealed mess of thoughts and worries sticking to the inside of his skull.

He took a moment to just enjoy where he was now; with one of his best friends, relaxing by the lake in the unanticipated sunshine, everything that met the eye hued in a soft daytime gold. Worrying could wait until later, when he had his first detention with Snape.

"How's Gin?" Harry asked suddenly, changing the subject as he realised he hadn't seen her yet this term. He hadn't seen her since they broke up over the summer, when everything had been too much; Ginny had said she needed time to cope with her grief, and Harry had needed the peace of his own company to process what happened and decide how he wanted to live his life.

They hadn't reconciled after that, and Harry had accepted that they had gone their own ways in the aftermath of the war.

"Ginny? She's taking it day by day. She hasn't come back to school yet; she's getting work sent in from McGonagall until she feels ready. You'll probably see her soon," Hermione assured gently, straightening up from underneath him and meeting his eyes carefully.

She took a steadying breath as if readying to say something difficult.

"Harry... I'm not sure if you know but... have you been told that Ginny and Dean are... together? I thought she'd mentioned it but... maybe not, if you've not spoken..." her gaze was sad as she assessed him for a reaction.

He met her eyes straight on, feeling his fingers flexing in hers where they were still clasped together on his leg, and processed what had he had just been told.

Instead of the festering jealousy of before, instead of the rage, he realised he felt... at peace. He felt happy for her, and that feeling was enough to make his head spin; when had teenaged envy turned into steady acceptance?

Harry just felt suddenly glad she had found happiness somewhere, in someone. Someone not him, someone who wasn't explicably linked to the death of her brother and the reason for her grief. He was sure she wouldn't agree with that assessment, but he couldn't help seeing some truth in it.

She deserved a normal life, away from his celebrity and misfortune.

"Good for her. Top bloke, and she's a catch, so I'm sure they'll be very happy. Again."

Hermione's face suddenly broke into a grin, and she laughed at the subtle jibe, "Harry Potter, who's to say you aren't a catch? I'm sure you'll find your own happy ever after in no time."

"Uh oh, don't let Ron hear you calling me a catch," Harry teased, jerking backwards with another laugh as Hermione unlinked their hands and reached up to swat him over the head, missing by a fraction.

"Oh, shut up you!"

"Or maybe he'll agree, and we'll elope together."

"You can have him! Maybe I'll have some peace for once in my life, from the both of you," she reached out to swat at him again, and this time he skidded backwards on the grass out of the way, laughing like he hadn't in a while.

She laughed back, and things felt right.

Harry had expected the detention to be down in the dungeons, maybe in Snape's Slytherin office. What he didn't expect was an invite to the Defence classroom written in spikey cursive to arrive in front of his plate at dinnertime.

He looked sharply to the teacher's table, but Snape was nowhere in sight. The Hogwarts owl that had brought the letter canted its head expectantly, and Harry obligingly gave it a piece of pastry from his steak and ale pie.

When he finished his dinner and swung backwards off the bench to leave, Hermione gave him an encouraging smile, and Ron looked suitably gutted for him, grimacing and wishing him luck. Harry shrugged nonchalantly in response, bidding them both goodnight and slouching out of the Great Hall.

His mind was serenely blank as he made his way up the staircases.

By the time Harry pushed the door to his Defence classroom open with a soft creak, his mind had continued its vow of silence. He thought nothing other than putting one foot in front of the other until he found himself right in front of Professor Snape's desk, his bag held loosely in his fist.

Snape was hunched over a large, intimidating stack of essays, his hair falling lankly to conceal his face. He made no effort to acknowledge Harry even existed, the strokes of his quill methodical.

Harry allowed himself the time to stare; Snape's permanently stained fingers were graceful around the quill, and as usual, his marking was stark and intimidating in red. He looked calm, and he looked like he couldn't possibly belong anywhere else in the world but here, in this school, marking at this table.

After about thirty seconds of aimless gazing, in which Harry had no thoughts in his head other than a permeating and contradictory sense of excited dread, his Defence professor looked up from under his hair.

"Perhaps I should perform a trip jinx on you if you've forgotten how to sit down, Mister Potter." Snape intoned, sitting back in his chair an gesturing impatiently at the wooden stool adjacent to his desk. "Or maybe you've decided to stand for the entirety of your detention, and in that case, be my guest."

Harry rushed to sit, feeling an all to familiar blush warm his face as he dropped his bag on the floor beside himself. Embarrassment crawled up his spine as he leaned forward to brace his forearms on the desk between them, before realising that put him straight in his professor's space, so jerkily withdrew and stuffed his hands under his thighs to stop them fidgeting.

As much as he felt the urge to be bewilderingly close to the man of late, that spine-tingling stare from earlier today was burned into the back of his brain. He needed the space.

"Sorry, I'm just… I don't know. Sorry," Harry finished lamely, meeting Snape's condescending gaze and shrugging; now he was here, and now he had to acknowledge his teacher, his brain helpfully started supplying all of the things he'd been stewing over since their odd exchange the previous evening, and it was setting his nerves alight with tension.

"Eloquent as usual. Now if we are quite done making fools of ourselves, I'd like to talk about what I expect of you in our… forthcoming detentions." Snape sat back further in his chair and steepled his long fingers, looking down his nose at Harry before he gestured at the marking work splayed out in front of him.

"I expect you, in your supposed capacity as an expert on this subject, to mark your fair share of the first through third year's classwork. I shan't anticipate any mistakes from our saviour, but I expect you to ask if you are unsure; do you understand?"

All Harry could do was splutter in disbelief for a handful of seconds. "You want me to mark work from your classes? Sir, I don't—"

"As someone who managed an Outstanding in their Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L, I expect you to at least know all there is to know from the third year down!" Snape snapped, leaning quickly to the left to grab a neatly stacked pile of parchments and dropping them with a soft thwump in front of Harry.

The Defence professor steepled his fingers once more, glaring at his student in askance. Harry grabbed the sheaf with tingling fingers and span it to face him: classwork from his younger classmates' likely first Defence lesson of the year. It looked like there were an array of questions on general defensive spellwork.

Harry glanced back up at Snape, and felt a steady pounding in his chest that seemed to amplify when the man quirked a brow.

"You trust me with this?" Harry deadpanned, his fingers toying with the edge of the stack in front of him.

"I trust that you've got at least half a brain up there capable of completing this task, Potter… and speaking of your brain, did you forget my cloak?" Snape parried, making an exaggerated ordeal of looking left and right for his missing garment, "I perhaps assumed that you would return your professor's cloak at your earliest convenience. Am I wrong?"

Harry found himself torn between acknowledging the backhanded compliment and being mortified at the realisation that the cloak in question was still under his pillow. He caught and held his professor's dark glare with what he was sure came across as a pleading look.

"I'm sorry, I – it's in my dorm. I forgot it this morning. Could we just – I mean, should we get on with this?" Harry begged; he wasn't ready to acknowledge the fact that he had kept his teacher's cloak and hadn't even attempted to go back at any point today to get it; he was desperate for Snape to understand his distress. After all, the man seemed just as possessed by the strange, growing thing between them as he did. He wanted to know Snape, and he wanted to understand their connection, but he didn't want to even begin to confront the messy affection that seemed to be hulking in the shadows of their interactions.

Snape stared him down for a daunting number of moments, and began flicking his marking quill between his fingers. Back and forth, back and forth, like a metronome. Harry focused on that instead, and felt himself become waylaid from the present as he waited for the professor to respond.

The quill was suddenly pressed to the desk with a decisive, loud click; snapped out of his trance, Harry rushed to meet Snape's eyes once more. He looked resigned, if not slightly annoyed, as he leant forward and tapped Harry's stack of parchments with his fingers.

"I need these done within the hour. If your relentless perusal of late has genuinely been a quest to help me, then I expect these finished in plenty of time and without complaints. Do I make myself clear?" Snape seemed to lean even closer, his hand splayed out on top of the student questions as he canted his head in question, waiting for Harry Potter to find his tongue.

The Boy Who Lived felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude towards the Ex-Potions Master in that moment, and he let go of a breath he hadn't know he had been holding.

"Yes sir, crystal," he agreed easily and the professor rolled his eyes, before drawing his wand in a flick of his wrist to wordlessly duplicate his quill. He tossed the spare one to Harry who caught it immediately and reflexively, grinning like he couldn't help himself and twirling the quill between his index and ring fingers.

Snape rolled his eyes again at the show of bravado. "If only your essay-writing was as sharp as your seeker reflexes, and you might have a chance of achieving higher than a Troll in the written half of your N.E. ," he snarked, but Harry only laughed in return, biting the larger part of his mirth between his teeth and looking down at the work in front of him.

"You're right professor, and maybe this marking will help with that," he returned peacefully, but Snape only made a vaguely annoyed sound low in his throat, before he picked up his own quill again and started writing where he left off earlier, completely ignoring the boy across from him.

Harry shrugged at the shutdown, and leaned closer to inspect the parchment on top of the stack. The first question was about the correct incantation for the Patronus spell, and Harry felt a second grin split his lips and a warmth permeate his chest; Snape knew how well versed he was in this, and he suddenly felt grateful that his knowledge had been respected enough that the man trusted him to mark these papers.

He got to work, the red of the quill cutting across the parchment like fresh blood.

Severus Snape didn't mention his cloak again as they worked together in silence.

Potter was irritatingly easy to work alongside.

He only asked a handful of questions over the next hour, querying spelling and general marking techniques, but he mostly remained quiet, contentedly so. It oddly, and against his better judgement, made Snape sink into a deep malaise of regret. He absolutely knew how poorly he had treated the boy in his classrooms, and suspected that if he had only treated him with a modicum of respect in their formative years, Harry wouldn't have been so difficult to teach. In Potions, Occlumency or otherwise.

Snape allowed himself a furtive glance at his student as he sat back, rotating his wrist to relieve a cramp as he finished the stack before him. There was just something in manually marking work, something viscerally satisfying about physically slashing through the idiotic ramblings from some of his students; he could easily charm the quill to write for him, but he preferred the hands-on method.

Harry was chewing on the end of his own quill, the feathers sticking out in a messy array as he scrutinised one of the last parchment papers in his pile. His glasses were slipping down his nose, barely hanging on, and his lashes were a soft sweep over his cheekbones from this angle.

He looked younger like this, despite being eighteen years of age with a faint five o'clock shadow. His shoulders were loose, and he was leaning into the desk between them, taking up the space like it belonged to him. Like as if he wasn't afraid to be close to his teacher, or as if he'd forgotten he was there entirely.

Snape knew there was no point in pretending; as insipid as he had thought the boy previously, he now admitted to a growing, if not slightly unhealthy interest in him. The circumstances of Harry's life, or his upbringing and the challenges he had faced were the makings of someone great, if not damaged. Since his relentless perusal of Snape of late, the professor was reluctant to admit that he was willing to at least know the boy, now that everything was done.

They were two people who had been irrevocably manipulated and broken by a powerful, tyrannical mad man. There must be something in that sameness that might afford an acquaintance between the two, despite the years of toxic and reactionary interactions they had suffered through.

None of these things failed to stop Potter being relentlessly annoying and obtuse, Snape thought uncharitably as he caught up with his own musings.

Harry picked that moment to sigh contentedly and look up as he dropped his quill; his effervescent emerald eyes met Snape's immediately, and his stare softened in a way Snape had only ever seen from two other people.

Lilly Potter and Albus Dumbledore.

This time, instead continuing to stare, Harry dropped his eyes and cleared his throat loudly, his ears reddening subtly. Snape was reminded of earlier today in the Great Hall, and thought for a moment that he could possibly use Potter's new shy evasiveness to his advantage.

To test a theory, of course.

"Professor Slughorn has invited you to his idiotic Victory Gala, I assume."

He looked back up in surprise, "Uh, yeah. I don't really… well, I didn't want to go, but he's done a lot for me so…" he finished, now looking inquisitive as he decisively tidied up the parchment stack in front of him and handed it over the desk to his professor, "are you going?"

Snape took the pile and leafed through it quickly; all marked, his corrections and alterations less imposing and friendlier than the Defence Professor's own. He vanished both piles of work and leant forward into Potter's space, and felt a stirring of triumph when the boy inched back ever so slightly.

"I don't trust your Potions Professor as far as I can throw him, Potter. To have a celebration after a war, when we're far from rebuilt. Professor Slughorn doesn't think beyond the next tabloid he'll be pictured in with the… latest celebrity," he murmured, cataloguing the subtle changes in Potter's face as they happened; curiosity, bewilderment, embarrassment.

"I will be there to ensure no one unfriendlier than myself interrupts the occasion," Snape held his hand out between them, crooking his fingers at the bent quill on his student's side of the tabletop. Instead of handing the wretched thing over, Potter stared at his upturned hand, his eyes glazed over and intent as he let out a rather nervous-sounding hum.

"So… you'll be protecting the students, sir?" He asked, eyes roving over his professor's long fingers. Snape bent his fingers once more, just to see Potter twitch, his breathing hitching.

Interesting…

"Potter, I'll mostly be there to make sure no one takes offence to you."

Harry ripped his stare away from Snape's fingers then, immediately puffing up with righteous indignance, "takes offence to me? What the hell have I done?!"

"Oh, only defeated a Dark Lord and left a multitude of his followers bereft and astray. Think, you insufferable fool; any of those people might think this gathering, with some coming from outside of Hogwarts, an unmissable opportunity to get close to you. We know nothing of any one wizard or witch's previous affiliations!"

Snape hadn't meant to ramp up so fast. He had got much more passionate than intended, and now he felt himself breathing raggedly, agitation tightening his chest. He slumped back in his chair and took an unsteady breath, and Potter was watching him again his eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly agape.

"Professor Slughorn wouldn't invite anyone we don't trust…" the boy tapered off, his belligerence tampered down as soon as it came.

"I think we've already established that our Potions Professor wouldn't know danger if it came into his office and asked him how to split its soul…" Snape deadpanned.

If Potter was surprised by his professor's vitriol, he didn't show it this time. He only looked considering, before finally handing Snape the bitten quill with a look of reverence. Snape took it, and with a sneer at the misshapen bristles, vanished it wandlessly.

"Well, uh… thank you, sir. I know you'd rather be anywhere else. It means a lot that you're coming just to pro— er, keep me out of trouble..."

"Don't let it go to your head, boy. The day I'm not sticking my neck out for you is the day I'm six feet under the earth and finally free of Potters." Snape tried for venom but he knew he fell flat, if the look of contentedness from the boy was anything to go by. He looked like a cat with the cream as he rubbed at his the back of his already outrageously messy hair, looking under his eyelashes at his professor.

"Either way, I appreciate it." The blush was back again, and Snape took his time to catalogue it. He belatedly remembered he was supposed to be testing a niggling theory he had, so caught up in the whirlwind that was Potter that he had forgotten.

He rose steadily from behind his desk and Potter tracked the movement carefully, whether out of concern for his professor's injuries, or an instinct to know where Professor Snape was at all times, much like many students before him.

This seemed much more like the former.

He stopped next to Potter, leaning back on his side of the desk and glancing down at the face turned up to his. He let himself to take in the details of the boy's face, eyes languorous as he took his time, making a show of looking. The redness of Potter's ears spread quickly to his cheeks, but this time, he didn't look away; he kept himself still and allowed the scrutiny.

"Have you read the book I assigned you, Potter?" The question came across in a strangely intimate way, Snape's tone quiet and low in the limited space between them.

He glanced down to his student's mouth on a complete whim, and watched in morbid fascination as Potter bit into his bottom lip, drawing it in briefly before letting it go with a small exhale of breath.

Potter dropped their eye contact immediately after and scrubbed a hand over his lips, before glancing back up in another uncharacteristic show of meekness.

His student's flustered behaviour thus far did nothing to contradict his current working theory.

Red flag, Serverus, red flag…

"Confronting the Faceless, sir? Uh, got to chapter three. I've mostly been wondering if the author has actually met Inferi first hand… because, it doesn't really seem like it." Potter busied himself picking up his bookbag and generally making an exaggerated fuss of getting this things together before standing; whether to put himself on an even standing with Snape or just to gain some equilibrium, it was difficult to tell.

"What makes you think the author isn't familiar with the subject of their own craft? You'll remember that I assigned this very book in your sixth year, Potter, and with good reason; it doesn't shy away from the finer details of the darkest magic."

"Sir, I've met them. There's nothing that can prepare you for that. Nothing that can prepare you for the way they look, the way they fight… the book barely even talks about the best way to repel them…" Potter seemed to sway slightly on the spot suddenly, before leaning his weight back on the desk, putting him inches from Snape's elbow. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his student, and saw the face of someone who knew intimately what that sort of darkness looked like.

Harry Potter was almost as much an expert on dark magic as Severus Snape, and it showed.

"I am loathe to agree with you, but you are right that the book doesn't wholly prepare you for the reality. Your classmates have seen war, and have experienced terror, but they've not come close enough to know the things you do, Potter. This is why I aim to arm them with the worst of knowledge, in hope that if the time ever comes, it'll be the best of knowledge."

Potter looked at him then, but his eyes were suddenly glazed, haunted, like he was caught in a memory.

"Dumbledore used a spell to repel them, and I don't even know what it was…" he trailed off, crossing his arms across his chest, gripping his elbows in white-knuckled hands. The speed in which the boy had moved from indulgent shyness to this gave Snape mental whiplash.

"It is extremely likely that he used the firestorm charm. An equally effective repellent would have been the fire rope charm, or even a simple Incendio… our old headmaster always did relish a touch of flare," the Defence Professor found himself trying to reassure, enraptured by the boy's now drawn, pale face.

Potter nodded a little, before dropping his chin to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut, "I never gave myself time to think about any of this before. I always just got on with it. But… I— sir, the smell… their eyes… they were so cold when they grabbed me, slippery from the water… and I don't think I'll ever look at a cave the same way again— I don't—"

He could see it coming from a mile off; the boy sucked in a fraught, shivery breath and gripped himself tighter. Snape turned, placing himself directly in front of his student and stooping slightly to look at his face.

"For Merlin's sake Potter, breathe," he commanded, tone inching on impatient, and he knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, because the boy's breathing became shallower, and he dropped his head lower.

"I can't, I— I'm sorry, I don't know why this keeps happening to me—"

Snape listened in dismay as Potter's breath wheezed as it came up his throat, the sound ugly and jarring in the quiet of the room.

He decided enough was enough.

Gripping his student by the shoulder, the Defence Professor slid his other hand under the sharp curve of Potter's jaw, encouraging him to lift his face. His fingers settled just behind Potter's right ear, and he rubbed the spot with a careful index finger in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture.

"Harry Potter, you are no longer in that cave, and you never have to be again. Every single Inferius perished when the Dark Lord fell, thanks to you, the spells on their bodies broken. The students here should count their blessings that they likely won't ever have to face those damnable creatures because of what you did. You are safe now."

The results were immediate; Potter opened his green, green eyes and met Snape's own.

He looked quickly at the position they were in, a million thoughts flickering over his face, before reaching and grasping Snape's wrist where it was near his neck; he pressed his fingers into the tendons there, kneading ever so slightly, grasping as if Snape might disappear if he didn't hold on.

His breathing began to regulate again, and Snape took a steadying breath of his own.

"You really must take some responsibility and visit Madam Pomfrey, Potter. Whatever coping mechanisms you have in place, they're clearly not working..." Snape murmured, and he knew the disdain was bleeding through in his tone. Potter suddenly looked a little forlorn at that, so he soothed his fingers in an uncoordinated pattern up the side of the boy's neck; something that was extremely novel to him, because Severus Snape did not comfort people.

That he was even trying to now was frankly a mystery to him.

But Harry Potter closed his eyes against the sensation, his breathing coming easily now, the downward spiral he'd been on ended as soon as it had begun. Snape felt along the side of his neck, marvelling how soft the skin was there, secretly coveting the feel of someone else. Of another body. Of Potter.

And there, there was that infuriating, mystifying, enticing blush again.

Potter opened his eyes a fraction, his lids heavy. His bright irises flicked across Snape's face, before straying to his mouth and back. He repeated the motion several times, the scarlet of his face only growing a deeper shade as he stared, and that was enough for Snape to realise how inappropriate this was, to be this close to a student for so long, to touch for so long.

The realisation felt like a sickening punch to the solar plexus; Snape dropped his hands and stepped away, tucking his arms behind his back where they could no longer touch.

The boy blinked rapidly at the sudden departure, and spun to face him with a look of utter confusion, which slowly bled into abashed realisation. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and Snape felt embarrassment climb agonisingly up his own throat, looking evasively off to somewhere in the corner of the classroom.

We've done quite enough staring to last a lifetime…

"Uh— well…." He tried lamely, looking as lost as his teacher.

"Don't." Snape interrupted, his brow furrowed in agitation, "Mister Potter, our detention is long finished. Same time, same place on Thursday and don't be late. Can you manage that much at least?"

He looked startled at the dismissal, but nodded, still oddly bereft of his usual sharp comebacks. "I think so, sir. But…"

"But what?" Snape snapped back, rounding back to his side of the desk and gripping the back of his teaching chair, still avoiding the young man's gaze.

"…Thank you. I mean it. That's the second time you've helped like that… it means a lot..."

Snape did look back at him then, and even if he still looked flustered, a small, grateful smile pulled at his lips. Snape's heart suddenly felt two times too large for his chest, and he looked quickly away again before he could become subject to the boy's thrall.

"I've told you before and I'll tell you again; do get a grip on yourself, Potter. Talk to someone. You obviously need it."

"And you need it too. Speaking to you about these things has helped me more than anything, sir. Maybe we could just speak to each other…"

Snape reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, "neither of us are qualified to deal with this—"

"Yeah, but no one has been through what we've been through either," he whispered it, but Snape heard it all the same. A moment of silence passed between them, and in that time his heart didn't do him the favour of slowing down.

After realising his professor wasn't going to speak any time soon, Potter rucked his bag up onto one shoulder and took a step back, his small, shaky smile still in place.

"I'll see you in Defence tomorrow, sir," he called as he turned around, throwing a hand up over his shoulder in a goodbye wave.

"Let's not have any further class-interrupting incidents, shall we?" Snape called just as the boy reached the door, just to have the last word, just to re-establish their status-quo; letting Potter go without at least a fraction of snark from Serverus Snape would be an affront to the order of the universe.

Potter could obviously tell he wasn't as serious as usual, because he only threw one last small smile over his shoulder, snorting softly and then pushing his way out of the door.

The muffled click of his exit made all of the fight go out of Snape; he deflated, slouching into his chair and lowering his head to his desk in a completely uncharacteristic show of dramaticism. The position did absolutely nothing for his injured neck, but he stubbornly ignored the low ebbs of pain that radiated down his shoulder in favour for being maudlin.

Instead of just testing his theory, he had proven that they both had an unhealthy, unspeakable and unintelligible amount of feelings toward each other. Snape wasn't ready to even summarise what this own feelings actually were, but he wasn't so stupid as to not recognise unhealthy infatuation coming from the boy when presented with it.

After all, he had lived with such infatuation for long enough, despite how infrequently he was on the receiving end of such emotions.

Harry Potter was bordering on smitten with him. With him. Severus Snape. He blushed when they got too close, was terrifyingly easy and insistent with his touches, and constantly endeavoured to seek his teacher out. It was the last thing Snape wanted, but at the same time, it fascinated and enticed him, and that's what was making the situation all the more agonising to make sense of.

Whether Potter knew what it was he was feeling was another matter entirely. And whether the reason for his infatuation was some sort of co-dependant, survivors guilt was a further concern to be contended with.

Snape ground his forehead into the wooden tabletop for a handful of moments, feeling flayed, like his nerves were laid bare. Then he sat back when he realised how pathetic he'd look to an outside eye, taking in his barren classroom and running his fingers back through his hair to brush it off his face.

How was he going to cope with being in close proximity to the boy again during their next detention without giving into the urge to poke what was simmering between them was beyond him.

And his own feelings, as covetous and tantalisingly within reach as they were on the precipice of his mind, stayed there, unexplored, for fear of what they might mean when he finally examined them up close.

TBC