Commonplace Magic (2/3) by sinick and ac1d6urn (HP/SS, AU, NC-17)
Commonplace Magic
(2/3, continued from here)
*
Harry had to work on Boxing Day to make up for the days he missed during the exams. He grumbled about having to wake up early; he still hadn’t caught up on his sleep. It was a miserable morning, cold and windy, and he skipped breakfast in favour of shaving and digging out a clean shirt from the pile of clothes on the floor.
Around eleven he found Severus in the empty Chop Room, sitting at his usual booth by the fireplace, the one with a large bowl with a grinning red lion - just as bright as the fire - on a shelf above it.
All at once, Harry’s day was vastly improved. He smiled and rushed to get his order: coffee, making sure to add milk and sugar. He knew that, unlike his tea, Severus didn’t like his coffee black.
Harry took his break early and spent it in the corner booth with Severus, finally eating his late breakfast as the smiling lion looked on. That fangy grin never failed to cheer him up, though to be honest Harry didn’t need cheering up today, not with Severus here.
“So,” he managed to ask between mouthfuls. “How was your Christmas?”
“Same old,” Severus shrugged.
“Oh, don’t give me that! Where’d you go? Who’d you see?”
“I stayed home.”
“Alone?” Suddenly Harry felt like a complete prat for not at least suggesting that Severus spend Christmas with him.
Severus arched an eyebrow. “Of course.”
Silly bugger! “You should’ve told me! I’d’ve come over.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, surely you had plans.” Severus narrowed his eyes and conducted a thorough examination of the plain white mug in his hands.
“No, actually. I didn’t,” Harry confessed. “Listen, on New Year’s Eve ... I can be there at seven, with takeaway. Is Chinese all right?” he mumbled all in one breath.
Severus was silent for the longest time, probably trying to figure out what Harry just said. Harry wondered if he should repeat it, just to be sure. “It’s acceptable,” Severus said at last.
“Great,” Harry exclaimed. “Perfect.” He traded a victorious grin with the lion on the bowl.
Harry couldn’t quite tell, but he thought that the still full mug in front of Severus’ face hid a smile. “And when you bring me another mug of coffee you might want to make sure it’s hot, or at least lukewarm.”
“What?” Harry blinked. “Oh, damn.” He ducked his head to hide his face, almost as red by now as the lion’s. “I’m an idiot. Hang about, I’ll get you another one.”
When he reached for the mug, their fingers unexpectedly brushed on the handle. Severus’ hand startled back, like a panicked bird about to flap off. Should’ve known he wouldn’t like being touched, Harry thought, noticing a flicker of something in Severus’ composed expression.
“Finish your meal first.” Now, when Severus looked at Harry, it was with mild amusement. “I’m in no hurry.”
So Harry did because his break was nearly over. Severus disappeared before Harry had a chance to bring the bill; he’d left behind on the table the exact amount he owed (and no tip, not that Harry expected one). Harry collected the coins and began counting the hours till New Year.
*
Back in the kitchen a co-worker misinterpreted Harry’s absentminded grin and dishevelled hair and snorted, elbowing him as he went by. “Finally got lucky, eh mate?”
“No!” Harry protested, “S’not that.” It really isn’t, he thought. It’s just, I got to see Severus for breakfast and I’ll see him again for New Year’s and exams are over and life is great and not everything has to be about a girl!
“Yeah, right,” the co-worker smirked. “Who is she?”
“M’serious,” Harry said earnestly. “There’s no one.”
But he couldn’t lie to himself as easily. There was Severus: his voice and his eyes in Harry’s dreams, and the fact that Harry always seemed to either grin like an idiot or forget the most ordinary tasks every time he saw him. There was absolutely no hiding that.
*
However, that throwaway question continued to nag at Harry all day, refusing to leave him in peace no matter how many times he tried to chase it away. And the more it lingered, the nastier it got.
Here, does this make me a poof? Harry wondered uneasily. Can’t be. S’not as though I go round fancying blokes all the time. Anyway, how bloody thick would I have to be, to have been a nance all these years and not even know it? What next? Am I gonna wake up one morning and realise out of the blue I’m a raving faggot? Many more dreams like that last one and who knows what’ll happen!
Harry’s smile faded soon enough under the cloud of such thoughts, and when he got off his shift that night, instead of going home - or to Severus’ place, but that was something he shied away from thinking about - he stopped off at the local instead.
There’s nothing wrong with me, Harry thought, I’ve just been working too bloody hard lately. Nothing a pint or two won’t fix.
*
Harry slurped at the frothy head and took a deep swig from his ...fourth? Fifth? How many pints does this make it? Sod it, Harry thought, before adding hastily: No not sod, Fuck it! He squinted; his glasses needed cleaning, things looked a bit blurry. But who the fuck cares? He snorted and took another hearty gulp, his squint changing to a scowl. M’fine. FINE. Just having some pints. Down the pub. Like blokes do. Normal blokes. Watching footy on the telly and having fun. Like a normal bloody bloke.
Except...
‘Cept it’s not really much fun, is it? Shit. S’not even ‘cause I’m here alone, Harry thought, looking around the pub. Loads of blokes drink alone. But even they’re having fun: watching the telly, cheering or slagging off at the game, and when the fuck did footy get so bloody boring? This is bollocks! Harry’s thoughts were as final as the thud of the pint pot as he abruptly slammed it down. I could drink till I pass out and when I woke up I’d still know I’d rather’ve been at his place. All the footy ever played isn’t half as much fun as one game of chess with that cheating old bastard and I’m NOT a poof and this is all his fucking fault!
Just then, the bartender called for last rounds, and timing like that was such an obvious omen that Harry moved at once. He untangled his legs from the barstool’s with rather more than his usual clumsiness, and marched out of the pub and down the street, the light of battle and booze in his eyes.
*
BANG BANG BANG of his fist on that familiar front door, battering it a bit more, until he heard the click of the lock and saw Severus. Skinny old git, wearing something grey and long - a nightshirt, like Wee Willie Winkie forfucksake! A laugh was startled out of Harry; he was shocked to hear it sounded more than half like a sob.
Concern crossed that beaky face. “Harry? Are you all right?”
No I’m bloody not! Harry thought. That’s what started it all in the first place! He fell through Severus’ doorway and gripped his shoulders, slurring “Wha’d y’do t’me?” Dark eyes widened and Severus would’ve jumped back, but Harry gripped the points of his shoulders so hard he could feel the bones.
“You’re in no state...” Severus spoke calmly, but Harry was fed up with calm words, fed up with everything.
“You utter prick!” Harry spat. “S’all your fault.”
“Let go. Harry! What’s wrong with you?”
“‘Wrong?’” Harry cried. “Oh, there’s loads’v things wrong.” Harry had to release him, he needed his hands free: only waving his whole arms was emphatic enough. “Ever since I met you there’s been something wrong. The way you talk’s wrong, the way you look at me’s wrong. The way I keep thinking about you’s wrong. The way you won’t stay outta my dreams’s wrong. An’ now you stand there’n act all innocent like y’don’t notice a bloody thing. What’d you do to me? God! I want you, you bastard, and I fucking shouldn’t! M’not a screaming queen and you can’t make me one.”
Dead silence. Severus stared at him. “Is that all you’re worried about?” he asked dryly at last. His tone was so matter-of-fact after the rant that had gone before that in itself it was a breath of normality, clearing a little of the fog from Harry’s brain.
“‘All?’” Harry echoed again, but in a quieter voice, as the outrage - and the Dutch courage - began to evaporate from his system. “S’bloody enough, innit?”
“Afraid you’ll suddenly start mincing and lisping and wearing lilac and lace? Is that it?” The dryly sarcastic tones made Harry’s fears seem ludicrously unlikely. Severus continued in a softer voice, his expression grave, “Harry. Think. When have I ever made you do anything you didn’t want to do?”
The question made Harry feel small. Really small and really sorry. “I... I dunno.”
There it was again, that crooked almost-smile, the one from his dream. Severus took a step closer, and asked in a bass rumble deeper than most men could manage, “Tell me, do I strike you as any sort of ‘screaming queen’?”
Ohhh, that voice. It went straight to Harry’s head - both of them - in a way that alcohol couldn’t match and couldn’t quench. Harry felt his trousers growing tighter and knew if he tried to say anything it’d come out as an ‘eep’. So he just gulped, and shook his head.
“Good. Because I’m not.”
Oh fuck! The embarrassment was so intense Harry physically cringed. He’s not even bent! I was wrong all along! Oh God! I’ve just made an utter tit of myself!
But Severus leaned in even closer and Harry glanced up and froze, forgetting even his embarrassment. Warm breath fanned Harry’s ear as Severus whispered “Nevertheless...” His hands stroked gently down Harry’s body and completed that sentence without speech.
“You see?” Severus murmured, and up close his voice was even better, dark and rich, and the brush of lips on his ear made Harry tingle with goosebumps all over and fuck, what those hands were doing to him felt so good, slipping inside his shirt and stroking his skin and oh, when did his nipples get so sensitive?
“Yeah,” Harry panted, “ohgodmore...” The slow, teasing touch felt absolutely brilliant. His knees went weak, and he buried his face in a stubbled throat and leaned against a hard chest as they rumbled with a voice that, word by word, drove him wild.
“If I’ve survived all these years, without developing a limp wrist,” Severus demonstrated his wrist’s firmness when the hand trailing down Harry’s flat stomach slipped inside his baggy trousers and pants in one deft slide, “you’ll be fine.” Fingers curled around his aching hard-on, warm and strong and holding him just right. “Just fine,” Everything felt so good already but with every stroke, every touch, it felt even better: keener and fiercer and Severus knew everything, all the best ways to pull and twist and rub, and yes, yes, yes, in his hands Harry’d be a damnsight better than fine. He’d be. Fucking. Perfect!
*
Severus sat for a while by the couch, watching Harry smile as he slept the sleep of the sated. But Severus’ mind kept straying from that enticing sight to another night a few years ago. He’d lived alone then, just as he did now. His mother was still alive. He was still teaching, a despised and useless endeavour. And as a direct result of that last fact, he was also drinking, always too often and always too much.
Harry shouldn’t overindulge like this, he thought. It never did anything good for me.
He’d been staggering home from a pub he’d frequented at the time: The World’s End, on Camden High Street, above a dance club called The Underworld. The place was a fitting summary of his life to date. As always the name of the pub prompted an ironic smirk from him as he read the mirror image of the letters in the window on his way out. He stumbled out onto the street and started walking, not particularly caring about where he was going. That was almost a fatal mistake. A car cut a corner too sharp but he was too drunk to notice it in time. Only chance saved him from meeting it head on and putting his face through its windshield. The driver had honked and swerved around the corner again without stopping, leaving Severus on the edge of the footpath, shaken and terrified and alone once more.
Photo by prologi
The encounter sobered him up, in more ways than one. Seized by the impulse of the moment, he gave the rest of his drinking money to a homeless old man in the Tube station, who’d smiled at him as if he were a favourite son, and insisted on giving him a marble in return. It was the exact colour of methylene blue, and somehow it reminded him of all the bearable parts of Chemistry: the research, the writing, the parts that didn’t involve dealing with thuggish students. So he kept it, that night and afterwards. He’d roll it in his fingertips when the nervousness and the solitude bit hardest, and it gave his hands something to do other than reach for the cash and the keys, gave him something else to think about other than walking out of the flat and heading for a pub.
He surfaced from the memories, tucking the blanket a little closer around Harry, before returning to his own bed. But even after he settled there he remained very much awake, silently listening to Harry’s soft snores in the dark. This was the first night when the thought of a methylene blue marble wasn’t enough to keep at bay his anxiety at having made a drastic mistake. It was the first time he’d felt the need to surrender so easily - as he’d already surrendered earlier to Harry’s too-bright eyes, his distress and confusion and arousal - and let his hands reach elsewhere instead.
*
Harry woke up wondering who he’d pissed off enough to make them stuff a sweaty sock in his mouth and hit his head with a hammer all night. It would’ve been nice to hit whoever-it-was back, but the trouble with that idea was he’d have to actually move. When he pried his eyes open and the world swam more or less into focus, the dark blodge in front of him turned out to be Severus holding out his glasses and some red pills on the palm of his hand. Those hands... the memory of last night came crashing down on Harry, and for a second he thought his brain might explode. It didn’t; it just sat there, heavy and swollen and pressing on the inside of his skull in tune with his frantic heartbeat.
“What happened?” Harry fumbled on his glasses and blinked blearily up at Severus, “I don’t remember much,” He winced at the light coming through the windows and hoped that lightning wouldn’t strike him dead right this minute for lying so shamelessly; almost as much as he hoped that the blush he felt heating his cheeks wasn’t too noticeable.
Severus’ mouth narrowed into a sneer. “There wasn’t much worth remembering. I’d appreciate it if in future you reconsidered any drunken impulses to pound on my door in the wee small hours.”
“Sorry,” Harry groaned. “Dunno what I was doing. Probably thought I was going home. Er, can we just pretend last night never happened?”
A shadow of something flickered across Severus’ harsh face, but the next instant his neutral, casual expression was back as he handed Harry a glass of water and the pills. As Harry swallowed them Severus arched an eyebrow and drawled “What last night?”
Harry’s headache disappeared half an hour after he left Severus’ flat, but he couldn’t help thinking he didn’t deserve the relief.
*
The next day there was a familiar knock on Severus’ door, but he didn’t get up to answer it. He sat in his chair tense and still, his arms crossed defensively and fingers clutching hard enough to bruise, until Harry called his name, once, twice, gave knocking another try and finally gave up. Hopefully he thinks I wasn’t home, Severus thought, listening to the sounds of Harry walking away, until the roar of a train drowned them out.
It’s easier this way, Severus told himself. Harry would’ve left sooner or later. No one’s ever tolerated my company this long without an ulterior motive. Harry doesn’t seem to have one, but he deserves someone who can look him in the face in the morning, and tell him the truth about what happened the night before.
In any case, Severus thought, I’m too old for him; it never would’ve worked out. He’s just a few years out of boyhood, a student just a bit older than the nitwits I’ve struggled with for years. He’s nothing extraordinary. Or maybe he is, Severus chided himself. Either way, unlike me, he has his whole life still in front of him, and I doubt it’s a life that would’ve involved me for long. How hard can it be for me to put a stop to these ridiculous meetings?
*
Harry wondered for the hundredth time why Severus wasn’t home yesterday. His momentary relief at not finding him home had been quickly replaced by worried guesses at what might’ve happened, and that worry hadn’t left his mind since. What if Severus doesn’t want anything to do with me now? Harry wondered. He’d shrugged off the night before so easily in the morning. Yeah, and after the way I yelled at him, I can’t blame him one little bit. What the bloody hell was I thinking?
When he walked into the Chop Room and glanced at the corner table Harry froze. Severus drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Above him the red lion gave Harry its usual raffish grin.
Harry ran his fingers through his messy hair and let out an uncertain “Hi?”
Severus arched an eyebrow, looking more irritable this morning than all the mornings Harry had ever seen him, including that awful last morning. “The coffee had better be hot this time.”
Harry smiled, wider than the lion.
*
On the last morning of the year, Severus rearranged his books and moved his newspapers into a corner. He rinsed and set out the crockery and cutlery on the kitchen table: the festive ones his mother had used, the ones that usually sat forgotten in the cupboard. He wondered why he bothered to set the table: more than likely Harry’d end up plonking the cartons of Chinese food on the table and eating straight out of them with chopsticks. Fool, he chastised himself. Don’t get used to this. Harry will grow tired of this routine and leave before long.
Harry was late. It really was an infuriating habit. Severus never could tolerate it during his lectures.
He pretended to read for an hour but stopped on the same page he began. Then he gave up on reading and watched the sunlight dim in the window as the purple shadows extended from the neighbouring buildings and the outside grew completely dark. He pretended for a while that he wasn’t watching for Harry to appear round the corner of the street. He kept glancing at the window until he couldn’t possibly see anything at all in the alley below. He continued to listen then, for a familiar pattern of footsteps bounding up the stairs, for a knock on the door.
After a half-hour of this, he detoured to the front door and stood a while in front of it until at last he threw it one heavy, menacing glare, called himself an idiot and went back to the kitchen. He only stayed there long enough to adjust the cutlery perpendicular to the edge of the table and went back to his room. He began rearranging the books on the shelves and almost dropped a water glass he’d forgotten to take back to the kitchen yesterday. He caught it at the last second, absolutely furious with himself.
Carelessness was Harry’s trait: he went about dropping glasses and leaving things in constant disarray. He broke things by accident; he was an accident himself. His hair stuck out in odd directions and his eyes shone and wandered and his gaze drifted off to nowhere as he grinned absentmindedly at yet another visitor and then walked into the table without looking. Severus wondered sometimes how Harry ever managed to keep his job.
By nine thirty Severus went back to the kitchen. He put away the crockery and cutlery and only then realised that he hadn’t eaten yet. But he wasn’t hungry. He decided to skip supper altogether: he didn’t have much appetite at the moment anyway.
By ten o’clock Severus told himself to stop waiting, to forget about it. Only when he went to bed did the nightmarish images start: Harry, mugged, or hit by some drunk driver cutting a corner too sharp. Don’t be foolish, he chided himself sternly. Most likely he went out with his friends - someone his own age, just as I urged him to - and forgot all about this prior appointment. Young people aren’t reliable.
Then Severus wondered with a stab of guilt, What if he’s finally remembered what happened that night? I never should have given in to the confusion and pleading in those eyes. He hmphed. I bloody well never should’ve let him borrow Evgeny Onegin in the first place.
But the image of Harry lying bleeding in the street refused to be dismissed so easily. What if he’s hurt? What if he needs help? By midnight, after two hours of twisting and turning in his narrow bed Severus finally got up and found his way by feel to the phone in the kitchen, and only then realised that he didn’t know Harry’s number or even his last name.
He didn’t sleep at all that night.
*
At six o’clock in the evening there was a knock on Severus’ door: the familiar, silly shave-and-a-haircut sequence. He lunged for the doorknob and tried not to look as relieved as he felt. Harry was standing in the hallway, grinning widely, as usual. His fringe was wet and icy and so was the front of his bright red jumper and his unbuttoned coat. Severus resisted the urge to shout ‘WHAT HAPPENED?’ in his face, grab him by the arms, and pull him into the flat.
Harry stared at him with an utterly blissful expression, as if he hadn’t just showed up twenty-four hours late without so much as a word of apology. “For auld lang syne, my friend, for auld lang syne,” he howled instead of an explanation, completely mangling the tune. “Well, I’m late but I’m finally here. Got any Scotch?”
Presumptuous prick! Severus scowled. I wonder how many doors he knocked on last night with the same line: as popular as he would’ve been as a First Foot, it was probably plenty. I should teach the whelp a lesson, bad luck or no bad luck. He can’t just show up out of the blue after worrying me sick and expect me to welcome him in with open arms! Who the hell does he think he is?
Severus slammed the door.
When he opened it, a silent and infuriatingly long minute later, Harry was gone.
Severus leapt down the stairs with a recklessness he’d never attempted before in his life, taking mere seconds to reach the ground floor and rush outside.
He spotted Harry’s red jumper right away, near the entrance to the flats. Harry was slumped against a grimy brick wall, not bothering to brush the icy raindrops from his glasses or his face. Severus asked himself yet again why he of all people got stuck with the chore of dealing with a scruffy adolescent with the manners of a wet, scraggy stray, who’d no doubt track mud inside on his trainers and drip rainwater on the floor. The question only reinforced the urge to shake Harry, shout at him for being an idiot without even the sense to come in out of the rain, and drag him inside, somewhere dry and warm before he caught his bloody death.
Harry looked up when Severus halted just a few steps away. The utter misery in his expression was a powerful combination with the dejection in every line of his stance. “They made me work on New Year’s,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t’ve answered the phone at all, or I should’ve told them I was sick or something, only they were shortstaffed and no one else was there to pick up the shift.”
Severus pictured Harry fibbing just to get out of work. Ha! The wretch wouldn’t be able to lie to save his life, even on the phone. “Silly sod. It’s all right,” he murmured, feeling a stab of guilt at his harsh reception.
“I’d’ve rung you,” Harry continued, “only I don’t know your number. I looked and looked, but it’s not listed anywhere and...”
“Well of course not!” Severus interrupted haughtily, “You never know who might c...” He fell silent, before he made himself look even more of a paranoid prat.
“It started raining just as I got out of the tube station,” Harry added. “S’why I didn’t bring a brolly.”
Severus took in the sight of Harry’s clothes clinging to him with the rain, his wet hair trailing into mournful, hopeful eyes. Try as he might, Severus couldn’t convince himself that it was only the chill of the rain on his own skin that made him shiver. “So I gathered,” he murmured softly. “Come back in.”
“You’re not mad at me?” Harry asked in a very small voice.
No. “Not anymore.”
The answering smile lit up Harry’s whole face. “Right, well, hang on a bit; reckon I’ll need some water first, to go with all that scotch you’ll ply me with.” He turned his head up and opened his mouth like a baby bird, catching raindrops on his tongue.
Severus watched that open mouth, and imagined it doing something rather different. Daft little showoff, Severus thought fondly. Doesn’t he know how many chemicals there are in London rainwater nowadays?
Harry grinned and turned so fast for the door he almost slipped and fell on a strip of mud starting to turn to ice. Severus steadied him by the shoulders before his hand reached out of its own accord, nudging Harry’s glasses back straight. His thumb moved gently, brushing the icy fringe out of Harry’s eyes, just over his eyebrow.
Harry’s breathing hitched a bit at the touch, and Severus felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe altogether.
“Well, there’s something to be said for the rain,” Severus said, simply to break the tension between them, “it keeps your hair flat.”
That earned him a smile. “In the middle of all this bloody wet, how d’you manage to sound that dry?”
“Speaking of all this wet,” Severus replied, “Let’s get you in the warm and out of these...” he banished the rest of that thought before it could run away with the last of his reason. “...dry you off.” he finished awkwardly.
“Absolutely,” Harry nodded and his hands were on Severus’ shoulders, his eyes wide behind the rain-beaded lenses. Water streamed down his forehead and cheeks, dripped from the tip of his nose and his chin. His expression was tense, his skin wet and cold, his hair so soft, tangling in Severus’ fingers, his breath warm against his wrist as he murmured “Sev’rus.”
It was so natural, inevitable, to bend his head that last little distance, and warm Harry’s wet, chilled lips with his own. At first, Severus was tentative, too cautious to allow himself more than a slight brush of lips: nothing so light and simple should create such yearning tightness in his throat, such a physical ache deep in his chest. Then Harry gripped his shoulders harder and leaned up, crushing their mouths together. Hands slid around the back of Severus’ neck, shielding him from the wet drips of his hair, keeping him in place as Harry held on, his mouth awkward and frantic against Severus’. It wasn’t the cold that made him gasp for breath when they broke apart.
As they panted, plumes of white streaming away from them in the rain, a laugh and a catcall from somewhere above them broke the silence. Severus looked up. A cigarette glowed on the fifth floor balcony of the neighbouring building.
“Shall we?” Severus inclined his head to the entrance to the flats.
“Let’s!” Harry grinned at him like a soggy but unrepentant imp.
Together, they hurried inside, leaving the street to the night and the rain.
Continued in Part 3