{fic} one lone summer; hp: hp/ss; pg
Title: One Lone Summer
Author:
faynia
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4500
Summary: In the summer of 1922, Harry packs his bags and runs to France where he finds more than simple inspiration.
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt left for the Snarry-A-Thon fest. Thanks to stormypups for fixing Snape into respectability, torino10154 for cheerleading like no other and accioslash for everything else, beta included.
It starts with a drink.
He's there to be stared at, but Harry knows what he's doing is beyond the required appreciation. His glass lists in his hand and more of its contents dribbles onto his shirt and trousers than into his mouth. He isn't aware until a polite cough drowns out the crooning from the stage and shakes him, and his drink, from their settled positions.
"Monsieur?" A dark-skinned man with a wonderfully thick British accent holds aloft a handkerchief. "Vous voudriez une serviette?"
"No." Harry smiles and pulls out one from his own pocket and waves it in sheepish sign of surrender. "All set."
"You're English?" The man swipes his cap off his head and wipes his brow. His eyes crinkle inward at the corners when he chuckles and says, "Thank God."
Harry laughs.
16 June 1922
Hermione, I've made it. I'm never going to get anything done there's too much to see first. Gabrielle's put me up in a one room flat that overlooks the Seine, which is no more filthy than the Thames, but you won't hear me say it out loud.
The Americans are everywhere. You wouldn't know they had their own country to be in. But we all get on well enough. There are some British soldiers who never went home after the war so I'm not alone. Everyone here is happy, Hermione, happy and participating, it's bloody fantastic. I think I'm falling a little in love with the whole lot of them.
He intends to begin writing at the end of that first week but finds himself down in the dark club beneath a bread shop, another glass of wine in hand and his attention on the band. He tosses back an unhealthy sip and sinks back on his chair, tipping his cap toward Kingsley who enters from behind the bar.
"I swear these French bastards are trying to swindle me blind." Kingsley lowers himself carelessly onto the chair opposite Harry and tosses him a round bundle swaddled in cloth.
"Wine?" Harry offers without missing a beat, the package firmly caught with both hands. He sets it aside and nudges the glass across the table.
Kingsley sighs, but his smile is wide and nonthreatening. Harry likes that about him. For a tall, and muscular bloke, Kingsley radiates good humor and spreads it without thought. Of course, even tall, muscular, friendly blokes can toss back an entire glass of wine in one sip and force you to purchase another. Harry shakes his head and spins the empty glass with a finger after it's pushed back to him.
"You're a good kid, Potter."
Harry shakes his head and offers up a wry smile in return. "Thanks."
"For a smart lad like you?" A sly grin and a wink sends heat curling through his veins to pool low in his stomach. His breath catches in his throat and by the way Kingsley laughs, he knows he's been caught. "Any time."
Time passes differently in the club, Harry reflects in between sets as he gets another two glasses of wine and bums a fag off a girl who can't be older than fifteen. She smiles and gropes his arse as she passes her lit joint from her mouth to his. Harry doubts she's ever been turned down in her life and from the pretty little pout her mouth pulls, he knows it has to be true.
When the band starts up again, the music is different and the singer steps out from behind a rough black curtain and sits in a chair before the piano. His stormy expression snaps Harry to attention and not even Kingsley's light touch to the nape of his neck can get him to turn away.
"Who is he," he manages to whisper after five minutes of gaping so obviously he's sure the person cleaning the loo knows he wants to jump the poor bloke's bones in the worst way.
"The singer?"
Harry glares over his shoulder. Kingsley laughs into his glass of wine and shakes his head.
"You're not that funny."
"Severus Snape. He went funny after the war and decided he likes it here. I stayed to make sure he didn't land himself in a gutter for poor manners. When he isn't singing, he's got a temper."
Snape hums a minor chord with his mouth pressed right to the microphone and the vibrations shiver over Harry's skin.
"He isn't what you want, kid."
"Why not?"
"Because." Kingsley has all Harry's attention now. The way he leans forward makes Harry nervous in more ways than one. "He hates writers."
24 June 1922
I know how Molly is, Hermione. Tell her she can have her party when I come back, but it won't be for my birthday. I've got to finish this before Malfoy follows me here and beats me with his sodding calendar.
I'm sorry.
Besides, I'm thinking of taking on a new project.
Harry means to start writing that night, but like all other nights, he finds himself drinking a couple of glasses of wine to take the edge off his frustration as he watches Snape all but caress the busted microphone with his lips. It isn't fair. Harry mulls this over his fourth glass of wine. His fingers drum along to familiar songs on the edge of the table while the alcohol sings along.
By now Snape recognizes him, his dark eyes drawing across the crowd and landing on Harry no matter where he chooses to sit, taunting him from his glorified position. Kingsley joins Harry every other night, cursing the French and their cuisine and their fashions and then falls silent, chuckling once in a while, maddening Harry further. He knows why Kingsley laughs at him. Everyone in the club knows by this point and still Snape refuses to do more than look back.
"Giving up isn't the same as quitting," Kingsley tells him one night. "You're here with a purpose, Potter, finish that first."
It's the best advice Kingsley has given him, and Harry tucks it away with the last of his wine and stands with a sway and a light-hearted grin. The band finishes without their singer while Harry wobbles away from the table full of unsteady determination that he will work on his book in the morning.
"He's going to talk with me one day," he says to himself, stepping out into warm, clean air.
"Perhaps your phantom friend will oblige, if only to inform you that talking to oneself is considered a sign of madness."
"You!" Harry blurts out.
"Pitiful." Snape's sneer is a thing of majesty and Harry wants to try and suck it off his face. "You're drunk."
"So what if I am?" Harry snaps back.
Snape scoffs and snuffs out his cigarette between his fingers and then flicks the ashen remains onto the narrow road. "Writers. They're all the same; worthless drunken fools."
Harry's saved by a taxi.
He knows he won't get that lucky again.
3 July 1922
You could have mentioned something about the heat. I think I'm in Hell. I imagine posting a letter would be even more complicated. I'm sorry about waiting so long to write, Hermione. I do love you and Ron, but I've been busy.
Remember that new project I mentioned last time? It's a bit of a dud at the moment, but I might have a better plan than the original. It's going to be brilliant. I can already tell.
Send Ginny and Dean my congratulations.
Harry doesn't go to the club for a week after writing that letter, instead, he throws himself into a feverish pace of writing that does him more harm than good and by the time Saturday comes around, he's ready to drink something strong and be sick in the back-alley's of Paris. "She's getting married," he moans into his glass. "She's getting married to my footie mate!"
Hysteria claws closer to the surface the longer he sits there and he groans into his folded arms, accepting the pat between his shoulder blades. He could have gone for a proper hug.
"Want to hear the worst part of all this?"
Kingsley's the best listener, Harry learns, with the patience of every saint ever canonized. "Of course."
"I don't even love her, but no one wanted to tell me." Harry cards his fingers through his hair and then slams his fist down on the table, shaking. "She ended up sending me a bloody telegram instead. A telegram. Stop."
"Do continue with your little tantrum elsewhere, Potter," Snape says from behind him, voice dripping oily condescension. Harry jumps out of his skin. "Nobody is interested in watching you sulk all evening."
"God's sake, Snape, make noise when you creep up on people." Harry grumbles and twists to lean back until he's looking up Snape's big-honking nose. "I can see India up there."
Harry hears nothing, but Snape's eye roll more than says the word 'idiot' before he stalks away.
"He hates me."
"He hates everyone." Kingsley consoles him with a light pat to the hand.
"True." Harry scowls. "But he really hates me."
Kingsley tops off Harry's glass and chuckles. "He does at that."
10 July 1922
He's the most stubborn, foul git I've ever met! I don't know why Kingsley likes him, all he does is insult people. Insults me the most of all people, Hermione, you'd hate him, he uses his vocabulary to be a condescending bastard.
Shit.
Snape waits outside the club the next Friday swathed in black with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Harry stumbles out laughing on the arm of the trumpet player and barely notices him at first. But he can't miss the low growl and the spray of hot ash that stings his cheek and catches in his hair or the butt that tumbles at his feet.
It isn't the first time Harry comes out of the club drunk, but it is the first time he doubles over and vomits onto the curb.
By the time he is stable enough to stand, Snape's disappeared along with the trumpet player and Kingsley's jacket is draped over his shoulder and a warm hand is brushing through his hair. He doesn't hear what Kingsley says to him, but he understands the meaning. He's lost sight of what he was here for, and Malfoy plans on dropping in next week.
For the first time since arriving in Paris, Harry wants nothing more than to curl up in his flat and finish his assignment.
He knows he won't be coming back to the club again until he's done.
31 July 1922
Tell Molly I got her package. I'll be sharing these pasties. I can't eat them all on my own. Gabrielle's snitched a few for herself earlier when I went downstairs to bother her for string and more envelopes.
But that's not the important part. I finished it. I honest to God finished it, Hermione. I don't know what to do with myself right now. I've sent you a copy. You'll be the first to read it, just like I promised. Tell me what you think.
Lots of love.
The sun bakes the top of Harry's head as he races down the back alleys and dodges around merchant's carts toward the center of Paris. Freedom lifts his heels far from the ground along the way. Impressions of tiny circles still itch the pads of his fingers from a week and a half of frantic typing and little sleep. The desire to hold a complete rough draft sped his movements and fevered his brain, but it's all over now and he can feel the ever tightening band of a looming deadline loosen and give way to the syrupy sweet smells of Paris.
Harry swings around a lamp post, steals an apple off a cart and dodges around a corner, slipping down a flight of stairs into the dim lights of the club. His presence is immediate and the high-pitched squeal and pair of arms around his neck does more for his mood than the sunny warmth outside.
He strokes her hand and leans his head back to her shoulder. "Gabrielle, why are you here?"
She sniffs delicately and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her long blond hair tickles his throat when she leans forward and all he smells is jasmine and mint tea. "Did you not think I would not know that you were finished?"
Harry blushes, can feel heat creep into his cheeks and inflame his skin and ducks his head. "Well, you know."
"'Arry!" Gabrielle laughs as she kisses his cheek a second time. Her lips brush against his ear with her whisper, "'Il est ici."
"Why?" Harry's voice is hardly louder than a shocked breath.
Gabrielle lifts her shoulders and pulls away from him. "We do not know. He came not too long ago with Monsieur Shacklebolt."
Harry's throat tightens and grows dry. "And Kingsley?"
She shrugs and lays her slender hand along his jaw, rubbing her thumb over four day’s worth of stubble that Harry forgot he hadn't shaved until right at that moment. "Do not worry so much. You shall wrinkle too early."
"I'll try and remember that."
"Try to look happy!" she chides while tugging him into one final hug. "It is your birthday, non?"
Harry smiles.
Snape finds him first, and by this point Harry no longer feels the sharp jolt of surprise before turning around and all but tripping into the man. Water sloshed around the inside of his glass. He grins and bobs his head and gives a slightly impertinent, "Sir."
Snape's eye twitches beautifully at that and his scowl deepens while Harry's smile widens. "Potter."
"Singing tonight?"
"No." Snape sounds disgruntled and the woman on the microphone blows him a kiss, her wild black hair bouncing as she sways side to side and begins crooning with the skin crawling tone of a cat's wail.
Harry winces. "Here for a drink then?"
Snape narrows his eyes and his nostril's flare. "Are you planning to spend another night getting drunk and acting a fool? I seem to recall you blathering on in a drunken fit not so long ago about some novel."
"Memoir, and it's done. Mostly."
Snape sneers and opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off by a well timed jostle of elbows that ends with him spilling half his glass on Snape's shirt. He swears silently and lifts his gaze to see Snape's pained grimace.
"Bollocks." Maybe not every curse needs to be held in. Harry ruffles his hair and tosses his glass onto the now empty table beside him. "Let me get you a towel."
Snape's demeanor is stiff and awkward when he says, "That won't be necessary."
"But you're soaked through!" Harry says, touching the starched, damp fabric of Snape's shirt. The muscles beneath his fingers contract sharply and Harry hurriedly drops his hand. "It's only a towel," he mutters.
"Yes, and you're only an imbecile." Snape steps back and glowers. "Haven't you found anyone else more suitable to harrass?"
Harry watches Snape storm off and disappear into the growing crowd.
"Bollocks," he repeats and kicks the chair beside him. "Complete bollocks."
10 August 1922
Don't you dare, Hermione Granger, don't you even dare. You've been planning this for months. Ron'll murder me otherwise. I'll be fine and home by the end of the month. I know you're worried, but there isn't anything you can do for me. I've got to think this one through on my own.
If I promise to be home before the start of September, will you not take the next boat across the Channel?
The lazy heat of earlier evening snakes through his room and saturates his skin where he lays sprawled on the wooden floorboards of his flat. Thunder rumbles a low growl in the distance, reverberating through the open windows. He can taste the rain on the air, wood and peat moss, long before it hits the rooftops on the opposite bank of the Seine. Summer's ending faster than he wants it to. Hermione's notes keep stacking up with each new letter he receives. He barely reads half of them, but they're there as a silent reminder of what he ought to be doing, which is impossible when she won’t send his original copy of the manuscript back to him.
He misses the first knock, and the second, but the third bang jerks him upright, sending paper flying into the air.
"Potter, if you don't come and open this blasted door at once, I'll kick it in."
"Snape?"
Harry's close enough to the door to hear the muttered, "For God's sake," and he spends a moment contemplating leaving the slick bastard outside to the rain and storm.
Snape's standing on the landing of the back stairs, drenched and furious looking with a bundle of paper curled in a tight fist. Harry swallows.
"What'd you want?"
"A Miss Granger sent me this." Snape brandishes the rolled up papers and Harry can recognize the rain smeared writing before unfolding it.
"She..." he starts and a fine tremor ricochets up his spine.
"Spit it out, Potter. There are better things I could be doing than standing on your doorstep getting soaked."
Harry bristles. "Like you're one to talk. You're the one lurking on peoples' back steps!"
"You're hardly people," Snape says like it’s the acceptable answer, like it isn’t unnecessarily rude or condescending or abnormal after running through the goddamn rain to reach Harry’s door.
"Did you come here for any reason that isn't to insult me?" Harry asks.
At first, Harry worries that Snape might strike out at him, kicking him instead of the door. But Snape makes no move. Harry’s shoulders slump forward with each passing second. He takes the wrinkling manuscript from Snape's outstretched hand and plays with it for a moment.
"Do you intend to keep me standing in the rain forever, Potter?"
Harry blinks in surprise, then grins. "Tea?"
Snape nods so Harry shuts the door.
17 August 1922
It’s not like I expected it to be easy, Hermione! Christ, you think I didn’t know that when I left? I don’t know why I’m here anymore. I’m just not ready to go home. I don’t expect you to understand. Hell, I don’t understand. There’s just something about being here that makes sense.
Also, and don't laugh, because I know you'll want to, but I might have left the manuscript on the windowsill last night and it rained. I know, Hermione. You don't have to say anything.
Wish me luck.
“He actually stayed?” Kingsley’s glass hovers scant centimeters from his lips. His dark eyes slant with ill-hid mirth. Harry can’t make heads or tails of it.
“Barmy, isn’t it? What was he thinking?”
Kinglsey hums and takes a sip of his wine, drumming his thumb against the rim of the glass. Harry hasn’t yet told him that he leaves in a week and a few days; he can’t decide how.“He likely wasn’t.”
“What?”
“Severus had your manuscript, you said. Have you looked at it?”
Harry shakes his head. He’s been carefully peeling it apart page by page for the past week. Many of the words were smudged and unreadable. “It’s drying out.”
There's an unsettling moment where Harry wonders if Kingsley isn't taking the piss in silence because Harry refuses to look up after he said it. His dignity's already torn beyond recognition. He takes a cautious peek across the table and Kingsley smiles with open affection that Harry cannot understand.
“He never reads lightly.” Kingsley rolls his shoulders back and settles further in his chair.
“Did you know he taught before the war?”
“No.”
“He would read through all the letters we wrote before we could send them off to make sure they were fit for posting. The paper was covered in shit and mud, quality wasn't our first concern. Cantankerous bastard.”
Harry coughs into his glass of ice and smiles. “Do you think he’s read it then?”
“Who knows." Kingsley grins and scratches his chin. "But would he have bothered to return it if he hadn’t?”
"He'd probably burn it," Harry says as he toys with the end of the table.
Kingsley nods. "If it wasn't worthwhile."
Harry breathes out a heavy sigh and lets his head hit the table. "I'm an idiot."
"There, there, Potter. It happens to the best of us."
Harry aims for Kingsley's shin and misses.
26 August 1922
He's singing again tonight. God help me, I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
Jazz spills out the doors, winding its way down the back roads and alleyways to curl through the minds and hearts of the ladies and gentlemen dodging raindrops as they race toward the club. Harry holds his jacket high above Gabrielle's head as they splash through puddles and soak themselves to their knees. She claims she's only coming with him because he leaves in two days. Harry reckons she's got a plan and it drives home a wedge of well-founded fear.
They slide in past the milling crowd, ducking under elbows and drinks while trying to find a familiar face or open table.
"'Arry, over there." Gabrielle points at the far wall and an empty table. She winks and hugs his arm before vanishing from his side. He watches her charm her way across the room, flicking blonde curls from her face as she bobs in and out of conversations and lands beside the open table with the air of an accomplished gymnast. She sinks onto one of the chairs and beckons him over with a crook of her finger. He snags two cheap flutes of wine from a passing tray and makes his way carefully to her side, handing her one.
He staggers under a hearty backslap and looks up to see Kingsley looming over him. Harry rolls his eyes and sits down at the table, shoving out the remaining chair with his foot.
"Snape's got the last set," Kingsley tells them while he takes up Gabrielle's hand. He kisses the back of it before continuing, "I hope you're prepared for a long night."
"Is he here yet?" It's all Harry can think to ask. He worries his lower lip, sitting on the edge of desperation. Nerves bite at his skin and make the back of his neck sticky from sweat. His hair already smells of smoke when it falls across his eyes.
Kingsley appraises him in a way that sets Harry's teeth on edge and he nearly misses the brief nod. "He's rehearsing."
Gabrielle tuts in the back of her throat and offers Harry a sympathetic smile. "Allez-y."
Harry stands, sending the chair teetering on its back legs. He reaches for it and brings it back to the floor. "What am I doing?"
"Go, Potter."
If asked later how he managed to find his feet and keep on them as he made his way toward the back of the stage, he would ascribe it to a large amount of luck because for the life of him, even while he's pushing back the heavy black curtain to get at the rooms behind the stage, he doesn't know. Harry flashes a smile at the young boy on the floor twirling his trumpet and steps around him. Smoke hangs thick on the air and clings to the walls that are carpeted in fabric. Snape's nowhere in sight.
Harry pushes forward, glancing into sectioned off areas with little idea what he'll do if he can't find Snape now.
"I wasn't aware you were a musician, Potter."
Harry freezes and whirls around to face the unexpected source of mockery. Snape's expression is flat , but Harry swears he caught the tail end of a smirk and does his best not moderate his voice when he hisses. "Don't do that!"
"You need to learn patience." Snape takes a step toward him and Harry shivers but stands his ground. He refuses to be pushed around like a child's toy. He only has two days left and he can't be the one to run this time. "Wandering into places you don't belong, and for what, I wonder. Do tell."
"You're sure you want to know?" Harry makes a move forward until the toes of his shoes press against Snape's. He waits a beat and then tips his head to the side in consideration. "You can't think I keep coming back because I like being mocked."
Snape's nostrils flare and his eyes narrow, but for all that facial reaction, he stays in place and
Harry nearly crows in victory. "I assumed you kept coming back for the music and to get drunk. If that's not the reason, I wish you would get on with it already."
"I haven't been properly drunk in over a month. I do have some self control." He smiles, a big, wide and stupid looking thing and curves his hand over Snape's shoulder and pulls him in until their noses brush. A light flush colors Snape's sallow cheeks and Harry huffs a breathy laugh and leans forward to silence any further pointed jibes.
Snape's both unyielding and giving, testing Harry's willpower as he caves into what Harry asks for and then retreats. Numberless seconds creep by until Harry is breathing heavily through his nose and he's the one pulling away.
"Was-"
"Snape!" Harry jolts away and stares wide-eyed over Snape's shoulder. A thin, dark-skinned boy holding a trumpet waves an anxious hand. "We need you."
The boy disappears behind the curtain just as music strikes up on the other side. Snape touches Harry's cheek for the briefest second before he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over his arm. For a moment, Harry longs to ask what Snape is thinking of when he looks at him.
Snape nods his head once, eyes dark and promising before he follows the boy out onto the stage. Harry stays in the back, listening to the voice that drew him into this life in the beginning.
This entry was originally posted at http://faynia.dreamwidth.org/257484.html. Please comment there using OpenID. (comments:
)
Author:
faynia
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4500
Summary: In the summer of 1922, Harry packs his bags and runs to France where he finds more than simple inspiration.
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt left for the Snarry-A-Thon fest. Thanks to stormypups for fixing Snape into respectability, torino10154 for cheerleading like no other and accioslash for everything else, beta included.
It starts with a drink.
He's there to be stared at, but Harry knows what he's doing is beyond the required appreciation. His glass lists in his hand and more of its contents dribbles onto his shirt and trousers than into his mouth. He isn't aware until a polite cough drowns out the crooning from the stage and shakes him, and his drink, from their settled positions.
"Monsieur?" A dark-skinned man with a wonderfully thick British accent holds aloft a handkerchief. "Vous voudriez une serviette?"
"No." Harry smiles and pulls out one from his own pocket and waves it in sheepish sign of surrender. "All set."
"You're English?" The man swipes his cap off his head and wipes his brow. His eyes crinkle inward at the corners when he chuckles and says, "Thank God."
Harry laughs.
16 June 1922
Hermione, I've made it. I'm never going to get anything done there's too much to see first. Gabrielle's put me up in a one room flat that overlooks the Seine, which is no more filthy than the Thames, but you won't hear me say it out loud.
The Americans are everywhere. You wouldn't know they had their own country to be in. But we all get on well enough. There are some British soldiers who never went home after the war so I'm not alone. Everyone here is happy, Hermione, happy and participating, it's bloody fantastic. I think I'm falling a little in love with the whole lot of them.
He intends to begin writing at the end of that first week but finds himself down in the dark club beneath a bread shop, another glass of wine in hand and his attention on the band. He tosses back an unhealthy sip and sinks back on his chair, tipping his cap toward Kingsley who enters from behind the bar.
"I swear these French bastards are trying to swindle me blind." Kingsley lowers himself carelessly onto the chair opposite Harry and tosses him a round bundle swaddled in cloth.
"Wine?" Harry offers without missing a beat, the package firmly caught with both hands. He sets it aside and nudges the glass across the table.
Kingsley sighs, but his smile is wide and nonthreatening. Harry likes that about him. For a tall, and muscular bloke, Kingsley radiates good humor and spreads it without thought. Of course, even tall, muscular, friendly blokes can toss back an entire glass of wine in one sip and force you to purchase another. Harry shakes his head and spins the empty glass with a finger after it's pushed back to him.
"You're a good kid, Potter."
Harry shakes his head and offers up a wry smile in return. "Thanks."
"For a smart lad like you?" A sly grin and a wink sends heat curling through his veins to pool low in his stomach. His breath catches in his throat and by the way Kingsley laughs, he knows he's been caught. "Any time."
Time passes differently in the club, Harry reflects in between sets as he gets another two glasses of wine and bums a fag off a girl who can't be older than fifteen. She smiles and gropes his arse as she passes her lit joint from her mouth to his. Harry doubts she's ever been turned down in her life and from the pretty little pout her mouth pulls, he knows it has to be true.
When the band starts up again, the music is different and the singer steps out from behind a rough black curtain and sits in a chair before the piano. His stormy expression snaps Harry to attention and not even Kingsley's light touch to the nape of his neck can get him to turn away.
"Who is he," he manages to whisper after five minutes of gaping so obviously he's sure the person cleaning the loo knows he wants to jump the poor bloke's bones in the worst way.
"The singer?"
Harry glares over his shoulder. Kingsley laughs into his glass of wine and shakes his head.
"You're not that funny."
"Severus Snape. He went funny after the war and decided he likes it here. I stayed to make sure he didn't land himself in a gutter for poor manners. When he isn't singing, he's got a temper."
Snape hums a minor chord with his mouth pressed right to the microphone and the vibrations shiver over Harry's skin.
"He isn't what you want, kid."
"Why not?"
"Because." Kingsley has all Harry's attention now. The way he leans forward makes Harry nervous in more ways than one. "He hates writers."
24 June 1922
I know how Molly is, Hermione. Tell her she can have her party when I come back, but it won't be for my birthday. I've got to finish this before Malfoy follows me here and beats me with his sodding calendar.
I'm sorry.
Besides, I'm thinking of taking on a new project.
Harry means to start writing that night, but like all other nights, he finds himself drinking a couple of glasses of wine to take the edge off his frustration as he watches Snape all but caress the busted microphone with his lips. It isn't fair. Harry mulls this over his fourth glass of wine. His fingers drum along to familiar songs on the edge of the table while the alcohol sings along.
By now Snape recognizes him, his dark eyes drawing across the crowd and landing on Harry no matter where he chooses to sit, taunting him from his glorified position. Kingsley joins Harry every other night, cursing the French and their cuisine and their fashions and then falls silent, chuckling once in a while, maddening Harry further. He knows why Kingsley laughs at him. Everyone in the club knows by this point and still Snape refuses to do more than look back.
"Giving up isn't the same as quitting," Kingsley tells him one night. "You're here with a purpose, Potter, finish that first."
It's the best advice Kingsley has given him, and Harry tucks it away with the last of his wine and stands with a sway and a light-hearted grin. The band finishes without their singer while Harry wobbles away from the table full of unsteady determination that he will work on his book in the morning.
"He's going to talk with me one day," he says to himself, stepping out into warm, clean air.
"Perhaps your phantom friend will oblige, if only to inform you that talking to oneself is considered a sign of madness."
"You!" Harry blurts out.
"Pitiful." Snape's sneer is a thing of majesty and Harry wants to try and suck it off his face. "You're drunk."
"So what if I am?" Harry snaps back.
Snape scoffs and snuffs out his cigarette between his fingers and then flicks the ashen remains onto the narrow road. "Writers. They're all the same; worthless drunken fools."
Harry's saved by a taxi.
He knows he won't get that lucky again.
3 July 1922
You could have mentioned something about the heat. I think I'm in Hell. I imagine posting a letter would be even more complicated. I'm sorry about waiting so long to write, Hermione. I do love you and Ron, but I've been busy.
Remember that new project I mentioned last time? It's a bit of a dud at the moment, but I might have a better plan than the original. It's going to be brilliant. I can already tell.
Send Ginny and Dean my congratulations.
Harry doesn't go to the club for a week after writing that letter, instead, he throws himself into a feverish pace of writing that does him more harm than good and by the time Saturday comes around, he's ready to drink something strong and be sick in the back-alley's of Paris. "She's getting married," he moans into his glass. "She's getting married to my footie mate!"
Hysteria claws closer to the surface the longer he sits there and he groans into his folded arms, accepting the pat between his shoulder blades. He could have gone for a proper hug.
"Want to hear the worst part of all this?"
Kingsley's the best listener, Harry learns, with the patience of every saint ever canonized. "Of course."
"I don't even love her, but no one wanted to tell me." Harry cards his fingers through his hair and then slams his fist down on the table, shaking. "She ended up sending me a bloody telegram instead. A telegram. Stop."
"Do continue with your little tantrum elsewhere, Potter," Snape says from behind him, voice dripping oily condescension. Harry jumps out of his skin. "Nobody is interested in watching you sulk all evening."
"God's sake, Snape, make noise when you creep up on people." Harry grumbles and twists to lean back until he's looking up Snape's big-honking nose. "I can see India up there."
Harry hears nothing, but Snape's eye roll more than says the word 'idiot' before he stalks away.
"He hates me."
"He hates everyone." Kingsley consoles him with a light pat to the hand.
"True." Harry scowls. "But he really hates me."
Kingsley tops off Harry's glass and chuckles. "He does at that."
10 July 1922
He's the most stubborn, foul git I've ever met! I don't know why Kingsley likes him, all he does is insult people. Insults me the most of all people, Hermione, you'd hate him, he uses his vocabulary to be a condescending bastard.
Shit.
Snape waits outside the club the next Friday swathed in black with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Harry stumbles out laughing on the arm of the trumpet player and barely notices him at first. But he can't miss the low growl and the spray of hot ash that stings his cheek and catches in his hair or the butt that tumbles at his feet.
It isn't the first time Harry comes out of the club drunk, but it is the first time he doubles over and vomits onto the curb.
By the time he is stable enough to stand, Snape's disappeared along with the trumpet player and Kingsley's jacket is draped over his shoulder and a warm hand is brushing through his hair. He doesn't hear what Kingsley says to him, but he understands the meaning. He's lost sight of what he was here for, and Malfoy plans on dropping in next week.
For the first time since arriving in Paris, Harry wants nothing more than to curl up in his flat and finish his assignment.
He knows he won't be coming back to the club again until he's done.
31 July 1922
Tell Molly I got her package. I'll be sharing these pasties. I can't eat them all on my own. Gabrielle's snitched a few for herself earlier when I went downstairs to bother her for string and more envelopes.
But that's not the important part. I finished it. I honest to God finished it, Hermione. I don't know what to do with myself right now. I've sent you a copy. You'll be the first to read it, just like I promised. Tell me what you think.
Lots of love.
The sun bakes the top of Harry's head as he races down the back alleys and dodges around merchant's carts toward the center of Paris. Freedom lifts his heels far from the ground along the way. Impressions of tiny circles still itch the pads of his fingers from a week and a half of frantic typing and little sleep. The desire to hold a complete rough draft sped his movements and fevered his brain, but it's all over now and he can feel the ever tightening band of a looming deadline loosen and give way to the syrupy sweet smells of Paris.
Harry swings around a lamp post, steals an apple off a cart and dodges around a corner, slipping down a flight of stairs into the dim lights of the club. His presence is immediate and the high-pitched squeal and pair of arms around his neck does more for his mood than the sunny warmth outside.
He strokes her hand and leans his head back to her shoulder. "Gabrielle, why are you here?"
She sniffs delicately and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her long blond hair tickles his throat when she leans forward and all he smells is jasmine and mint tea. "Did you not think I would not know that you were finished?"
Harry blushes, can feel heat creep into his cheeks and inflame his skin and ducks his head. "Well, you know."
"'Arry!" Gabrielle laughs as she kisses his cheek a second time. Her lips brush against his ear with her whisper, "'Il est ici."
"Why?" Harry's voice is hardly louder than a shocked breath.
Gabrielle lifts her shoulders and pulls away from him. "We do not know. He came not too long ago with Monsieur Shacklebolt."
Harry's throat tightens and grows dry. "And Kingsley?"
She shrugs and lays her slender hand along his jaw, rubbing her thumb over four day’s worth of stubble that Harry forgot he hadn't shaved until right at that moment. "Do not worry so much. You shall wrinkle too early."
"I'll try and remember that."
"Try to look happy!" she chides while tugging him into one final hug. "It is your birthday, non?"
Harry smiles.
Snape finds him first, and by this point Harry no longer feels the sharp jolt of surprise before turning around and all but tripping into the man. Water sloshed around the inside of his glass. He grins and bobs his head and gives a slightly impertinent, "Sir."
Snape's eye twitches beautifully at that and his scowl deepens while Harry's smile widens. "Potter."
"Singing tonight?"
"No." Snape sounds disgruntled and the woman on the microphone blows him a kiss, her wild black hair bouncing as she sways side to side and begins crooning with the skin crawling tone of a cat's wail.
Harry winces. "Here for a drink then?"
Snape narrows his eyes and his nostril's flare. "Are you planning to spend another night getting drunk and acting a fool? I seem to recall you blathering on in a drunken fit not so long ago about some novel."
"Memoir, and it's done. Mostly."
Snape sneers and opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off by a well timed jostle of elbows that ends with him spilling half his glass on Snape's shirt. He swears silently and lifts his gaze to see Snape's pained grimace.
"Bollocks." Maybe not every curse needs to be held in. Harry ruffles his hair and tosses his glass onto the now empty table beside him. "Let me get you a towel."
Snape's demeanor is stiff and awkward when he says, "That won't be necessary."
"But you're soaked through!" Harry says, touching the starched, damp fabric of Snape's shirt. The muscles beneath his fingers contract sharply and Harry hurriedly drops his hand. "It's only a towel," he mutters.
"Yes, and you're only an imbecile." Snape steps back and glowers. "Haven't you found anyone else more suitable to harrass?"
Harry watches Snape storm off and disappear into the growing crowd.
"Bollocks," he repeats and kicks the chair beside him. "Complete bollocks."
10 August 1922
Don't you dare, Hermione Granger, don't you even dare. You've been planning this for months. Ron'll murder me otherwise. I'll be fine and home by the end of the month. I know you're worried, but there isn't anything you can do for me. I've got to think this one through on my own.
If I promise to be home before the start of September, will you not take the next boat across the Channel?
The lazy heat of earlier evening snakes through his room and saturates his skin where he lays sprawled on the wooden floorboards of his flat. Thunder rumbles a low growl in the distance, reverberating through the open windows. He can taste the rain on the air, wood and peat moss, long before it hits the rooftops on the opposite bank of the Seine. Summer's ending faster than he wants it to. Hermione's notes keep stacking up with each new letter he receives. He barely reads half of them, but they're there as a silent reminder of what he ought to be doing, which is impossible when she won’t send his original copy of the manuscript back to him.
He misses the first knock, and the second, but the third bang jerks him upright, sending paper flying into the air.
"Potter, if you don't come and open this blasted door at once, I'll kick it in."
"Snape?"
Harry's close enough to the door to hear the muttered, "For God's sake," and he spends a moment contemplating leaving the slick bastard outside to the rain and storm.
Snape's standing on the landing of the back stairs, drenched and furious looking with a bundle of paper curled in a tight fist. Harry swallows.
"What'd you want?"
"A Miss Granger sent me this." Snape brandishes the rolled up papers and Harry can recognize the rain smeared writing before unfolding it.
"She..." he starts and a fine tremor ricochets up his spine.
"Spit it out, Potter. There are better things I could be doing than standing on your doorstep getting soaked."
Harry bristles. "Like you're one to talk. You're the one lurking on peoples' back steps!"
"You're hardly people," Snape says like it’s the acceptable answer, like it isn’t unnecessarily rude or condescending or abnormal after running through the goddamn rain to reach Harry’s door.
"Did you come here for any reason that isn't to insult me?" Harry asks.
At first, Harry worries that Snape might strike out at him, kicking him instead of the door. But Snape makes no move. Harry’s shoulders slump forward with each passing second. He takes the wrinkling manuscript from Snape's outstretched hand and plays with it for a moment.
"Do you intend to keep me standing in the rain forever, Potter?"
Harry blinks in surprise, then grins. "Tea?"
Snape nods so Harry shuts the door.
17 August 1922
It’s not like I expected it to be easy, Hermione! Christ, you think I didn’t know that when I left? I don’t know why I’m here anymore. I’m just not ready to go home. I don’t expect you to understand. Hell, I don’t understand. There’s just something about being here that makes sense.
Also, and don't laugh, because I know you'll want to, but I might have left the manuscript on the windowsill last night and it rained. I know, Hermione. You don't have to say anything.
Wish me luck.
“He actually stayed?” Kingsley’s glass hovers scant centimeters from his lips. His dark eyes slant with ill-hid mirth. Harry can’t make heads or tails of it.
“Barmy, isn’t it? What was he thinking?”
Kinglsey hums and takes a sip of his wine, drumming his thumb against the rim of the glass. Harry hasn’t yet told him that he leaves in a week and a few days; he can’t decide how.“He likely wasn’t.”
“What?”
“Severus had your manuscript, you said. Have you looked at it?”
Harry shakes his head. He’s been carefully peeling it apart page by page for the past week. Many of the words were smudged and unreadable. “It’s drying out.”
There's an unsettling moment where Harry wonders if Kingsley isn't taking the piss in silence because Harry refuses to look up after he said it. His dignity's already torn beyond recognition. He takes a cautious peek across the table and Kingsley smiles with open affection that Harry cannot understand.
“He never reads lightly.” Kingsley rolls his shoulders back and settles further in his chair.
“Did you know he taught before the war?”
“No.”
“He would read through all the letters we wrote before we could send them off to make sure they were fit for posting. The paper was covered in shit and mud, quality wasn't our first concern. Cantankerous bastard.”
Harry coughs into his glass of ice and smiles. “Do you think he’s read it then?”
“Who knows." Kingsley grins and scratches his chin. "But would he have bothered to return it if he hadn’t?”
"He'd probably burn it," Harry says as he toys with the end of the table.
Kingsley nods. "If it wasn't worthwhile."
Harry breathes out a heavy sigh and lets his head hit the table. "I'm an idiot."
"There, there, Potter. It happens to the best of us."
Harry aims for Kingsley's shin and misses.
26 August 1922
He's singing again tonight. God help me, I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
Jazz spills out the doors, winding its way down the back roads and alleyways to curl through the minds and hearts of the ladies and gentlemen dodging raindrops as they race toward the club. Harry holds his jacket high above Gabrielle's head as they splash through puddles and soak themselves to their knees. She claims she's only coming with him because he leaves in two days. Harry reckons she's got a plan and it drives home a wedge of well-founded fear.
They slide in past the milling crowd, ducking under elbows and drinks while trying to find a familiar face or open table.
"'Arry, over there." Gabrielle points at the far wall and an empty table. She winks and hugs his arm before vanishing from his side. He watches her charm her way across the room, flicking blonde curls from her face as she bobs in and out of conversations and lands beside the open table with the air of an accomplished gymnast. She sinks onto one of the chairs and beckons him over with a crook of her finger. He snags two cheap flutes of wine from a passing tray and makes his way carefully to her side, handing her one.
He staggers under a hearty backslap and looks up to see Kingsley looming over him. Harry rolls his eyes and sits down at the table, shoving out the remaining chair with his foot.
"Snape's got the last set," Kingsley tells them while he takes up Gabrielle's hand. He kisses the back of it before continuing, "I hope you're prepared for a long night."
"Is he here yet?" It's all Harry can think to ask. He worries his lower lip, sitting on the edge of desperation. Nerves bite at his skin and make the back of his neck sticky from sweat. His hair already smells of smoke when it falls across his eyes.
Kingsley appraises him in a way that sets Harry's teeth on edge and he nearly misses the brief nod. "He's rehearsing."
Gabrielle tuts in the back of her throat and offers Harry a sympathetic smile. "Allez-y."
Harry stands, sending the chair teetering on its back legs. He reaches for it and brings it back to the floor. "What am I doing?"
"Go, Potter."
If asked later how he managed to find his feet and keep on them as he made his way toward the back of the stage, he would ascribe it to a large amount of luck because for the life of him, even while he's pushing back the heavy black curtain to get at the rooms behind the stage, he doesn't know. Harry flashes a smile at the young boy on the floor twirling his trumpet and steps around him. Smoke hangs thick on the air and clings to the walls that are carpeted in fabric. Snape's nowhere in sight.
Harry pushes forward, glancing into sectioned off areas with little idea what he'll do if he can't find Snape now.
"I wasn't aware you were a musician, Potter."
Harry freezes and whirls around to face the unexpected source of mockery. Snape's expression is flat , but Harry swears he caught the tail end of a smirk and does his best not moderate his voice when he hisses. "Don't do that!"
"You need to learn patience." Snape takes a step toward him and Harry shivers but stands his ground. He refuses to be pushed around like a child's toy. He only has two days left and he can't be the one to run this time. "Wandering into places you don't belong, and for what, I wonder. Do tell."
"You're sure you want to know?" Harry makes a move forward until the toes of his shoes press against Snape's. He waits a beat and then tips his head to the side in consideration. "You can't think I keep coming back because I like being mocked."
Snape's nostrils flare and his eyes narrow, but for all that facial reaction, he stays in place and
Harry nearly crows in victory. "I assumed you kept coming back for the music and to get drunk. If that's not the reason, I wish you would get on with it already."
"I haven't been properly drunk in over a month. I do have some self control." He smiles, a big, wide and stupid looking thing and curves his hand over Snape's shoulder and pulls him in until their noses brush. A light flush colors Snape's sallow cheeks and Harry huffs a breathy laugh and leans forward to silence any further pointed jibes.
Snape's both unyielding and giving, testing Harry's willpower as he caves into what Harry asks for and then retreats. Numberless seconds creep by until Harry is breathing heavily through his nose and he's the one pulling away.
"Was-"
"Snape!" Harry jolts away and stares wide-eyed over Snape's shoulder. A thin, dark-skinned boy holding a trumpet waves an anxious hand. "We need you."
The boy disappears behind the curtain just as music strikes up on the other side. Snape touches Harry's cheek for the briefest second before he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over his arm. For a moment, Harry longs to ask what Snape is thinking of when he looks at him.
Snape nods his head once, eyes dark and promising before he follows the boy out onto the stage. Harry stays in the back, listening to the voice that drew him into this life in the beginning.
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