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Harry threw his sports bag into the corner. It hit the wall with a dull thump and collapsed in a heap, still carrying the sharp scent of sweat, damp wool, and the grassy tang of the pitch. He didn’t bother looking at it. His legs were heavy, his shoulders tight from the endless travel.
He went straight to the fridge, opened it, and grabbed a pumpkin soda. The cap hissed when he twisted it off, and the first sip fizzed sweet and cold on his tongue, almost stinging. He sighed and dropped onto the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight, and the silence of his flat wrapped around him - thick, almost startling after weeks of roaring crowds and reporters screaming his name.
Finally. A break.
For months he’d been living out of suitcases, coming home only to leave again. He’d arrived from Spain less than two hours ago - still wearing the scent of the Madrid stadium, sun-baked stone mixing with adrenaline and exhaustion. The Europe League match against Ángel Madrileño had been brutal. His muscles still buzzed faintly, like they hadn’t registered the match was over.
Four years with the Montrose Magpies, and somehow he’d become one of the most successful - and most visible - Seekers in the world. Before that, he’d bounced across teams and leagues, never imagining he’d go pro. Quidditch had been something he liked. Fame had been the price - and he hated it.
He couldn’t walk into a wizarding market without people staring or shoving quills in his face. Autographs, photos, my nephew is a huge fan, my daughter needs tickets, just one quick interview, Mr. Potter. The constant noise, the constant eyes - it made him feel flayed open.
Ginny and Ron had signed on to the chaos too. Ginny with the Holyhead Harpies, Ron with the Chudley Cannons - their teasing rivalry was legendary and honestly one of the few things that made the league fun. Ginny was taking a break, though. A one-year-old at home. Married to Oliver Wood, of all people. Harry huffed a tired laugh. After the war, he and Ginny had tried dating again. Lasted a few months before they both agreed friendship fit better. But the press hadn’t let them breathe - Britain’s golden couple breaks up! as though the world were ending.
And then there had been Viktor Krum. Snow, firewhisky, and stolen weeks between international matches. Burned fast and bright - and the Prophet dissected every minute of it. He’d learned after that to keep his private life private.
At the moment, it barely existed anyway.
He’d dated here and there, in whatever country his schedule threw him into. The only thing that mattered was connection - real connection. And he’d learned gender wasn’t part of the equation for him. But he did have… a type. Tall. Slim. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Sharp wit. Sometimes sharp tongue. Someone who could argue with him for hours and then drag him to bed to make it up - those relationships had been the best. The most alive he ever felt outside of the sky.
But loyalty… that was harder to come by. Too many wanted the thrill without the commitment. His last boyfriend - a Muggle - asked if they could open things up.
Harry took another swig from the bottle, the pumpkin soda now lukewarm but still fizzy enough to sting the back of his throat. He let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes landing on a crumpled flyer from one of his sponsors - another smiling picture of him mid-air, broom angled just so. It made his skin crawl.
Some people didn’t see him at all. They only saw headlines.
Hermione’s last attempt at matchmaking replayed in his mind - the perfectly nice coworker who smiled too wide and leaned in too eagerly. She’d barely sat down before asking if he could get her entire family VIP tickets. The air between them had turned sour so quickly he’d almost tasted it. He’d gone home that night feeling grimy, like someone had tried to peel back his identity with greedy hands.
It wasn’t easy. Merlin, it wasn’t easy.
Sometimes he would have traded every contract, every cheer, every Chaser singing his praises, for just one person who didn’t care about the legacy or the lightning scar. Someone who wanted Harry - the tired, awkward bloke who burned toast and lost his socks on a weekly basis. Not the Saviour. Not the star Seeker.
He scrubbed a palm over his face and finally forced himself to deal with the pile of letters on the table. The top envelope bore the golden seal of the Ministry. Already he felt his jaw tighten.
He tore it open.
The thick parchment smelled faintly of expensive ink. Minister’s Annual Advent Ball gleamed across the top - the fancy lettering practically screaming obligation. A second page fluttered out - a form for a charity auction. A date auction.
Harry let out a laugh that held zero humour.
Auctioning himself off to the highest bidder? Absolutely not. He’d donate ten thousand galleons before he let someone buy his company for a night. At least then he could pretend to have some dignity left.
He skimmed the invite again.
Attendance with +1 encouraged.
Right. Because showing up with someone always meant weeks of gossip. Pairings, shipping charts, rumours - all gleefully printed in the Prophet. He could bring Luna, sure. But she didn’t deserve to be swallowed by that circus again.
He checked the clock. Noon. On a Sunday. His flat was still carrying the stale, warm smell of travel - unwashed jerseys and sweat trapped in his bag. He needed a shower. He needed food. He needed… something.
Instead, he grabbed his phone - still marveling that magic and Muggle tech had finally learned to tolerate each other - and typed.
Hey ‘Mione, I'm back in Britain. Need some suit advice before the Advent ball.
Her response came almost immediately - the tiny vibration buzzing against his palm.
I’m free, Ron’s with the kids at Molly’s and I’ve been working on a case, but I could use a break. Meet at Harrods at 2 pm?
A small, real smile tugged at his lips as he sent a thumbs-up back. Hermione always came through. Ron too. They were his constants - loud, loving, hopelessly supportive. He’d stood beside them at weddings, held Rosie hours after she was born, rocked baby Hugo to sleep with the same clumsy awkwardness he used to hold a Firebolt as a first-year. Being their children’s godfather still made his chest warm.
He hauled himself upright and padded to the cupboard. A barely expired bag of crisps awaited his judgement. He sniffed it - salty, oily, perfectly edible. Good enough. He ripped it open and returned to the couch, crumbs already dotting his shirt.
He still had an hour before meeting Hermione.
An hour of quiet, of stillness, of pretending the world outside didn’t expect anything from him.
He let himself sink deeper into the cushions, crunching lazily, letting the empty silence hum around him like a fragile promise.
Just one hour.
Then he would put on a smile and face the world again.
He met Hermione in front of Harrods, the December air biting at their cheeks. Her golden-brown skin was dusted red from the cold, curls peeking out beneath a wool hat. The wind carried the smell of roasted chestnuts from a nearby stand and the metallic tang of London winter.
Harry wrapped her in a tight hug. She smelled like peppermint tea and old parchment, exactly like home.
“’Mione, you are a lifesaver,” he murmured, every word sincere.
“I know,” she said with a wicked little smile. “You and Ron would be dead by now without me.”
Harry laughed, the sound fogging in the icy air.
“Come over this evening for dinner?” she asked.
“Of course. I need to see my cute godkids - and Ron.” He tacked on dramatically.
Hermione snorted and swatted his arm. “Alright, alright. But first - let’s get you a suit.”
Inside Harrods, the warmth hit like a blanket. The scent of cologne, expensive fabric, and polished wood lingered in the air. Harry much preferred Muggle suits over dress robes - robes felt like costumes. Today he wore jeans, trainers, a hoodie and a thick jacket.
“I bought a fur-trimmed cloak in Paris,” he said as they browsed. “Dark grey. I’d wear it with the suit.”
Hermione ran a thoughtful finger over a navy blazer. “That will look good. We’ll find something.”
Two hours later, Harry slumped in a chair at a small café across the street. His feet ached and his head felt foggy from too many dressing rooms and too many mirrors. The little café smelled like cinnamon, espresso and melting butter. A scone still warm from the oven sat between them, crumbs clinging to his fingertips.
“This was more demanding than playing a whole Quidditch match,” he groaned as he took a sip of his coffee.
Hermione burst out laughing. “Ron always complains too. You Quidditch boys are useless in clothing stores.”
She smirked at him over her mug. “So… who are you bringing to the ball?”
“No one.” His answer was instant. “I’m not in the mood for another Prophet headline like Is it finally true love?”
Hermione scoffed. “You’d think they’d lose interest after all these years.”
Harry rubbed his eyes. “They don’t. And the Ministry had the audacity to include that horrible auction form. As if I’d let them auction me off.”
“Oh, you should tell Ron that,” Hermione said. “My husband filled it out already. Oi, Mione, it’s for a good cause,” she added, perfectly imitating his voice.
Harry nearly choked on his coffee laughing. “Are you going to bid for him?”
Hermione leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. “I’ll wait and see who bids. If it’s someone he’d absolutely hate… I’ll let them win.”
“You’re terrifying,” Harry breathed.
“I know,” she said proudly.
When they finally left, dusk had begun creeping in along the edges of the sky, the city lights flickering on. Hermione squeezed his arm.
“So dinner tonight. 7 pm?”
“I’m delighted,” Harry said - and he meant every word.
He stopped on the way out to buy two plush bears, one purple and one green - he could already imagine Rose squealing and Hugo chewing on the ear.
Back home, the quiet of his flat welcomed him again. He dropped the bears on the table, kicked off his shoes, and let himself fall onto the bed.
He closed his eyes - just for a moment.
And drifted into sleep with the softest smile tugging at his lips.
When Harry stepped through the Floo, warmth hit him like a physical force. The air was thick with the smell of roast, rosemary, thyme, and something buttery and comforting that could only be Ron’s Yorkshire pudding. The living room buzzed with soft chatter, clinking dishes from the kitchen, and the distant jingle of children’s toys.
He barely had time to steady himself before Ron wrapped him in a bear-like hug, ribs squeezed nearly to cracking.
“It’s good to have you home,” Ron said, voice rough with warmth. “Mum is already asking if you’re coming over for Christmas Day.”
“Of course I will.” Harry meant it. Every year, without question.
Ron had grown even taller since Hogwarts - broad shoulders, freckles splashed across his cheeks and arms, hair just as red and unruly as ever. And that grin… open, uncomplicated, safe.
“Where are my favourite boy and girl?” Harry asked.
“I thought I’m your favourite,” Ron said with mock offence.
“I only endure you because you’re the father of my godchildren,” Harry shot back with a wicked grin.
A shriek interrupted them.
“Uncle Harry!”
Rose came sprinting from the kitchen, curls flying, feet thumping against the wooden floor. She threw herself into him without hesitation, and he caught her easily, lifting and spinning her until she squealed. She smelled like cookie dough and children’s shampoo.
“Rose, you get taller every time I see you.” He kissed her cheek, making her giggle. “And look what I brought you.” He pulled the purple plush bear from his bag.
“A new bear!” she squealed, hugging it like treasure. “Look, Daddy!”
Hermione appeared in the doorway, Hugo on her hip. “This young man is already sleepy, but he refused to go to bed before seeing his uncle.”
Harry set Rose down gently and held out his arms. Hermione transferred Hugo over, warm and soft and smelling of baby powder and milk. Hugo pressed his cheek into Harry’s shoulder.
“Hey, kiddo,” Harry murmured, feeling something in his chest melt. “I brought you something too.” He produced the green bear.
Hugo’s sleepy grin revealed his tiny scattered teeth before he buried his face in the bear’s fur.
“Come on, baby boy,” Hermione whispered, kissing the back of his head. “Time for bed.” She headed upstairs, footsteps soft against the carpet.
Ron nodded toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. Want a beer?”
“You are a lifesaver. It’s finally season break - I’m allowed,” Harry said with a grin.
He sat at the kitchen table with Rose while Ron cooked. They drew together - or rather, Rose instructed and Harry followed - creating a lopsided pirate ship with mismatched sails. Rose hummed tunelessly, tongue poking out as she concentrated. Ron stirred gravy, humming a Weird Sisters tune under his breath.
This… this was the kind of warmth Harry could drown in.
It felt real. Grounded. Safe. Everything he missed without even knowing how much until moments like this reminded him.
He didn’t know if he wanted children of his own. Maybe. Maybe not. He already had Teddy - his first godchild - whom he’d visit tomorrow. Teddy was starting Hogwarts next year, which made Harry feel both ancient and stupidly proud.
But this - having someone who loved him, someone he loved - someone to cook with, laugh with, fall asleep beside, build a life with…
That was what he longed for most.
Not the applause of stadium crowds. Not magazine covers.
Just this kind of warmth, shared with someone who stayed.
When he came back from Andromeda’s, he was ready to pass out - muscles pleasantly aching, skin still cold from winter air, heart warm in a way sleep alone could never give. He kicked off his shoes the second the door closed behind him and leaned against it for a moment, grinning to himself.
Teddy was a great kid. Genuine, inquisitive, a little clumsy in the most endearing way. They’d spent half the afternoon in the back garden, playing Quidditch. His hair kept changing colours with every goal - bright blue when he scored, fiery red when Harry did, and neon green when he missed… which Teddy declared cruel but fair.
Teddy attended a small school near home and talked nonstop about Hogwarts - what house he’d be in, what broom he’d get, whether ghosts were scary. September couldn’t come fast enough for him.
Andromeda had watched them from the porch with fond amusement, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. She loved Teddy fiercely - anyone could see it in the way her eyes followed him. But there was something lighter about her these days, something soft. She’d confided that she was seeing a man. A nice one. A bit older than her. Thoughtful. Good to her.
She’d blushed - actually blushed - while talking about him.
Harry was thrilled for her. She’d carried so much pain for so long. She deserved happiness. Still… a tiny part of him was curious. Some things she said made it sound like Harry might know the man. But she offered no details and he didn’t pry. If she wanted to tell him eventually, she would.
The rest of the week slipped by in a comfortable holiday rhythm. Molly and Arthur’s house smelled like cinnamon and pine the moment he stepped through the door, and Molly hugged him until his ribs protested. Minerva, now Headmistress, shared tea with him in her office - surprisingly warm, with tartan cushions everywhere and a crackling fire he suspected she charmed to be extra dramatic. George nearly knocked him flat with a hug when he appeared in the shop, and the place was still thriving - glittering shelves, explosive laughter, more colour than the eye could handle.
Diagon Alley was… less fun. He’d considered a baseball cap and sunglasses, but he knew that would draw even more attention - like a neon sign saying celebrity hiding here. So he walked in normally, shoulders squared, bracing himself.
It went as expected. Whispering. Staring. A few excited shrieks. Three autograph requests before he even reached the second shop. He forced himself to breathe through it, focus on George’s voice, not the noise. But by the time he got home, he felt wrung out.
And then Saturday arrived.
The night of the Advent Ball.
He stood in front of his mirror, fastening the final button on his tailored suit. The fabric was high quality - structured but soft, a perfect fit across chest and shoulders. Slightly lighter gray than the fur-trimmed cloak waiting on the chair. Sharp, clean, elegant. Adult. Not star Seeker. Not Boy Who Lived.
Just… Harry.
He adjusted his tie - dark green to match his eyes. The silk felt cool under his fingertips, smooth and grounding. He slid the cloak on. The heavy material fell around him like armour, warm and luxurious.
For a moment he simply stood there, hands resting in his pockets, listening to the muffled hum of London traffic outside the window, breathing in the faint cedar scent of his suit.
Whatever the night held - good, bad, awkward, or dull - he would handle it.
He grabbed his keys and phone, straightened his shoulders, and stepped out into the evening.
Toward the ball.
Toward whatever waited for him there.
He would kill her. Absolutely murder her. Slowly, dramatically, and with great satisfaction.
Perhaps poison a mouse, wrap it up like a gift, and serve it to that infuriating old tabby cat. Minerva McGonagall would deserve nothing less.
Severus glared at himself in the mirror as he fastened the last button of his shirt. Black, of course. There was no universe in which he would parade around in festive colours like some deranged Christmas elf. Over the shirt went a set of formal robes - good ones, tailored properly, the ones he never wore because social events were hell and he avoided them accordingly.
The robe fit well across his shoulders, tapering down to his lean frame. It didn’t change anything. Pale skin still pale. Cheeks still hollow. Nose still hooked. Hair - freshly washed, Merlin help him - tied back. He had spent ten minutes debating whether to leave it loose. He wasn’t vain, but the choice had felt like a trap. Loose, it would hang lank and plain. Pulled back, his high cheekbones and nose stood out even more. Lovely.
And all this because he had lost a bet.
No - because she had cheated.
He could still see Minerva’s smug, feline grin when she’d told him he’d lost and would therefore be participating in the charity auction at the Ministry’s Advent Ball. He had nearly resigned on the spot. Deputy Headmaster and Potions Professor or not - this humiliation was excessive even for her sense of humour.
He sighed sharply through his nose. No one would bid on him. Obviously. He would stand on that stage in silence, people would whisper, maybe laugh, and then he would step down and return to his quiet, miserable life. It would sting, yes - but the anticipation of humiliation was somehow worse.
Still. A bargain was a bargain.
He straightened his robe, lifted his chin in a parody of dignity, and stalked toward the Floo.
Green flames swallowed him and deposited him in the Ministry atrium - and the assault on his senses was immediate.
A glittery nightmare.
Christmas trees everywhere - enormous, dripping with red baubles and heavy tinsel. Floating lights. Gold ribbons. And atop each tree, round-faced glass angels so hideous they looked like they were judging everyone present. The smell in the air was worse: eggnog, cinnamon, mulled wine, pine needles, perfume, and far too much sugar battling for dominance.
A ballroom had been set up - round tables of ten, white tablecloths, sparkling place cards. He spotted the Hogwarts staff table near the edge: Filius already nibbling a mince pie; Pomona chatting with Hagrid, who was wearing something red and fuzzy that Severus refused to look at closely.
He loathed Christmas time. The forced cheer. The singing. The endless chatter about gifts and family and traditions. Walks in the snow, markets, spiced wine, biscuits shaped like stars and hearts. Everyone with someone. Everyone belonging to someone.
He clenched his jaw.
He didn’t hate Christmas because it was loud or gaudy.
He hated it because it reminded him - every single year - that he had no one to celebrate it with.
He moved stiffly toward the staff table, shoulders tight, posture rigid.
Let the night be over quickly.
If he was lucky, Minerva would choke on a mince pie before the auction began.
Harry lingered near the far wall, half-hidden behind a glittering garland and a tree weighted down with enough ornaments to snap its branches. Noise swelled around him - laughter, clinking glasses, the soft hum of a band, the rustle of expensive robes. He hadn’t sat down yet. His assigned table was front and center, practically kissing the edge of the stage. Perfect positioning for the Prophet to take flattering photos of his discomfort.
He plucked another glass of champagne from a floating tray that drifted past, the rim cold against his fingers. He hated champagne - the sharp, dry fizz, the way it burned the tongue but left no warmth behind. But it was that or stand here empty-handed.
At least his table would be full of familiar faces: Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Oliver, Gwenog Jones and her wife, a handful of Quidditch colleagues.
Still… he couldn’t make himself sit yet.
He scanned the room casually, eyes drifting over faces, robes, and glowing candlelight. Two tables away he spotted a cluster of Hogwarts staff. Minerva in tartan robes. Flitwick in velvet blue with silver embroidery. Hagrid in… red and fuzzy, probably something knitted.
His pulse stuttered.
Was that -?
Snape.
Severus Snape, unmistakably, absurdly, painfully alive and present.
Harry froze.
The man wore impeccably tailored black robes - the kind that made simplicity look like quiet power. Even from here, Harry could see the sharp lines of his shoulders, the precision of the cut. His face was as severe as ever, lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut glass. His hair - Harry’s brain hiccupped - was tied back. And it suited him unfairly well.
The high cheekbones - Merlin, how had he never noticed? - were emphasized, his features sharper, more defined. A dark, elegant presence amid all the glitter and gold.
He leaned toward Minerva, saying something that looked decidedly unhappy. Minerva answered with a grin so wicked Harry was almost sure she deserved to be poisoned by someone. Snape folded his arms defensively and huffed. Minerva looked delighted.
Harry couldn’t stop looking.
His gaze traveled lower - down Snape’s throat, catching the faint silver crescent of a scar peeking above his collar, then to his folded arms, where long fingers tapped with barely restrained impatience.
Something fluttered deep in Harry’s stomach.
He cleared his throat sharply and took another sip of champagne - bubbles bursting bitterly across his tongue. His slacks suddenly felt too tight, heat blooming under his collar.
Nope. Absolutely not. Bad direction. Terrible ideas.
He scoffed under his breath - at himself - and finally forced his legs to move. Time to sit before he embarrassed himself further.
He headed to his table, greeting everyone with warm hugs and cheek kisses. Ginny teased him about being late, Ron shoved a beer into his hand, and Oliver clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly topple him into a chair.
Harry sat - discreetly shifting, adjusting himself in a way he prayed no one noticed - and plastered on a relaxed, easy smile.
He tried to focus on the conversation.
But his body already knew where in the room Severus Snape was - down to the exact angle.
And every flicker of candlelight on black silk robes tugged at his attention like a magnet he couldn’t quite fight.
Harry sat back and watched the room glitter and move around him - clinking glasses, polished silverware, candles flickering inside enchanted globes. After Kingsley’s brief welcome, plates materialised with a soft pop, each dish appearing piping hot in front of every guest.
First came a creamy soup, rich with nutmeg and roasted pumpkin. Then a delicate salad with fish so tender it fell apart under the fork. Harry tried to enjoy it, but every few minutes someone leaned over his shoulder for a photo or thrust a menu in front of him to sign. Ron muttered irritated comments under his breath, stabbing his fork into his steak with unnecessary violence.
The second course cleared away, a troupe of young witches danced ballet on a conjured stage - white tulle, snowflakes drifting magically around them. The applause hadn’t even faded when Celestina Warbeck swept in with a high note that rattled the glasses. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Ministry had clearly burned a hole in the budget to impress.
Finally, the third dish arrived: steak - perfectly medium, juices pooling onto the plate - with golden potatoes and seasoned vegetables. It was genuinely delicious. Would’ve been even better if he wasn’t pausing between bites to smile for cameras and sign napkins. Ron groaned at him across the table in sympathy.
Dessert helped - a chocolate soufflé so soft it practically melted on Harry’s tongue. The smell alone was almost enough to make him forget where he was.
Almost.
Kingsley stood again, the room falling gradually into a hush.
“My dear guests, we have all been waiting for this point on the program,” he began. “I am delighted that so many have agreed to participate in the auction. I will give the microphone to Celestina, who will lead us through the auction. Please remember - every bid will be donated to the Home for Homeless Witches and Wizards in Brighton.”
He kissed Celestina’s hand before giving her the microphone. Harry barely hid a smirk - Kingsley always laid it on thick for the cameras.
Celestina turned toward the crowd with the stage smile of someone born for attention.
“Thank you, Minister. It is a pleasure to be here with you all. And I am delighted to announce that we have fourteen participants in tonight’s auction. I will call each name one after another. The starting bid is always ten Galleons.”
She paused for dramatic effect - Harry could practically feel the entire room leaning in.
“Our first participant is Ludo Bagman!”
Ludo strutted up on stage like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. His grin was wide enough to split his face.
“Ludo - lovely to have you here. Madams and Messieurs - ten Galleons are offered.”
The bids shot upward immediately. Ten, twenty, sixty, ninety - and then in rapid fire up to 140 Galleons before the hammer fell. Ludo walked off stage still grinning, clearly pleased with himself.
“Our next participant is George Weasley!”
Cheers erupted. George bounded onto the stage and waved dramatically, milking the crowd for laughter. Ron dropped his forehead into his hand.
“Again, we start at ten Galleons.”
The bidding exploded.
“Twenty!” - “Fifty!” - “One hundred and twenty!”
Harry blinked. Draco Malfoy was bidding. Pale hand lifted high, expression perfectly bored.
Harry’s mouth twitched. Well…
He raised his hand lazily. “Two hundred.”
Hermione stared at him. “Really?”
He shrugged. Ron was choking back laughter.
“Two hundred and fifty!” Draco fired back without hesitation.
Harry leaned back in his chair, slow grin spreading. “Three hundred.”
The room buzzed - whispers, a few gasps. Draco’s jaw twitched.
Then Draco practically spat, “Four hundred!”
The table roared with laughter. Harry weighed the idea of bidding again - pushing Draco further, making him squirm a bit - but decided to show mercy. Barely.
He gave Draco a little two-finger salute instead.
Celestina clapped her hands.
“Four hundred Galleons for Mr. Weasley! Well done, young man!”
George bowed theatrically, blowing kisses to both Draco and Harry before exiting the stage.
Harry exhaled, amusement still fizzing warm in his chest - but the auction was only getting started.
And somewhere in the room, wearing black like an omen and standing perfectly still, waited the man whose name would shatter Harry’s composure the second it was called.
Harry watched the auction move along - one name after another, laughter rippling across the room, champagne flutes clinking, people leaning over tables to whisper and tease. Celestina’s voice floated through the ballroom like sugared smoke.
“Angelina Johnson, please come up to the stage.”
The bids rose smoothly - playful shouts, a dramatic gasp from somewhere in the back, and then applause as Angelina stepped down beaming. Someone a few tables over muttered loudly, “I hope Harry Potter is also on the auction.”
Harry scoffed into his champagne. Never. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.
Ron was eighth.
“Another Mr. Weasley - welcome. Ten Galleons are offered.”
The room erupted again. Ron was a beloved Keeper and everyone knew it - loud cheers, jokes called from across the hall, and Hermione smirking like she’d already planned retaliation for later. Harry leaned back, watching fondly as Ron kept throwing her helpless glances.
The numbers climbed: 60… 90… 140… 180…
And then:
“Two hundred and ten Galleons!”
Celestina called it off, satisfied. An eruption of applause.
Ron’s eyes went wide as Sickles when he realised Lady Longbottom had won the bid - regal in deep purple, waving cheerfully like she already owned him.
“Maybe this will teach him something,” Hermione purred, looking indecently pleased.
Harry nearly slid off his chair from laughing - he wheezed into his napkin until tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.
But the sound died in his throat the moment Celestina lifted her microphone again.
“Our next participant is Severus Snape. Please come up to us.”
Everything in Harry froze.
His head snapped toward the Hogwarts table in time to see Snape push back his chair. Reluctant didn’t even begin to describe it - the man moved like he was marching to his own execution. He smoothed down his robe with stiff fingers and threw Minerva a murderous look. Minerva didn’t even bother to hide her wicked grin.
Harry swallowed.
Snape walked up the steps, every muscle rigid, shoulders pulled tight. Under the bright stage lights, his black robes looked like midnight silk, sharp edges and precision stitching. He stood there like a statue, jaw clenched, hands folded behind his back - his version of bracing against humiliation.
Harry could feel the tension rolling off him even across the room - sharp, cold, coiled like a spring.
“Welcome to the auction,” Celestina said brightly. “Ten Galleons are offered.”
Silence.
Not the playful kind from earlier - the wrong kind.
Whispers stirred, slithering through the hall.
Harry watched Snape’s lips press thinner and thinner. His eyes stared straight ahead, but Harry could feel the humiliation cracking under the surface - like ice under too much weight.
His stomach clenched so hard it hurt.
He scanned the crowd - no raised hands, no bids, just awkward glances and murmurs.
Snape’s shoulders drew even tighter. He looked like he was trying to shrink into himself and stand taller at the same time. A man bracing for humiliation he had expected - and still feared deeply.
Harry didn’t think.
His hand shot up.
“Five thousand,” he called.
The room imploded with gasps and whispers.
Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. Ron choked on his drink. Draco spun in his chair so fast his blond fringe whipped sideways. Celestina nearly dropped the microphone.
Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Five thousand Galleons.
For Severus Snape.
Onstage, the professor didn’t move for a long moment - like he couldn’t process the sound. Then, slowly, he turned his head, eyes sweeping the crowd until they found Harry.
Dark, unreadable, burning.
For the first time that night - maybe for the first time in years - Severus Snape didn’t look guarded or bitter or cold.
He looked stunned.
Like someone had just rewritten the laws of the world in front of him.
Severus stood on the stage exactly as he had expected - stiff as a board, every muscle locked, humiliation already coiling under his ribs like smoke. Silence settled over the ballroom, the wrong kind of silence - not anticipation but polite discomfort. No bids. No raised hands. No interest.
Of course.
His lips flattened further. Murderous fantasies bloomed effortlessly across his mind - taxidermied tabbies posed in festive outfits, mounted above a fireplace. Decorative. Silent. Obedient.
Then-
“Five thousand.”
The voice rang out clean and sharp across the hall, slicing through the whispers.
Severus went still.
He knew that voice.
He would know it until he drew his last breath.
Harry Potter.
The pain of his life. The curse of his career. The perpetual irritation of his existence.
His head snapped toward the front tables, eyes searching - until they landed on him.
Potter lounged in his chair like he was born to be photographed - immaculate grey suit perfectly fitted, dark green tie matching his eyes, posture loose and relaxed as though he hadn’t just dropped a number large enough to fund a library restoration without blinking. His gaze was bright, unbothered - and infuriatingly confident. There was a hint of arrogance on his lips, annoyed amusement tugging at the corner, like he’d merely swatted a fly rather than detonated a room.
Severus felt something hot and unfamiliar burn up his spine.
Five thousand Galleons. For him.
Insanity.
There would be headlines - ridiculous, scandalous headlines - by morning. There were always headlines about Potter. Saint Potter donates a fortune for a date, Potter outbids Ministry, War Hero plays favourites. Take your pick. The swarm of whispering all around the ballroom confirmed it - shock, disbelief, gossip already brewing.
Even Potter’s friends looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.
Beside Severus, Celestina recovered and cleared her throat with theatrical flourish.
“Well! What an exciting auction indeed. Five thousand Galleons from Mr. Potter. Very well done!”
Severus barely heard her.
He stepped down the stage mechanically, feet carrying him on instinct more than will. Faces blurred around him - shock, curiosity, speculation - and he wanted none of it. He grabbed a champagne flute from a floating tray without breaking stride, barely registering the biting dryness on his tongue.
He headed for the farthest corner of the ballroom, where shadows swallowed the golden lights and the music softened to a dull hum. He pressed his back against the wall, gripping the glass too tightly.
His mind was a storm.
Potter had humiliated him. That had to be it. There was no other explanation.
But why hadn’t he bid just enough? Why jump straight to five thousand?
There had been no mockery in his voice. No laughter. No hesitation.
Just certainty.
Severus exhaled through his nose, chest tight and uncomfortable - just shy of panic, just shy of anger, something far more disorienting twisting under his ribs.
He needed distance. He needed darkness.
He needed to think.
The music swelled, lights glittering across the ballroom.
Severus clamped down harder on the glass, willing the chaos in his mind to silence.
Whatever this was - whatever Potter thought he was playing at - Severus would not crumble in public.
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
Harry felt the air around their table tighten the moment his bid landed. Whispers swirled like smoke, eyes turned toward him, flashes from enchanted cameras lit the hall. He ignored all of it - or tried to.
Hermione leaned in close, voice barely a breath. “Harry… why did you bid for Snape?”
“Because no one was bidding,” he said sharply.
Hermione’s brows furrowed - searching.
Ron leaned forward too, stunned. “But mate… five thousand.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “Because I could.”
It came out too fast, too defensive. He hated the edge in his tone, hated the heat rushing under his skin. Why was he annoyed? At Ron? At Hermione? At the Prophet? At the entire damned room that had sat there and watched Snape wait to be humiliated?
He didn’t have the name for the feeling - but it sat in his gut like fire.
The auction continued - voices rising and falling, Celestina hamming it up, applause echoing - but Harry didn’t hear a word. His gaze kept drifting across the ballroom, searching for black robes and a rigid posture.
As soon as the last name was called and the crowd rose for yet another round of music - Harry stood.
He scanned the room - ignoring outstretched hands, greetings, requests for photographs - eyes sharp and hunting.
And there - farthest corner, half-hidden behind an absurdly large Christmas tree - a slim, still silhouette in black.
Severus Snape.
Harry walked toward him, casual enough not to announce intent, direct enough not to be stopped. The closer he came, the tighter the ache in his chest pulled.
Snape stood in the shadows with a champagne flute. His knuckles were bone white where he gripped the stem. His shoulders rigid. Every line of him screaming control - the brittle, dangerous kind that came right before shattering.
Harry’s gut tightened.
He approached quietly. “Sir.”
Snape’s eyes widened before he masked it - not quickly enough.
“Mr. Potter,” he replied, voice low and cool. “Have you come to gloat?”
There was no sneer - not truly. Just exhaustion sharpened into defensiveness.
“Of course not,” Harry said. “I only wanted to speak with you about our… date.”
Snape blinked once, expression shifting - not softening, but slipping. “You intend to go through with it, then?”
“Obviously.” Harry kept his tone easy, steady. “And I already have a plan. Are you free tomorrow at four?”
Snape hesitated - Harry watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed - and then he nodded.
“You’ll need Muggle clothes,” Harry added lightly. “Warm ones.”
Snape’s breath caught - barely audible - then he nodded again, slower.
Harry grinned. Couldn’t stop it. “We’ll meet outside Hogwarts.”
He turned to walk away - then paused and looked back, unable to ignore the spark of curiosity in his chest.
“But before I go… why did you participate in the auction? You’d never volunteer for something like this.”
Snape’s lips thinned, eyes sparking with irritation. “Because the old stray tabby tricked me into it,” he bit out.
Harry huffed a laugh through his nose. “I guessed as much.”
He softened. “I’m glad you did,” he said quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
And before Snape could form a reply - Harry slipped away into the crowd, the music rising again, the lights glittering.
Behind him, Snape remained motionless in the shadows - stunned, wary, and utterly unsure what had just happened.
Exactly as Harry intended.
Severus hadn’t slept. He’d dozed, drifted, jerked awake - over and over - his thoughts snagging on the same maddening loop:
Why Potter. Why five thousand. Why him.
By morning, exhaustion had settled behind his eyes like bruises. The Daily Prophet did nothing to improve his mood. The front page screamed:
DISASTROUS AUCTION — POTTER BIDS FOR FORMER DEATH EATER
The words burned like acid. They’d paired a photo of Severus - eyes widened in something dangerously close to vulnerability - with one of Potter looking heroic and golden, the Boy Who Lived in all his irritating glory. If he hadn’t been sitting at the High Table, he would have blasted the paper into ash on the spot.
At least Minerva, for once, wasn’t smirking.
“Perhaps,” she murmured, voice unusually gentled, “I went too far.”
“Perhaps?” he bit out.
Minerva had the grace to wince.
Later, back in his quarters, Severus attempted to distract himself by grading essays - the usual idiocy on full display. His red scrawl tore across parchment after parchment, cruel satisfaction easing nothing. He kept glancing at the clock instead, counting down the hours until four o’clock with something ugly twisting in his stomach.
By the time he needed to dress, his hands were cold.
Black slacks. A black pullover. A long dark grey coat buttoned up to the throat. Matching gloves and scarf. Practical. Neutral. Nothing meant to flatter - nothing could. His reflection in the mirror looked back with familiar suspicion, eyebrows drawn tight.
His wand slid into his sleeve, ready - not because he expected danger, but because being unprepared around Potter felt like a mistake.
His hair was tied back again. He sighed - futile. He would not look better loose or bound. He refused to care.
Why did he even want to look better? It was just Potter.
He swore at his own idiocy under his breath, pulled on his boots, and stepped outside.
Snow covered the grounds in thick white layers - soft, heavy flakes falling steadily from grey skies. Every breath came out in a plume of white. The castle behind him glowed with floating Christmas wreaths. Students’ laughter echoed faintly from inside.
He made his way down to the gates - steps crunching in the snow, coat flapping around his legs - fully expecting Potter to be late, or worse, not there at all.
But he was.
Potter stood waiting - cheeks red from the cold despite the warming charm, beige slacks dusted with snow, a warm brown coat, gloves and scarf, and a wool hat pulled over his impossible hair. He looked… normal.
“Punctual - perfect,” Potter said with a grin that reached his eyes.
“I do not tend to be late,” Severus answered stiffly.
“Good. I’ll apparate us to our destination.”
Before Severus could protest, Potter grabbed his wrist - warm fingers, firm hold - and the world spun.
They landed hard. Severus had to plant his boots in the snow to steady himself.
“Potter!”
“Sorry,” Potter said, not sorry at all. “I didn’t want to give you time to object.”
Severus glared. Snowflakes clung to Potter’s lashes. Infuriating.
“Where are we?”
“Bath,” Potter replied easily.
“Why.”
“Because Bath has the most beautiful Christmas market in Europe.”
It was snowing harder now - fat flakes drifting lazily under golden lights, the smell of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts already on the air. Music floated from somewhere in the distance - cheerful, warm, disgustingly festive.
Potter had lost his mind.
“I do not go to Christmas markets,” Severus snapped.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Potter said softly - and something in his tone wasn’t teasing at all. “And I’ve always wanted to go to this one.”
He looked at Severus - really looked. Searching eyes, like he was trying to understand something he hadn’t figured out yet.
Then Potter pulled out his wand, conjured a thick wool hat, and without hesitation placed it on Severus’s head. His hands were gentle but confident - adjusting it until it sat snugly over Severus’s ears. Then he reached for the scarf and tucked it tighter against Severus’s throat, fingers brushing his skin for a single electric second.
“There,” Potter murmured. “It’s snowing too hard - you need a hat.”
He sounded almost… concerned.
Before Severus could react, Potter took him by the hand , warm glove closing around Severus’s cold one, confident and sure.
“Come on,” Potter said, tugging him forward. “Let’s go.”
Severus did not move. He could not move.
Every instinct screamed to pull away - hex him - demand answers - anything.
But instead he stood stunned, silent, and shaken to his bones - because no one had fussed over him like that in… decades.
Potter tugged again, and this time Severus followed.
Through snow.
Through lights.
Through a world he had sworn he didn’t want.
And nothing made sense anymore.
Harry walked through the market as if he’d stepped into another world - lights strung from every rooftop, glowing warm and golden against the deep blue of the winter sky. Snow drifted lazily around them, soft flakes catching in hair and eyelashes. The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, mulled wine and woodsmoke. Laughter floated everywhere, bells chimed faintly with the music.
There were people - ordinary families, couples holding hands, children tugging at mittens - all of them wrapped in scarves and coats, completely unaware that Harry Potter was among them. No staring. No whispering. No quills. No cameras.
It felt… peaceful.
He kept hold of Snape’s hand just a moment longer than he needed to - until the crowd swallowed them again - and although Severus followed reluctantly, he didn’t pull away. Every step beside Harry felt strangely right, like something slotting into place that he hadn’t realised was missing.
They stopped at a stall piled with little glass figurines, hand-poured candles, and pastries dusted with sugar. It was already getting dark, lights reflecting on the snow like fireflies. Harry’s heart swelled - he loved places like this. But alone, they were always a little lonely.
Not tonight.
He bought them both cups of spiced warm wine - steam curling up, sweet and heavy with cloves - and a paper cone of hot chestnuts. His fingers stung a little through his gloves as he passed Snape the wine.
Snape accepted it slowly, suspicious eyes flicking up.
“Take it,” Harry teased. “I’m not in the habit of poisoning my dates.”
Snape nearly choked on air. “I am only your date for tonight,” he said stiffly.
The words shouldn’t have hit Harry the way they did - a little sharp, a little unwanted.
He pushed the feeling down and smiled instead.
“We’ll see,” he said lightly, tugging him further along the path.
They walked and ate - well, Harry peeled chestnuts while Snape ate them - and Harry enjoyed absolutely every second of it.
They stopped again at a stall selling ornaments - blown glass, velvet bows, carved animals. Harry snorted aloud when he spotted a tabby cat figurine wearing a ridiculous red pom-pom hat… and beside it, a bat with the same hat.
He glanced sideways - Snape was distracted by a shelf of brass lanterns - so Harry grabbed both ornaments and paid quickly, hiding them in his coat pocket.
Next he bought fish and chips drenched in vinegar, the heat seeping through the paper. Harry moaned happily after the first bite - the salty, crispy batter and hot fluffy potato were perfect in the cold air.
Even Snape loosened a little - not smiling, but talking without barbs, shoulders a fraction lower.
“So, how’s teaching these days?” Harry asked between bites.
“Dull as ever,” Snape replied dryly. “One would think students evolve with time - they do not.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “You know… you could still do something else.”
“At my age?” Snape scoffed. “Highly unlikely.”
“You’re not even fifty. That’s nothing for a wizard.” Harry meant it - genuinely, fully.
Snape cleared his throat and didn’t respond.
Harry nudged him lightly. “Maybe you’ll change your mind anyway. Teddy Lupin - my godson - starts Hogwarts next year.”
Snape gave him a look that was pure dryness. “Oh, what a delight.”
Harry barked out a laugh.
He tugged on Snape’s coat sleeve. “Come on - I want something sweet.”
He dragged them toward a bakery stall glowing warmly under lanterns. He bought two Bath buns - round, soft, dusted with red and green sugar - the smell of warm bread and fruit filling the air. He peeled off one glove and held the bun out.
Snape looked at it like Harry had offered him a handful of Doxy droppings.
“Come on,” Harry said, laughing. “It’s good.”
And then, to Harry’s utter shock, Snape leaned in - hesitant, but willingly - and took a bite.
A dusting of green sugar caught on the corner of Snape’s mouth.
Harry didn’t think, he just reached up and swiped it away with his thumb.
Warm skin.
Soft.
Too close.
Realisation hit a second later.
His cheeks burned. He jerked his hand back, cleared his throat, and stuffed a bite of his own bun into his mouth far too quickly.
They ate the rest in silence - just silence, thick with something unspoken.
The snow kept falling.
The lights kept glowing.
And Harry had never, in years, felt so like himself.
This man was insufferable.
They had wandered the Christmas market far longer than Severus had ever intended. Potter had insisted on buying more food, more trinkets, more ridiculous little things no one actually needed. And Severus had suffered.
Because he was enjoying it far too much - with Harry Potter of all people.
Potter’s attention never wavered. He anticipated Severus’s wishes before Severus himself had fully formed them - slowing when the crowd pressed too close, steering him away from the wind, wordlessly handing him warm food the moment the cold crept in. Thoughtful. Attentive. Dangerous.
Harry Potter.
The bane of his existence.
The Golden Boy.
The Saviour.
The Quidditch star.
And now - somehow - the man responsible for making this feel like an actual date.
Butterflies in his gut. A ridiculous, cinematic Christmas scene. Snow, lights, warmth, laughter.
Stop it, Severus scolded himself. You are being an idiot.
This was a single evening. A transaction. They would part ways and return to their respective lives - Severus to his quiet, sharp-edged solitude… and Potter to his star-lit existence filled with friends, family, and love.
Severus scoffed inwardly.
Potter insisted on side-apparating him home - as if Severus hadn’t been apparating since he was sixteen. As if he weren’t a grown wizard in his late-forties. But Potter was relentless, and before Severus could properly protest, an arm wrapped firmly around his waist.
Cold vanished. Pressure. Heat.
They landed at the gates of Hogwarts, snow crunching softly beneath their boots. The air smelled clean here - pine, frost, stone.
Potter didn’t let go right away.
“Severus,” he said quietly. “This was the best day I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.”
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than any hex. Severus swallowed.
“It was… acceptable,” he managed.
Potter grinned like it was already Christmas morning. “High praise from you.”
Severus huffed despite himself.
Then Potter hesitated - just slightly. “Is there… any chance we could do this again?”
Severus opened his mouth to refuse.
And stopped.
Who was he fooling?
He had hoped for another date. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. And the hope in Potter’s eyes - bright, open, unbearably earnest - made his chest tighten.
Potter was an idiot. Why would he want this? Why would he want him?
And yet-
“Yes,” Severus said finally.
Potter - Harry - beamed - full, radiant, impossible to ignore.
“Brilliant. Are you free one evening this week?” he asked, hopeful.
Merlin help him - Harry meant it.
“Wednesday evening,” Severus said, a touch unsure.
“Perfect. It’s a date. Meet you here.” Harry paused, then added with a grin, “And don’t eat dinner.”
Before Severus could respond, Harry stepped closer - too close - and pressed a brief kiss to the corner of Severus’s mouth.
It lingered. Just long enough.
Then Harry stepped back, green eyes shining, cheeks flushed from cold and joy. “I’m looking forward to it.”
And with that, he apparated away.
Severus remained where he was, snow settling softly around him, fingers lifting to touch the spot where Harry had kissed him.
He stood there far longer than necessary, debating whether he - or Harry Potter - had finally lost their minds.
But…
Merlin help him.
He was already looking forward to Wednesday.
Harry hadn’t been in such a good mood in ages.
Hermione noticed - of course she did.
They were sitting at their kitchen table, warm and familiar, the air smelling faintly of tea and baked apples. Hugo was asleep upstairs, and Rose was sprawled over the table with her crayons, tongue poking out in concentration as she drew what she insisted was a dragon. Harry grinned - it looked suspiciously like the Giant Squid.
Hermione studied him over the rim of her mug. “Harry,” she said gently, “you’re my best friend. And I’ve been worried about you these past few years. You’ve… changed. What happened?”
Harry didn’t hesitate. “I went on that date.”
Hermione blinked. “What date?”
“The one with Severus,” he said, suddenly a little shy.
Her eyes widened. “You already went?”
“Yes - on Sunday,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And, Hermione… I had the best day in… in years. He was still himself - snarky, sarcastic - but we actually had fun. And…” He paused, unable to stop smiling. “We have another date on Wednesday.”
He beamed at her.
Hermione stared at him for a heartbeat - then smacked her forehead lightly. “Of course.”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You dating Snape,” she said, half-laughing. “Why did I never see that coming? It makes complete sense.”
Harry frowned, confused.
“Think about it,” Hermione continued. “You’ve always been intense with each other. And look at your dating history - men and women. Tall. Dark hair. Sharp minds. Snarky. Half of them were basically copies of Snape.”
She grinned wickedly. “You’ve just stopped dating the knock-offs and gone straight for the original.”
Harry froze.
And then - annoyingly - realised she was right.
Every serious relationship since Ginny and Krum had echoed Severus in some way. He let out a slow breath. “I’m a clueless idiot.”
“I won’t deny that,” Hermione said fondly.
She tilted her head. “So… Severus wants another date too?”
“Yes,” Harry said quickly. “I was terrified he’d say no. But he agreed. He even said the first one was… ‘acceptable.’”
Hermione laughed. “Oh, that’s glowing praise.”
Harry grinned like an idiot.
“And Ron?” he asked.
Hermione snorted. “He’s sworn never to participate in an auction again. Lady Longbottom has already talked him into another full day of helping.”
Her smile turned slightly devilish.
Harry laughed, warmth settling deep in his chest.
For the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel heavy.
When Severus stepped through the gates of Hogwarts on Wednesday evening, Harry was already waiting - again.
Of course he was.
The cold air carried the scent of snow, the sky a pale winter grey. Harry stood near the path, hands shoved into his coat pockets, breath fogging faintly - and when he saw Severus, his face lit up with that radiant, unguarded smile.
Damn him.
Severus felt the familiar, treacherous pull in his chest. He could grow used to this - far too easily - being the centre of Harry Potter’s attention. It would not last. He knew that.
“Severus…” Harry began, and Severus briefly wondered when they had slipped into first names. “I couldn’t wait for today.”
Then Harry stepped closer and kissed him lightly at the corner of his mouth.
And Severus - pathetic, weak man that he was - leaned in. Just a fraction.
He cleared his throat. “Perhaps… I was also looking forward to today.”
Harry beamed, as if Severus had praised his Quidditch career.
“I made a reservation,” Harry said, and before Severus could respond, an arm slid around his waist again. Apparition followed - swift and sure.
They landed in a narrow Muggle street in London, damp stone underfoot, the air thick with unfamiliar spices and city noise. Harry didn’t let go immediately - his arm stayed firm and warm at Severus’s back.
“It’s Indian,” Harry said. “I hope you’ll like it.”
“I’ve never tried it,” Severus admitted.
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Then I’ll show you the best things. Do you eat spicy?”
“Preferably… less so,” Severus replied cautiously.
“No problem. We’ll get a bit of everything.”
The restaurant was small and colourful, low-lit, with patterned fabrics, cushions scattered across the floor, and the rich scent of cumin, cardamom, and something sweet and smoky in the air.
“The only difficulty with Indian food,” Harry said with a grin, “is looking graceful while sitting on the floor.”
Severus snorted softly.
The owner greeted Harry warmly and cast Severus an approving grin. “Mr. Potter! And you bring company. Very good, very good. This way.”
They settled onto cushions at a low table. Harry struggled slightly with his long legs.
“Told you,” he said cheerfully.
Severus arranged himself with as much dignity as possible.
“You come here often?” Severus asked when their drinks arrived, steam curling from the cups.
“Mostly takeaway,” Harry admitted. “It’s depressing to sit here alone. But I love the food - and I wanted to show you.”
Something about that lodged deep in Severus’s chest.
“Living at Hogwarts doesn’t encourage… culinary exploration,” Severus said quietly. “Boarding schools tend to be efficient, if uninspired.”
When the owner returned for their order, Harry chose decisively - dishes from every section, carefully ensuring enough that were mild. He didn’t even hesitate.
That level of attentiveness was… unsettling.
“So,” Harry asked once they were alone again, “how’s your week been?”
Severus groaned. “Do not ask. Term ends in a few days - thank Merlin. How long are you off Quidditch?”
“We start training again mid-January.”
“So you’re away a lot,” Severus said.
The faint ache that followed surprised him. He had survived perfectly well without Harry Potter for years. Two dates should not do this to him.
“Only if I choose to be,” Harry replied seriously. “I usually stay with the team because my flat’s empty. But if I have a reason to come home… I can come back whenever I want.”
The implication settled heavily between them.
“I’d really like to see you more often,” Harry said, eyes steady, honest.
Severus was spared an immediate response when the food arrived. The table filled with colour and steam, spices blooming in the air - turmeric, coriander, garlic, heat and warmth.
He tasted carefully. Then again.
It was excellent.
Harry was sincere. If one thing could be said of him, it was that he did not lie - not about things that mattered.
And that made everything infinitely more dangerous.
A traitorous hope unfurled in Severus’s chest. How could such a young man look at him and see anything other than an ageing, bitter professor?
And yet - clearly - he did.
“Perhaps,” Severus said at last, voice low, “I would like to see you more often as well.”
Harry’s smile turned softer. “Perhaps,” he echoed - and somehow made the word a promise.
Of course it was Harry who apparated them back to Hogwarts.
Severus no longer even protested. Who was he to complain when a famous, handsome young man insisted on seeing him home like a gallant hero out of some absurd romance novel? Oh, traitorous heart.
The night air was sharp and cold when they arrived, the familiar scent of damp stone and pine from the grounds settling around them.
“Please tell me you’ve got time again this week,” Harry said, almost pleading.
“Saturday?” Severus offered, before he could stop himself. Do not hope, he warned silently.
“Saturday’s perfect. Come to my place - I’ll cook for us,” Harry said without hesitation.
Merlin. Had anyone ever made such an effort for him?
“Only if you do not poison me,” Severus replied, his tone dry rather than threatening.
Harry laughed. “I’m actually a very good cook.” Then his eyes widened suddenly. “Do you have a mobile phone? So we can exchange numbers?”
Severus did have one - Minerva had insisted, ever since some clever witch had figured out how to make the infernal things work at Hogwarts. It contained exactly two contacts: Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick. Who else, after all, would he ever call?
He pulled the device from his pocket, briefly staring at the screen as if it might betray him. He didn’t even know his own number.
“May I?” Harry asked, holding out his hand.
Severus handed it over a little stiffly. Harry took it with easy confidence, saved his own number, then called himself to capture Severus’s.
“All set,” Harry said, grinning. “Now I won’t be without you these next few days.”
Would Harry really write to him? Call him? This entire dating business was utterly foreign - and yet, disturbingly, he found he liked it.
“I really enjoyed this evening,” Harry said softly, leaning closer.
Severus knew - knew - Harry would kiss him lightly again. But what if…?
Summoning all his courage, Severus leaned in as well.
Their lips brushed and Harry’s eyes flew wide, shock and unmistakable joy flashing through them. Harry’s arm slid around Severus’s waist, drawing him closer. Merlin help him, Severus allowed it - even stepped in, lifting his arms to rest around Harry’s neck, deepening the kiss.
He had never been kissed like this. Not with such warmth. Such certainty.
“That,” Harry murmured against him, “turns an already excellent evening into a brilliant one.”
Then came a very deliberate clearing of a throat.
“Er - hrrrm. Professor… Harry… good ter see yeh,” Hagrid said, standing a few paces away, his beard dusted with frost, cheeks ruddy from the cold.
Beside him stood Filius, scarf pulled high, nose bright red. Clearly, both had enjoyed an evening in Hogsmeade.
Harry turned to them without the slightest embarrassment, caught mid-snog and entirely unbothered. “Hagrid. Professor Flitwick. Nice to see you. Severus and I were on a date in London - I just wanted to make sure he got back safely.”
Flitwick wobbled slightly on his feet. “Oh! Well - yes - quite. Very good indeed. I do hope you both had a most enjoyable evening,” he said, voice pitched high with forced composure.
“We’ll leave yeh to it then,” Hagrid said with a broad grin. “Night, both of yeh.”
He strode through the gates, Flitwick practically hopping along behind him.
Severus groaned softly.
Harry’s expression gentled. “Everything alright?”
“They will roast me alive tomorrow.”
Harry merely shrugged. “Hermione already did that to me. Seems only fair.”
Severus’s eyes widened.
He had told his best friend. About them.
That… that had to mean something.
Allowing himself one last indulgence, Severus leaned in again and kissed Harry - slowly this time, deliberately, with no uncertainty left between them.
The next morning, Harry lay sprawled on his couch, doing absolutely nothing of importance.
An old Golden Snitch drifted lazily through the air, its wings humming softly as he half-heartedly tossed it up and caught it again, more out of habit than focus. Pale winter light filtered through the window, warming the room just enough to make it feel safe and slow.
His phone lay on the coffee table.
Harry tried very hard not to look at it.
The pull was ridiculous. Almost physical. He told himself he could write Severus just one sentence. Nothing dramatic. Just good morning. That wouldn’t be annoying, would it?
He snorted quietly at himself. Of course he was scared of annoying him.
Merlin. Those kisses last night had been everything.
And, infuriatingly, Hermione had been right - as usual. Every relationship he’d had after Ginny and Viktor had been some pale imitation: tall, dark-haired, sharp-tongued. Copies. Safe substitutes.
And now he was dating the original.
Severus was prickly, stoic, sarcasm woven into his bones. Their past was complicated at best. But beneath all those layers was someone unexpectedly unsure, unexpectedly gentle - someone who had melted against him when Harry kissed him.
Harry could have kissed him all day.
And when Severus had leaned in for the second kiss last night, Harry’s knees had nearly given out.
With a slow breath, he reached for the phone.
Just one sentence.
Severus still had classes until tomorrow.
Good morning. Hope you slept well.
He hit send and immediately groaned.
“Hope you slept well,” he muttered. “Brilliant, Potter. Truly inspired.”
Snitch released, he let it circle again. Maybe he should go to the Burrow - a late breakfast with Molly might distract him from staring at the phone like a teenager.
He was just shifting to stand when-
Pling.
His hand shot out faster than reflex. He grinned the second he saw Severus’s name.
One would think you’d have had enough of me already.
But yes. I slept well.
Another message followed.
Thank you.
Harry’s chest did something ridiculous.
You already teaching, or do you have a break?
A few minutes passed. He bounced the Snitch off the ceiling once, twice.
Then:
I’m currently trapped with a Hufflepuff/Gryffindor class.
Abysmal.
Harry laughed out loud.
I was thinking of going to Molly’s for breakfast to distract myself from my phone - but since you’re replying, I already have something better to do.
Silence.
He winced. Too much? He pictured Severus stalking between cauldrons, robes snapping, expression thunderous.
Finally:
Some useless Gryffindor has just allowed his cauldron to explode.
Harry could practically smell the acrid potion fumes.
Another message followed.
I fail to understand why you’d rather be on your phone texting me than enjoying Mrs. Weasley’s food.
Harry smiled softly at the screen. He’d learned to hear the hesitation beneath Severus’s words - the insecurity carefully wrapped in logic.
Couldn’t care less about food when I can write to you.
This time the silence stretched longer. Harry imagined Severus deducting points with vicious precision. He was suddenly very glad he wasn’t in that classroom.
Then:
I should retire.
A pause.
You are an idiot.
Another pause.
But… I am beginning to grow accustomed to you.
Harry beamed at his phone like it had personally saved his life.
I hope that keeps growing.
And somehow the day slipped away like that - message after message, the Snitch forgotten, a pizza ordered and eaten without much notice. Every reply from Severus felt like a small victory, a quiet affirmation.
Harry leaned back against the couch, phone warm in his hand, absurdly content.
Finally, it was Saturday - and Harry would see Severus again.
The thought alone sent a warm, restless energy through him. He hoped, quietly and perhaps foolishly, that this wouldn’t end with the holidays. Severus was free of classes now. Maybe - just maybe - he’d make time for Harry. A man could hope, Harry thought, scoffing softly at himself as he paced the kitchen.
He’d prepared almost everything already. Vegetables roasted slowly in the oven, filling the flat with the warm, earthy scent of thyme and garlic. Fresh bread lay on the counter beside a bowl of garlic butter he only had to finish. The steaks waited patiently, raw and ready. Simple, but done properly. He wanted it to be good.
The Floo flared.
Harry froze for half a second. Damn it - his palms were sweaty. He wiped his hands on his dark grey slacks and took a steadying breath. He wore a fitted dark red button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to look intentional. He’d even tried to tame his hair with gel. In the mirror earlier, he’d looked… passable.
Now he felt like a fifteen-year-old about to ruin his first date.
He stepped out of the kitchen - and his breath caught.
Severus stood by the hearth, lean frame relaxed, dark hair pulled back. Black slacks, a dark grey turtleneck clinging just enough to be unfair. The firelight brushed his cheekbones, sharp and pale.
Harry’s legs went weak.
“Severus,” he breathed, stepping closer before he could stop himself. “You look… devastating.”
He saw Severus prepare a sharp retort - felt it coming - and then saw it falter when Severus realized Harry meant it.
“You need new glasses, Harry,” Severus said at last.
Harry grinned. “My glasses are just fine. And you look really, really good.”
He closed the distance and pulled Severus into his arms, kissing him. Not rushed. Not hesitant. And Merlin -Severus melted against him again, warm and responsive, as if this was exactly where he belonged.
Harry could have stayed like that all evening.
Finally, Severus pulled back slightly. “I believe something is burning in your kitchen.”
Harry yelped and spun around, sprinting back. Luckily, it was only the oil heating too fast. He slid the steaks into the pan, the sharp sizzle filling the room.
“Wine?” he asked over his shoulder.
“That would be nice,” Severus said, leaning against the counter.
Harry poured, hands steadier now. “You have a nice flat,” Severus added, tone almost thoughtful.
“Yeah. I really like it - even if I’m not here that often,” Harry said honestly. “And it’s about a hundred times better than Grimmauld.”
“Understandable,” Severus replied dryly.
They fell into a quiet rhythm as Harry finished cooking. The smell of seared meat and butter filled the kitchen.
“So,” Severus said after a moment, “what are your plans for the holidays?”
Harry plated the food carefully. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“How available you are,” Harry said, glancing up with a crooked grin.
Severus’s eyes widened. “You want to spend the holidays with me?”
“Yes.” Harry set the plates down and gestured for Severus to sit. His voice grew more serious. “Severus, I need to be honest with you.”
Severus sat, hesitant but attentive.
“I didn’t realize it until Hermione pointed it out,” Harry continued. “But everyone I dated… they all resembled you. And I don’t want copies anymore. Not if I can be - hopefully - with the original. With you.”
Severus stared at him, stunned. “You are serious. About this. About us.”
“I am,” Harry said simply. “I don’t play with feelings. I want this. I want us.”
“The public will roast you,” Severus said quietly. “It could affect your Quidditch career.”
Harry reached across the table and took Severus’s hand, thumb brushing warm skin. “Sev, I enjoy Quidditch. But I don’t love it. It’s not my life. And if anyone has a problem with you - with us - I don’t care. If I had to quit, I would. Easily.”
Severus searched his face.
“I want something else,” Harry went on, voice steady but soft. “Someone to come back to. Someone to be with. Someone to love. And I hope - really hope - that will be you.”
For a long moment, Severus said nothing. Then he swallowed.
“I think… I might be available during the holidays,” he said slowly. “And after.”
Harry felt his smile spread before he could stop it.
“I don’t do things lightly,” Severus added, voice faintly unsteady. “If we try this… I am loyal. Completely. And I expect the same.”
“You deserve no less,” Harry said gently.
He squeezed Severus’s hand once more, then smiled. “Let’s enjoy the meal.”
And they did.
Severus could say, with a quiet certainty that still surprised him, that he had never enjoyed the holidays as much as he had this last week.
Even the Prophet hadn’t managed to ruin it. There had been an article - some grainy photograph of them in a small restaurant off Diagon Alley, the tone heavy with implication. Harry had only snorted, folded the paper, and pulled Severus closer on the sofa, entirely unbothered. Just as he’d promised. And Severus… Severus had enjoyed his company far more than he would ever admit aloud.
Now it was the thirty-first of December.
They were in Harry’s flat, the air warm and dim, candles flickering softly on the table. The faint scent of food still lingered, mixed with the clean smell of firewood and winter air that crept in through the window cracks. Severus sat close to Harry, close enough to feel his warmth, the steady presence of him at his side. Harry hadn’t wanted to go out, hadn’t wanted crowds or noise - and Severus had agreed without hesitation.
For once, staying in felt like a luxury.
From somewhere outside, distant voices rose, counting together.
“Three… two… one…”
“Happy New Year!”
Fireworks cracked faintly in the distance. Harry turned toward him, arm sliding securely around his waist, drawing him in without asking.
“Happy New Year, Sev,” Harry murmured near his ear, voice low and warm. “You can’t imagine how happy I am to start the new year with you.”
Something inside Severus - something old and frozen - finally gave way. The last of the ice melted, leaving behind a warmth that spread through his chest, unfamiliar and frightening and wonderful all at once.
“I am happy as well,” Severus said softly, leaning in. “Happy New Year, Harry.”
He kissed him slowly, deliberately, tasting wine and warmth and promise.
A new year.
And… a new life. Together.