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Five years had passed since the second war against Voldemort had ended. Peace had been restored for all the living witches and wizards by Harry Potter.
It felt as if it had only been yesterday that he’d died and resurrected, and managed to become the Master of Death with only the Invisibility Cloak and Resurrection Stone in his possession. Because the Elder Wand, of course, had been snapped after killing Voldemort with it. It never needed to abide another's will—not even his.
For Harry, those five years had been spent isolated from the Wizarding world. Instead, he had filled it with therapy—given himself time to heal; not to forget, but to forgive himself—and spent it in self-reflection by journalling, and allowing himself the freedom to rediscover who he could have been. At least, without magic.
(Really, who was he deep down if not portrayed as the Harry Potter?)
It had not been easy, of course. Oftentimes, he wished to break the only non-negotiable rule he had with himself: no-contact with the Wizarding world. Just to glimpse a moment of his friends' life; just a hint of their thoughts: did they miss him? Did they blame him for being unable to save everyone? Hate him? What of their happiness? What of their memories? Did they think of the dead as much as he thought of them?
But deep down, he knew, if he’d done that, his five-year-long progress of therapy would have meant nothing, and sent him relapsing down the rabbit hole of 'what-ifs' and 'could-have's.
Thus, on those days, Harry would find solace in the only place he had visited over and over again. The ocean. The vast, blue sea. Even during winter; he would walk along the shore with bare feet to feel the sand between his toes, the coolness of the saltwater against his ankles, the delicate warmth of the setting sun against his face, and hold the Resurrection Stone inside his pocket for comfort. Just for comfort, he told himself.
He would reminisce about the people who were still alive; he would remind himself that he was grateful to have been able to save the ones he did, and he had more than enough love to mourn the ones lost.
During those times, distant thoughts would trickle and poke at his mind. About one person he hadn't been able to show his gratitude to; one person who had always—always—worked from the shadows to protect him from evil. Some part of Harry ached; it was inevitable, to realise the sacrifices made by the man until he was dying in Harry's arms.
Remembering Severus Snape was never easy.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
There I saw you standing,
Must have been a holy light.
Dark hair fluttered against the zephyr, emerald eyes glimmered under the late-afternoon sun, while the man himself sat cross-legged, just hints away from where the seawater rippled along the damp sand. The Resurrection Stone was cradled in the warmth of his hands. Just for comfort.
Harry always carried it with him, as if hoping that somewhere, someday, he would have the courage to call someone back to him. Except he never found the same Gryffindor bravery he used to have, and truthfully, the memories of when he had done so were blurry. How had he resurrected his loved ones back then?
But he was beginning to forget how their voices sounded. How his voice sounded when it was not trembling, choked up from blood and venom.
This faithful day, as he examined the stone like never before, he turned it over. And over, and over. With the utmost care of a geologist.
He thought of the unsent letters, the journal entries—he wished to burn them all, but never could bring himself to; they never did help contain the yearning he felt to see the man again. To hear his voice again.
So much Harry wished to say, so many pages written; yet when the figure himself appeared in that familiar, celeste-blue luminescence, footsteps barely a sound through the saltwater sweeping over the shore in gentle waves—all words were captured in the fishnet inside Harry's throat.
It seemed the Stone itself had figured his heart's unspoken longing.
And truly, the man himself looks celestial—Severus Snape, walking towards him, illuminated by the peeking sun behind the dusken horizon—; Harry would never misremember the way his heart thrummed inside his ribs as if struggling to escape, the fuse of emotions that lumped at the base of his throat, the unknown overturn inside his stomach, or the way his eyes lingered, unblinking and terrified, that the man would disappear if he did so.
Harry spoke, voice so soft it hurt to listen: "You're here."
He would never be able to decide which had been the brightest in his eyes that day; the dipping sun, or the small smile, radiating the most tender warmth, that painted the man's features. "Indeed, I am. You've summoned me." Severus replied, with his familiar, low drawl. How could Harry have ever forgotten the deep timbre of that voice? Perhaps this would be the last time he could allow himself to remember. Because spirits did not belong in the living world. Loved ones or not.
Harry watched—still forgotten were the plethora of words he wished to speak aloud to the older man—as Severus gradually took a seat beside him on the sand, comfortable and willing for a spirit awakened against its will. Harry wondered if it were an inconvenience to be here. "You're really here," he whispered, unable to look away.
Severus' eyes seemed to be concentrated on him too. He didn't seem to mind Harry's inability to speak the words he clearly wanted to say, yet could not figure out how. Who could ever get used to seeing a dead person appear before you as if they'd never left in the first place? Certainly not the Master of Death.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
But you love me like my mother,
And you kiss me like your wife.
They had barely spoken. Perhaps, all Harry needed was to look at the man for a final few moments. Or perhaps, he just needed time to find the right words.
At some point, the words had jumbled into an incoherent cluster in his throat, so he blurted out the first thing on his mind: "Why did you never tell me that you cared for me all this time? You could have… told me, and still kept it a secret." His voice was tentative despite the question. Suddenly, he felt silly for asking such a thing.
But he watched his words wash over Severus' features, which looked softened, kind. He seemed to be thinking as his eyes flicked over Harry's features. "I… did not know how I could tell you. My hostility towards you was solely induced by your father's past actions, and I am still full of guilt for letting it affect me to such an extent. I should never have projected your father's attitude towards me onto you—you, who are not him. You who are neither your mother." He paused, the corners of his lips upturning into a rueful smile. "You are just… Harry. Kind, courageous, selfless, caring, wonderful Harry. And I regret not realising it sooner."
The aforementioned had forgotten how to breathe as he listened to Severus speak, absorbing every word uttered. It sounded so foreign—the praise, the compliments, the way Severus viewed him. Not did he feel hypnotised by hearing Severus' voice after five years of silence, but also because the Potions Master had never talked this much. Harry was more than willing to listen.
He understood what the older man meant. He let his own lips mimic the small smile, and he replied, "it's okay. I took five years away from the Wizarding world to reflect on everything. I forgave you a long time ago."
It was true. Harry had forgiven Severus. Because other than being belittled and reduced to his father's name, and his thoughts broken through by Occlumency (which, Harry did admit, he got his revenge upon accidentally, by peeking on Severus' memories in the Pensieve), there was nothing else to forgive.
"Plus. I should have apologised for looking through your memories, too," Harry admitted, tilting his head away shamefully, gaze flickering to the sun that had sunken more than half way behind the horizon. Only moments away from the moon to rise in its stead. "I never meant to do that. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." Harry turned his gaze back at those words, seeing the playful quirk at the corner of the Potions Masters' mouth, and it made the younger man chuckle.
They continued to observe each other in silence. It wasn’t as awkward as Harry thought it would be; perhaps the lack of a war looming over their heads was a reason, and Harry had enough time now. He hoped.
"Could I inquire more about why you decided to take a break from the Wizarding world?" Harry watched the other's mouth form the words, and he blinked a few times, registering them.
He sighed, trying to decide between omitting the truth or confessing fully. He chose the latter. (It was now or never to talk to the man one last time.) “I wanted time to… heal. To stop blaming myself for everything, because I was terrified everyone else was going to blame me for not being able to save everyone." He stated, shrugging a singular shoulder with a wry smile. "I went to therapy. I also began journalling, writing letters, and spending most of my day doing things for myself—to find who I was without magic. I never knew I had such a talent for singing."
Severus' mouth cracked an adoring smile, a faint huff escaping his nose in amusement. "Sing, do you?" His voice teased, and Harry felt an involuntary flush warm his cheeks at that. It was strange to see such an expression and tone directed towards him.
(He didn't let himself ruin the illusion by remembering Severus was already dead. He couldn't. Not now. Not yet.)
When comfortable silence ensued once more, Harry let the warmth in his face dissolve with the gentle, evening breeze. He began humming softly after, looking at the mere hints of the sunlight left in the sky—the sun had long gone to slumber—before it took on words, singing quietly.
All this time, Harry had remembered the man's silent, unspoken care for him. Every moment from his first-year had been journalled, reflected upon, and remembered in a way that made him wonder if that was what an absent parents' love felt like. Is what what Severus had been? A parent caring for him from the shadows? A parent reluctant to love, but feeling maternal enough to protect?
Perhaps Harry had viewed it from an entirely incorrect perspective.
For when he finished, and let his emerald eyes flit over to meet Severus' once more—slightly embarrassed but also proud of his short performance—the gentle, cold press of Severus' lips against his own felt anything but parental.
When the man pulled away, just enough for their eyes to meet, Harry's lips parted in surprise, once again at a loss for words. It seemed speechlessness had become his default around Severus.
When neglecting his breaths became too much, he inhaled shakily before questioning the other: "Why… did you kiss me?"
Severus had only one answer, and he spoke it honestly, "because while it is the truth that I have always cared for you. I seemed to have realised far too late that I love you as well." The remaining words remained unvoiced, but they both knew what the following stillness held, and this is my farewell gift.
(Harry had been trying so hard not to remember.)
Harry bit down on his bottom lip at the words to stop the wobble of his lips, and turned his face away to hide the tremble of his chin. How foolish of him to let himself forget such an important detail.
"I could have saved you," he said, his voice cracking slightly. It was never pleasant falling back into the 'could-have's after the war. Not even five years of therapy and self-reflection could cease the relapses.
He flinched slightly when a cold hand cupped his chin with ever such gentleness, as if in fear of hurting him. It felt so loving, that it hurt regardless.
Slowly, his head was turned back to face Severus, whose expression was soft, understanding; it was nothing like what it had been during the gruelling years in Hogwarts. Why did the world have to be so cruel to bereft him of such tenderness and adoration?
"You couldn't have, Harry," the man replied calmly, his thumb brushing across the stubbled jaw. "I would have been gone long before you could have found someone—or something—to help." And wasn't that a crushing statement to hear from a dead man?
This time Harry could no longer withhold the way his features crumpled, because it was the truth. Nagini's venomous bite was not just from the creature itself, but a dark magic that had been unknown to everyone but Voldemort.
Harry would have never been able to save Severus.
He choked on a sob that felt so unlike him when the feathery touch of coldness kissed his forehead, over his fading scar; and the coolness surrounded his being, cradling him in a way like he had never been before.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
And how could you be no one,
When you're everything to me?
"It will be time to return soon," Severus said, his words muffled against Harry's hair where his mouth rested. He did not want to break this illusion—that they could stay here forever and it wouldn’t matter at all. But Harry knew not even the strongest of wizards or witches could rouse the dead and keep them at peace.
Severus deserved peace. It would be selfish of Harry to wish otherwise.
The younger man had cried himself dry, and let himself be held in the coolness of the Potions Master's arms. He did not protest at those words; he knew he could not. He merely shifted out of the other's arms. Wiping at the dried tear-marks on his cheeks, and rubbing at the soreness of his puffy eyes, his exhale quivered. He felt raw and fragile. He wondered if Severus felt it, too.
His emerald gaze met those onyx eyes that used to look terribly dark to him when he was much younger. When he thought they reflected hatred and disgust, but were disguising protection under an oath. But Harry could see the candid emotions clear as the night sky they were embraced in—the love, the affection, the longing, the wistfulness. How they could have been. In another life.
Nevertheless, the words left Harry's lips, unbidden: "Will you come back?"
Severus gave a soft sigh, and a pointed look. Harry knew what it meant—of course, he did. Even as the Master of Death, resurrecting souls that had passed on from the mortal world was a terrible idea. The Potions Master himself would say the same thing, would he not?
"If you wish me to, I shall be there. You are the Master of Death, Harry; I am at your beck and call." Harry stared, blinking with disbelief at the words, but then it disappeared with a growing realisation. Because he could hear a counter statement coming. Severus' hand lifted, hesitant, to then brush his knuckles along Harry's cheek. His eyes fluttered at the touch, still unused to the glacial feeling of the luminous figure before him. "But… I would insist that you… forget me, Harry. You must try to move on, find new people to love, build a family, a community. The Resurrected will only hurt you more."
Harry couldn’t even begin to explain the dreadful twist in his stomach, and the heavy weight that took a hold of his heart. As if someone had decided to tie heavy chains to his core and attempted to drown him in the depths of the ocean. (He'd almost forgotten where they were, he could do it right now if he truly wanted.) His lips parted with a true protest, then: "But—"
"Promise me." Severus said, cutting the younger man off. His dark eyes had that sad, resolute expression. A look Harry had never seen before (did the man look at his dead mother the same way when he held her corpse?). It was a look Harry just could not find himself to deny. To defy. "Promise me," he repeated, voice milder now, cupping Harry's warm cheek properly—far more alive under the cold fingertips that caressed the skin. "That one day I will mean nothing to you."
How could you ever mean nothing to me? Harry wanted to say, but his expression became crestfallen, and he bit down on his lip to stop the words in his heart from escaping. Instead, he leaned into the touch despite telling himself not to. That once Severus left, it would only hurt to contemplate the possibility of them living in the same plane of existence together. You're everything to me, and I can never tell you.
Even so, Severus seemed to understand.
Because those lips descended on Harry's own for the last time, and he reciprocated it. The forever-unspoken words needed no more than two press of lips; one cold and one warm to reflect the difference between life and death.
Harry let himself hold Severus' face as well, tender in the way he cupped the older man's cheeks in both palms. To feel—to remember—the way Severus felt. One last time.
They pulled away slowly to rest their foreheads together, and share their stuttering breaths. Then, emphatically, Harry whispered: "I love you, Severus."
His confession prompted a melancholic smile from Severus. And as the other slipped out of Harry's touch—much to his limbs, heart, mind yearning for more, for Severus to just stay—the older man replied with just two words: "I know."
The Master of Death watched, once again. Eyes transfixed with a longing ache at the celestial being. Severus' retreating steps—now Harry could see—; it left faint traces in the sand, it made gentle splashes against the still, seawater of the night. He watched the blue-luminescent figure fade into the distance before it became a mist of what it had once been.
Severus was gone.
It was forever. Harry knew now.
The Resurrection Stone had remained in his lap, untouched, after the accidental resurrection. Harry had ignored it, mostly to pretend he hadn't truly figured out how to call back his dead loved ones.
But he could pretend no longer.
He had realised—no, he'd remembered—how it worked. He could never touch it again. Turn it again.
He gripped it in his hand, standing up on shaky legs with effort.
The night breeze was soft, a whisper of who had been with him—flowing through him, around him, embracing him.
With a few, slow steps towards the shore, Harry decided once and for all what he had to do in order to keep Severus' promise.
Clutching the Resurrection Stone in his palm tightly for a brief moment, gazing at it—remembering, remembering—; cold touch, tender words, divine protection, terribly luminary.
Then, he looked up at the distant moonlight, its reflection rippling over the vast sea. I promise, he thought.
Swinging his arm back, he finally let go of the Resurrection Stone and flung it into the large body of water.
At least now, Severus Snape—who had meant everything to him—would only exist in the memories he would take with him to his grave. Always.