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Chapter Text

Harry had never liked Ministry meeting rooms.

The walls were too smooth, the lighting too careful, and the air always smelled faintly like quills and political anxiety. Even now, sitting between his parents at a long polished table, he felt that familiar tightness in his chest — the sense that everyone around him already knew something he didn’t, and he was about to be cast in a role he’d never auditioned for.

But he’d expected this meeting to be manageable. Perhaps a new legislative proposal, a briefing about post-war reconstruction, or another awkward request for the Potters to stand behind some public unity campaign.

He had not expected his life to change before he’d even opened the folder in front of him.

Across the table sat Kingsley Shacklebolt looking solemn, two Ministry policy advisers who kept exchanging nervous glances, and Professor McGonagall, who had traded her usual sternness for something far more grave.

Lily took Harry’s hand under the table. James was tapping his wand against his knee in a restless staccato. Sirius lounged at the far end of the table with his boots hooked around a chair leg — but even Sirius looked sharper than usual, eyes bright with suspicion. Remus stood behind him, calm but visibly bracing.

Kingsley cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As you know, the Ministry is implementing new stabilisation initiatives in the wake of the war. Our position in the public eye is strong, yet… fragile. There are tensions between old bloodlines. Questions of legitimacy. Concerns that alliances are too fractured to prevent another uprising.”

James muttered, “We just finished one war, now they want us planning for the next?”

Lily elbowed him gently. “Let him finish.”

Kingsley continued, “We believe one particular initiative could strengthen public confidence and symbolically unify two historically opposed families.”

McGonagall’s eyes softened as she met Harry’s gaze. That alone made his stomach twist.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, “this concerns you directly.”

Harry nodded stiffly. “All right.”

“The Ministry is formally proposing,” Shacklebolt said carefully, “a betrothal alliance between the House of Potter… and the House of Prince.”

Silence.

No one breathed.

And then—

Sirius shouted, “WHAT?”

His voice ricocheted off the walls like a spell gone wrong.

Lily spluttered. James blinked rapidly. Remus shut his eyes, as if counting backwards from ten.

Harry felt the words sink slowly into him, like stones dropped into deep water.

A betrothal. Between him. And—

“Snivellus?” Sirius exploded, leaning so far forward his chair screeched. “You want HARRY to marry SNIVELLUS? Have you all collectively lost your bloody minds?!”

Harry winced. Not at the insult — he’d heard Sirius say far worse — but at the way Kingsley’s face tightened, and McGonagall’s lips compressed into the thinnest possible line.

“Sirius,” Remus said sharply.

“What?!” Sirius snapped back. “We survived a war and this is the Ministry’s bright idea? Throw Harry at the greasy dungeon bat and hope the world claps politely?”

James rubbed his face. “Can we not call him that in front of the Minister?”

“Fine.” Sirius threw up his hands. “Snape. Have it your way. You want to chain Harry to Snape to fix political tensions? Why not just cast Obliviate on the entire population and start from scratch?”

Harry exhaled slowly, because the panic in Sirius’s voice was genuine — but also completely unhelpful.

“Is this mandatory?” Harry asked, forcing steadiness into his tone.

“Absolutely not,” Kingsley said immediately. “Both families must consent. And both individuals.”

Harry nodded, jaw tight.

McGonagall added, “A betrothal is not a binding marriage. It is a formal, public alliance of good faith. A symbol. One that could reassure the public that old wounds can heal — that Slytherin and Gryffindor, light and shadow, past and future, can coexist without falling into conflict.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “And Snape agreed to this?”

Kingsley hesitated — but only for a heartbeat.

“He has expressed willingness to explore the possibility.”

Harry’s stomach gave an odd flutter. Snape — Severus — had agreed? Not grudgingly? Not under duress? Snape hated bureaucrats and public obligations; he barely tolerated social niceties. For him to agree to even a preliminary meeting…

That meant something.

Sirius had not finished combusting.

“You cannot be serious,” he said, horrified. “Snape spent his entire adult life making ours miserable. And now the Ministry wants Harry to hold his hand and play at reconciliation?”

Remus sighed. “Sirius, you’re not helping.”

“I’m very much helping!” Sirius pointed dramatically at Harry. “Look at his face! He hates this! We all hate this!”

Harry blinked. “Actually—”

James cut in, “Harry, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. No matter what the Ministry suggests.”

Lily nodded firmly. “Your life is not a political pawn.”

Something warm flooded Harry’s chest. He managed a small smile.

“I know,” he said. “I just… want to understand.”

The room fell quiet again.

Remus spoke gently, “The political value is undeniable, Harry. Severus Snape is one of the most divisive figures in post-war Britain. You’re one of the most unifying. If you two came together willingly… well. People would talk. In a good way.”

Harry swallowed. “And what does Snape get out of this?”

“Legitimacy,” McGonagall said softly. “Fairness. A chance to be seen as more than a war relic or a traitor twice over.”

Harry felt that land like a small, painful truth.

He remembered Snape on the battlefield — not triumphant, not cruel, but tired. He remembered Snape’s bowed head after Voldemort fell, the way his eyes had scanned the hall as if searching for something he’d never find. He remembered the way Snape had looked at him after the war: less hostile, more wounded.

He remembered thinking, He deserved better than this.

Sirius scoffed. “I cannot believe we are entertaining this rubbish.”

Harry felt his temper stir — not in anger, but in frustration so old it felt inherited.

“I'd like to try,” he said quietly.

Harry looked between them: Sirius dismissive, James bewildered, Remus sympathetic but unsure, Lily torn between support and concern.

And he realised, with a heavy thud in his chest—

They weren’t taking him seriously.

Not about this.

Not about Severus.

Not about what Harry saw in him that they refused to see.

Harry sat back, suddenly tired. “Thank you,” he said softly to McGonnagal and Kingsley, “I agree.”

He pushed away from the table before anyone could chime in.

In the hallway, where the noise of tangled opinions couldn’t reach him, Harry exhaled shakily and pressed a hand to his chest.

He wasn’t sure what he felt — only that something in him had shifted. Some quiet curiosity. Some fragile hope.

Later that night, sitting alone in his room with the Ministry’s letter spread across his desk, he whispered into the dim:

“I think I could… like him. If he let me.”

Chapter Text

The Ministry letter sat on his kitchen table like a small, elegant curse.

Severus had opened it expecting the usual post-war bureaucratic nonsense — witness statements, requests for clarification, an occasional sneering note from a politician convinced he was still secretly dangerous.

He had not expected the Potter family crest.

He had stared at the seal for nearly a full minute before touching it, the silver ink shimmering faintly under the dim candlelight of Spinner’s End. The house was silent — the kind of silence that made every small sound feel amplified. The ticking of the old clock. The distant groan of pipes. The soft whisper of his own breathing.

He broke the seal with a sharp motion.

The parchment unfurled.

And his heart — traitorous, inconvenient thing — stuttered.

He read the contents once.

Then again.

And a third time, because surely he had misread.

But no.

The Ministry — in cooperation with the Potter family — was formally requesting his willingness to enter a betrothal negotiation with Harry Potter.

A betrothal.

To Harry Potter.

He sat down. Hard.

His brain did not provide coherent thoughts at first. Only a rush of sensations: the tightness in his throat, the sudden heat behind his eyes, the knotted disbelief curling in his stomach.

A betrothal?

It was absurd.

It was impossible.

It was… cruel.

His hand curled into a fist before flattening again on the table.

He tried to approach the idea logically. Politically.

A Potter–Prince alliance would be symbolically powerful. It would mend narrative fractures. It would offer the Ministry a dramatic story of reconciliation.

He could have understood such an arrangement if the Potters had proposed it on paper, impersonally, through intermediaries.

But according to the letter, Harry had been consulted.

Harry had not rejected the idea.

Severus swallowed.

He rose abruptly, pacing the length of the sitting room. Spinner’s End was too small for pacing; he hit the wall after ten steps and pivoted sharply, the hem of his coat snapping around his legs.

His fingers grazed the back of the sofa.

The mantle.

A bookshelf where half the volumes leaned at precarious angles.

He touched everything — grounding himself in objects he understood when the world suddenly made no sense.

There were only three explanations:

It was a political manoeuvre in bad faith.

It was a misguided attempt at optics.

It was real.

The third option made his stomach twist.

Severus was not a man given to delusions of affection. He did not nurture foolish hope. He had spent a decade scrubbing the remains of his own capacity for longing until only sharp edges remained.

But then he remembered certain moments.

Stupid, small moments he had dismissed at the time because he refused to indulge the ache they stirred.

Harry, at sixteen, lingering after class with an honest question instead of a challenge.

Harry, post-war, thanking him with quiet sincerity rather than obligation.

Harry, months later, stepping between Severus and a reporter like it was instinctive — not defensive, but protective.

Harry, looking at him with a kind of gentle wariness that was not fear.

No one had looked at Severus like that in decades.

He stopped pacing, pressing both palms against the worn mantel. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked pale and haunted.

“You are being a fool,” he whispered.

But the whisper held no conviction.

Because the truth — the raw, inconvenient truth — was that some part of him wanted this.

Wanted the chance.

Wanted Harry to want the chance.

He drew in a long, shaky breath.

This was dangerous.

He knew dangerous.

He had lived dangerous.

But nothing had ever terrified him quite like the idea of stepping forward unguarded, signing his name on a proposal that would lay bare every vulnerable seam in him.

Still…

He could not ignore the thought coiling quietly in the back of his mind:

What if it wasn’t a joke?

What if Harry Potter genuinely wanted to see who Severus was without the war between them?

He turned back to the table. The parchment lay perfectly still, the Ministry seal gleaming like a dare.

He sat down.

He read it again, slowly, tracing each line as though searching for malice. For clever subtext. For an insult cloaked in politeness.

He found none.

Just a formal invitation.

A request for preliminary interest.

A meeting to be arranged if both parties consented.

He sat for a long time, staring.

Then — before he could talk himself out of it — he reached for his quill.

His hand shook.

He signed.

A soft glow sealed the parchment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as though he had plunged into icy water.

“Just this once,” he murmured to the dark, “I may choose hope.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and trembling.

He wondered if hope would cost him more than anything else ever had.

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry rewrote his first letter three times.

The first draft sounded too stiff.

The second too formal — almost like he was writing to a professor again.

The third was… something he could live with:

Thank you for agreeing to discuss the Ministry’s proposal. I’m open to meeting whenever convenient for you. I think it would be good for us to speak directly. — Harry

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t cold.

Just honest.

He sealed the envelope carefully — as if delicacy might carry through the ink itself.

“Pete?” Harry called, stepping into the hallway. “Could you send this for me? Hedwig’s hunting.”

Wormtail appeared almost instantly, too eager, too breathless.

“Of course, Harry. Always happy to help.”

He took the letter with gentle fingers — the gesture of a man trained to look harmless.

Harry didn’t notice the faint shimmer when Wormtail’s thumb brushed the edge of the parchment.

He didn’t see the subtle tone-shifting charm — a whisper of magic that blurred the warmth in his phrasing into something clipped and impatient.

He didn’t see Wormtail tuck the letter under his cloak and walk away humming softly, his eyes cold as glass.

Harry, feeling oddly light, thought: Severus will read this and know I’m trying.

He waited the next morning for an owl.

None came.

By evening, dread had begun its slow, silent crawl beneath his ribs.

Severus

The letter arrived two days late.

Two days — which, in the world of political negotiation, was not merely discourteous but meaningful.

Severus opened it cautiously.

His eyes scanned the lines.

A strange coldness crept over him.

Thank you for agreeing to the proposal. I suppose we may as well begin. Tell me when you're free. — Harry Potter

No sincerity.

No curiosity.

No sign Harry had written anything with thought or care.

It felt like a child writing a thank-you note under duress.

He read it again, searching for nuance.

There was none.

He folded the letter, placed it on the desk, and sat very still.

“So,” he whispered to the empty room. “He has changed his mind.”

He waited for anger to come.

It didn’t.

Only that hollow, bruising disappointment.

He reached for his reply and wrote the politest, most distant thing he could manage:

If you insist on proceeding, I will comply. Suggest a time. — S. Snape

He did not see Wormtail waiting just outside the door, offering a helpful smile.

“Oh, I’ll deliver it,” Wormtail said lightly. “No trouble at all.”

Severus nodded, too tired to care.

He didn’t notice the charm Wormtail added — a charm that scraped the neutrality from Severus’s words and left only coldness.

He didn’t see Wormtail tuck the letter into his pocket instead of the outgoing tray.

He simply sat down.

And waited.

Harry

Harry’s owl arrived twenty-four hours later with a letter that felt like a punch.

If you insist on this alliance, I will comply.

Harry stared.

No — he gaped, because the words didn’t match the man he’d seen in recent months.

Severus had been cautious, yes.

Sharply polite, yes.

But this was… contempt.

If you insist.

“I—” Harry whispered, swallowing hard. “I didn’t insist. I thought—”

He thought there had been mutual willingness. That awkward, tentative spark of possibility. That maybe Snape had signed because he wanted to see where they could go.

But no.

Of course Snape would think Harry incapable of sincerity.

Of course Snape would think this was an inconvenience foisted upon him.

Of course Harry had imagined everything else.

He sat heavily, rubbing his eyes.

When he finally wrote back, his hand shook:

Tuesday at three? If that still works for you. — H.

Not warm.

Not open.

Just neutral.

Safe.

He left it on the hall table and walked away.

Behind him, Wormtail materialised silently, reading the words with narrowed eyes.

“A little too polite,” he murmured.

A tiny charm flickered — sharpening the consonants, stiffening the phrasing.

Perfect.

Severus

The second letter arrived late again.

Severus opened it with dread, bracing for the confirmation he already suspected.

If Tuesday works for you, then attend. If not, let me know soon so I can adjust my schedule.

Adjust my schedule.

Severus felt his stomach twist.

Harry Potter spoke to him as though he were an intern at the Ministry — a bothersome scheduling conflict.

He exhaled shakily.

Foolish.

He had been foolish to sign anything.

Foolish to indulge that quiet hope.

He wrote a single line:

Very well. — S.

Neutral. Barely.

Wormtail collected it immediately.

And then, casually — devastatingly — he said it.

“Harry mentioned you were taking it all rather… seriously,” Wormtail said, shrugging. “Said something about you overreaching. But you know Harry — he’s young. He’ll come around.”

Severus did not breathe for a moment.

Overreaching.

“Oh,” Wormtail added, stepping back, “and James said Harry didn’t think you’d mind the postponement. You know how the Potters are — everything’s a joke to them.”

A small smile.

Almost sympathetic.

A twist of the knife.

Severus’s vision went strangely quiet.

“Thank you,” he managed, voice flat.

Wormtail slipped away.

The room felt suddenly airless.

He sat down on the edge of his narrow bed and stared at the letter in his hands.

“Overreaching,” he whispered. “Of course.”

It hurt more than he expected.

More than he wanted to admit.

He folded the parchment carefully, precisely.

Then he set it aside.

He would not reach out again.

Not now.

Not with this humiliation hanging between them.

Not with the certainty that Harry Potter found him a burdensome task.

Severus Snape had survived worse than this.

He knew how to retreat gracefully.

He straightened his spine and whispered to the empty room:

“I will not offer my hand where it is not wanted.”

The candles guttered.

Spinner’s End felt colder than usual.

Chapter Text

Harry had rehearsed this.

He’d rehearsed it all the way down the Manor’s staircase:
the calm tone, the measured pace, the reasonable explanations that would—he hoped—convince his family that Severus Snape was not the monster they still imagined.

He was prepared for skepticism.

He was prepared for questions.

He was not prepared for dismissal.

The moment he stepped into the kitchen, the atmosphere snapped taut. James, Sirius, Remus, Lily, and Peter were already gathered around the table. Breakfast mugs, newspapers, and half-eaten toast littered the surface — a casual domesticity that did nothing to soften the tension.

James looked up sharply. “Harry, good. We need to talk.”

That never meant anything good.

Harry sat at the head of the table — because there was nowhere else left. His father folded his arms. Lily’s expression was too careful, which meant she was bracing for something. Remus gave him a small, sympathetic smile. Sirius radiated restless energy like he was physically restraining himself from exploding.

Peter watched from the far end, hands folded, too still.

James took a breath. “We saw the Ministry notice. And we’ve been talking. About the… betrothal arrangement.”

Harry swallowed. “All right.”

Lily reached for his hand. “Sweetheart, this doesn’t have to move forward. You know that.”

“Of course,” James added. “But you seemed… unsettled these last few days.”

Sirius snorted. “Which is putting it mildly.”

Harry stared at the table. He could feel something gathering in his chest — a storm of embarrassment and doubt and something dangerously close to anger — but he pushed it down.

“I just want to explain,” Harry began carefully. “About Severus. And the letters.”

Sirius made a derisive sound — and something inside Harry flinched.

He pushed forward anyway. “I think he and I were actually—” He hesitated, feeling foolish the moment the words left his mouth. “—getting along.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Harry, Severus Snape has spent his entire adult life hating us.”

“That doesn’t mean he hates me,” Harry said quietly.

Sirius groaned. “Oh Merlin, here we go.”

Remus shot Sirius a look, then turned to Harry with gentler eyes. “Harry… Severus is a very private man. Guarded. I wouldn’t expect… warmth.”

Harry exhaled. “I’m not expecting warmth. I’m expecting honesty. He didn’t seem opposed to the idea at first. We exchanged letters before this week — normal ones. Civil. Almost…” He stopped, searching for the right word.

“Human?” Remus offered softly.

Harry nodded gratefully. “Yes. Human.”

Sirius barked a laugh that made Harry’s stomach twist.

“Oh please. Snape doesn’t do human. He does brooding gargoyle with extra vinegar.”

“Sirius,” Lily warned.

“No, really!” Sirius leaned forward. “Let’s be honest. If he’s being dramatic about your letters, let him. He lives for drama. Why are you even trying, Harry?”

Harry blinked.

It was a small thing.

A simple sentence.

But it hit like a crack to the spine.

“Why am I trying?” he echoed, voice barely audible.

“Exactly,” Sirius said. “He should be grateful you’re even entertaining this madness. Merlin’s balls, if anything he owes you an apology for making this harder than it already is.”

“It’s not about gratitude,” Harry said, pulse rising. “It’s about… giving this a fair chance.”

James frowned. “Harry. If he’s sending you curt, dismissive letters—”

“He wasn’t like that before,” Harry snapped, then immediately regretted the sharpness.

Silence fell.

Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “Before? What do you mean before?”

Harry felt heat crawl up his neck. “We’d spoken a few times over the past year. At the Ministry. During reconstruction work at Hogwarts. It wasn’t—” He swallowed. “It wasn’t hostile.”

James exchanged a look with Sirius that made Harry’s blood run hot.

Lily said gently, “Harry… Severus Snape has never been known for consistency. You can’t take a few polite moments as a sign of—”

“I’m not.” Harry’s voice wavered. “I’m just saying he wasn’t cruel. And his first letter after the betrothal notice didn’t sound like him.”

Sirius gave him a pitying smile.

It was worse than mockery.

“Oh, Harry,” he said, waving a hand. “You’re overthinking this. Snape probably realised you’re a Potter and decided he’d rather spend the next year brewing poison than making small talk with you.”

James chuckled. “Honestly, I can’t blame him.”

Remus winced.

Harry felt something inside him collapse, too quietly for anyone to notice.

He looked at each of them — the people who had raised him, shaped him, protected him — and for the first time, he felt… separate.

“He’s not the man you think he is,” Harry said softly. “And you’re not seeing him clearly because you refuse to.”

Sirius snorted. “We see him perfectly.”

“No,” Harry replied. “You see the boy he was at fifteen. Not the man he is now.”

No one spoke.

No one agreed.

No one even considered his words seriously.

The hurt sank deep, quiet and sharp.

Harry rose from his chair.

“Thanks,” he said, voice too calm. “For listening.”

Lily reached for his sleeve. “Harry—”

He stepped just out of reach.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Really.”

He forced a smile that felt like glass under his skin.

“I’ve got work to do.”

He walked toward the door.

None of them followed.

None of them called after him.

But one person watched him leave with a small, triumphant glint in his eyes.

Peter Pettigrew.

Chapter Text

Severus had always prided himself on his ability to read between the lines.

A lifetime of espionage and survival had honed him into a man who could extract truth from silences, from tone, from the breath between words.

Which was why Harry Potter’s latest letter felt like a blade.

It arrived two days late — again — and the delay already tasted wrong. But when Severus opened it, something in him went cold.

If Tuesday is inconvenient, inform me soon. I prefer not to waste time.
— H. Potter

It wasn’t cruel.

Not on the surface.

But the tone…

It was clipped. Brusque. Utterly transactional.

Not the young man who had once thanked him in a trembling whisper after the war.

Not the boy who had asked sincere, careful questions at Ministry luncheons.

Not the hesitant, hopeful voice that had lingered beneath Harry’s earliest notes regarding the betrothal.

This sounded like someone fulfilling an obligation he resented.

Severus read it again.

And again.

The letters in chapter three had stung — misaligned, faintly off, sharpening around the edges — but this one cut deeper. It didn’t sound like Harry being cold.

It sounded like Harry not caring at all.

Severus folded the parchment with meticulous care, because his hands were suddenly unsteady and he refused to let them show it.

He set it aside and forced himself to think rationally.

Perhaps Harry was under stress.

Perhaps the Potters had pressured him.

Perhaps Severus was reading too much into a simple message.

Perhaps—

A knock disrupted his spiraling.

He opened the door to find Peter Pettigrew standing on his step, the picture of anxious helpfulness.

“Thought I’d save you a trip,” Peter said cheerfully, holding out another envelope. “Harry asked me to deliver this.”

Severus hesitated before taking it. “You are unusually involved.”

Peter gave a breathy laugh. “Oh, well, you know how it is. Trying to keep communication smooth. Harry’s been awfully… confused lately.”

Something in Severus bristled. “Confused?”

“Oh yes.” Peter lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Thinks you’re taking everything so seriously. He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings — kids never think they do, right?”

The words struck like a physical blow.

Severus stiffened. “My… feelings.”

Peter’s smile wavered sympathetically. “I told him it wasn’t his fault. You’ve always been a bit… intense.”

Severus nearly dropped the letter.

Intense.

Overreacting.

Confused.

The subtle condescension made his skin crawl. But worse — far worse — was the implication that Harry Potter viewed him as an unwelcome weight. An adult man clinging too tightly to a political arrangement.

“Did he say that?” Severus asked, voice carefully neutral.

“Oh, you know Harry.” Peter waved a dismissive hand. “Kind-hearted as he is, he’ll never say it outright.”

Which meant it was true.

Or seemed true.

Or was meant to seem true.

Severus’s throat tightened.

“Thank you,” he said coolly.

Peter bobbed his head and left.

The moment the door closed, Severus retreated into the sitting room. He sat stiffly at the edge of a chair, the envelope clenched between his fingers.

He should read it.

He knew he should.

Instead he stared at the unbroken seal for a long, excruciating minute.

Finally, he tore it open.

Meeting no longer necessary. Will pursue Ministry channels going forward.
— H. Potter

That was it.

No explanation.

No courtesy.

No attempt to salvage or clarify.

Just a polite dismissal.

A severing.

Severus closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose until the ache behind his sternum dulled enough to speak.

“Of course,” he whispered. “Of course.”

He rose slowly, mechanically, and crossed to his desk.

He drafted a single sentence to Kingsley Shacklebolt:

I hereby withdraw from all personal aspects of the proposed alliance. Please proceed through official bureaucratic channels henceforth.

No explanation.

No softness.

He signed it with the same formal signature Harry had reverted to:

S. Snape

For symmetry.

For dignity.

For armor.

He sealed the envelope and sat back, staring at the embers in the fireplace.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t even surprised.

He was simply… tired.

Tired of believing a different ending might exist for him.

Tired of allowing himself to imagine that Harry Potter — with his open face and earnest curiosity — might have chosen him freely.

Tired of wanting something gentle in a world that had never offered him gentleness without price.

Peter’s words echoed again:

You’ve always been a bit… intense.

Severus let out a humorless breath.

“Yes,” he murmured. “And foolish. I should have known better.”

He placed Harry’s letter atop the first stack — the curt ones, the ones that had grown colder, the ones that had slowly crushed every shard of hope he’d allowed himself.

He closed the drawer on them.

He closed the door on the possibility.

He extinguished the lamp.

Spinner’s End sank into darkness.

And Severus Snape withdrew from Harry Potter completely.

Chapter Text

The silence began quietly.

It wasn’t dramatic.

There was no fight.

No declaration.

No abrupt, flaming rejection.

Just… absence.

A single day with no reply.

Then two.

Then three.

At first, Harry tried to be rational.

Maybe the Ministry had kept Severus late.

Maybe he was brewing something complex.

Maybe his owl was hunting somewhere inconvenient.

Maybe — maybe — the clipped letters and cold tone these past days were simply stress, not disdain.

Harry tried to hold onto that.

Tried to believe it.

Until the first meeting was cancelled.

A terse message from Severus arrived by owl at dawn:

I am unable to attend today’s appointment. — S. Snape

No explanation.

No apology.

Not even his full first name — the one he’d slowly, carefully begun using in earlier letters.

Just “S. Snape.”

Formality slammed back between them like a wall.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the letter limp in his hands.

He read it once.

Twice.

He whispered, “What did I do?”

He spent the next hour going through their last few letters, comparing them, looking for something — anything — that might have offended Severus.

But none of them were his words. Not really.

They didn’t sound like him.

Too sharp.

Too rushed.

Too cold.

He blamed stress.

Blamed himself.

Blamed everything but the truth he could not imagine: that someone else was altering them.

By the fourth day, Severus sent only single-line responses.

Not available.
Another time.
Received.
— S. Snape.

Harry’s chest tightened each time he opened a letter. It felt like reading legal decrees, not the cautious hope they’d started with.

He tried writing differently. Softer. More open.

But each time he read his own words back, something in them felt… wrong. Clipped. Off. Like the meaning shifted when he wasn’t looking.

He began to wonder if he was the one sabotaging it — ruining things with clumsy phrasing, unreadable emotions, too much nervousness disguised as politeness.

Then came the final blow:

The Ministry owled Harry to inform him that “Mr. Snape has withdrawn from preliminary personal negotiations; further communication should be directed through official Ministry channels.”

Harry stared at the message until the words blurred.

Withdrawn.

He’d withdrawn.

Without a word to Harry.

Without giving him a chance.

Without letting Harry fix whatever he’d broken.

Harry closed the door to his room and sat on the floor with his back against it, fists pressed tightly to his eyes.

He couldn’t breathe.

He’d tried so hard to be careful.

To be diplomatic.

To be respectful.

He’d tried to see Severus honestly — as a man who had survived so much to stand in the light again.

Had he imagined all of it?

The gentleness under Severus’s sharp edges.

The small glances at Ministry events that weren’t hostile.

The almost-smile — too faint to be certain — when Harry complimented his reconstruction work at Hogwarts.

The softness in Snape’s voice when he’d said, “Thank you” the first time Harry spoke to him after the war.

Harry had held onto those moments.

Had built the possibility of… something… around them.

“Maybe Dad was right,” Harry whispered hollowly.

“Maybe I was imagining everything.”

The thought made him ache.

He curled his arms around his knees.

He didn’t push.

Didn’t send more letters.

Didn’t try to force Severus into conversation.

Because he hated when people pushed him.

Because he wanted to respect what he thought was Severus’s boundary.

Because the last thing he wanted was for Severus to think he was being cornered into political niceties.

So Harry stayed quiet.

Just like he wished other people would stay quiet when he needed space.

And in the quiet, Harry told himself Severus needed time.

He didn’t know that Severus read the silence as confirmation of everything Wormtail had whispered.

Harry thinks you’re overreacting.
He’s young.
He’ll grow out of this.

Harry didn’t know that Severus interpreted his quiet as disinterest.

Dismissal.

Rejection.

And Harry didn’t know that he was bleeding from a wound he hadn’t even been stabbed with — because the knife was hidden, and wielded by someone he trusted.

At dinner one night, Lily noticed him pushing food around his plate.

“Love,” she murmured gently, “you look tired.”

Harry forced a smile. “Just thinking.”

Sirius leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Still brooding about Snape? Honestly, Harry, it’s for the best. The minute he started acting dramatic—”

Harry’s mouth tightened. “He wasn’t dramatic.”

“Harry.” James sighed. “If he’s treating you this coldly—”

“He’s not—”

Harry stopped.

What was the point?

They wouldn’t hear him.

Lily reached across the table again. “If you’re hurting—”

“I’m fine,” Harry said softly.

He gathered his plate.

Stood.

Left the room without looking back.

In the corridor’s shadows, Wormtail watched him retreat with a satisfied, snake-smooth smile.

The slow unravelling was complete.

And neither Harry nor Severus knew they were both breaking in parallel, from wounds neither had given the other.