( As it turns out, it only took about seven years for Harry Potter to figure out how to head off a furious tirade from Severus Snape. It's obnoxiously effective — his voice dies in his throat around the time that hand touches down at his neck. The energy of it remains, swirling in his chest, demanding outlet, until his son flings arms around him, killing the fire stone dead in one bone-rattling gust of an exhale.
His eyes squeeze shut, and he hangs on fiercely, the fingers of one hand tangled in tousled black hair while the other fists into the fabric of his son's shirt.
Only now does the relief finally set in, flooding through him so densely he nearly staggers under the weight of it. It's unprecedented, the swell of belated fear and affection and loss and recovery all hitting at once now that the fight is over. Now that the war is over. Only now can he trust it to be true — his son is alive. They both are.
At length, hoarsely, emphatically, he rasps; )
Never do that again.
( Any of it. All of it. As if there'll ever be an occasion — Merlin help them, let this be the end of it, he's too old now. He's done. He's retired. This is it, this is the moment, he's officially decided it. He's retired.
— and also, very, very serious about the grounding. He doesn't give a toss if Harry Potter is of age, or the savior of the wizarding world. He is so very, very grounded. )
[ No promises, Harry thinks but doesn't say. He readily lies, digging his chin into a bony shoulder to better feel the icy, wrathful terror drain out of the other man when he nods.
He'll have plenty of arguments for his grounding and their mutual retirement later – Severus isn't even forty yet, and Harry's only ever been good at thwarting dark wizards, so what the hell are they supposed to fill their next sixty years together with? Best to leave that concern for his future self to figure out.
Present Harry clings until, by some silent, mutual agreement not to let each other make a public scene, they eventually untangle. There are a lot of desperate embraces being exchanged, a lot of people in the throes of celebration and terrible loss, which means that Harry and Severus have not raised as many eyebrows as they might have otherwise.
Hagrid shows no such discretion. His heavy footsteps boom closer, making the scattered rubble rattle as he comes bearing down on father and son. If Severus isn't quick enough to move he'll be grabbed as well, and once Hagrid's got one of those tree trunks he calls arms around someone, it's no easy feat to escape. Harry beats awkwardly at his back while the half-giant weeps, eventually convincing him to let go, but by then Hermione and Ron have come staggering across the courtyard as well, trailed closely by Sirius. They stand a few yards back, waiting.
His eyes go to the pile of rags again, staring hard at what remains of the dust. They move over to Severus.
There are a hundred other people that Harry needs to check on inside, living and dead. Facing them will be harder than anything else. ]
( Harry's right, he's not quite forty yet — meaning he's still just adept enough to duck the massive arm that means to corral him into an undignified, likely moist embrace. He's perfectly content to let the half-giant squeeze his son nearly to death from a spectator's seat instead of on stage with him, thank you very much.
He allows others to take his place. The dog, Weasley, Granger, a few other tearful follow-ups. When the embracing is all well and done, though, he settles a proprietary arm over the boy's shoulders to lead him inside, reluctant to let him stray for any length of time just yet.
Sirius speaks up innocently as they wander in, "I say, Severus. Was that the sword of Gryffindor you were cuddling up to?" )
Bugger off, Black.
( It is, perhaps, the most companionable exchange the pair of them have ever had in their lives. )
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His eyes squeeze shut, and he hangs on fiercely, the fingers of one hand tangled in tousled black hair while the other fists into the fabric of his son's shirt.
Only now does the relief finally set in, flooding through him so densely he nearly staggers under the weight of it. It's unprecedented, the swell of belated fear and affection and loss and recovery all hitting at once now that the fight is over. Now that the war is over. Only now can he trust it to be true — his son is alive. They both are.
At length, hoarsely, emphatically, he rasps; )
Never do that again.
( Any of it. All of it. As if there'll ever be an occasion — Merlin help them, let this be the end of it, he's too old now. He's done. He's retired. This is it, this is the moment, he's officially decided it. He's retired.
— and also, very, very serious about the grounding. He doesn't give a toss if Harry Potter is of age, or the savior of the wizarding world. He is so very, very grounded. )
no subject
He'll have plenty of arguments for his grounding and their mutual retirement later – Severus isn't even forty yet, and Harry's only ever been good at thwarting dark wizards, so what the hell are they supposed to fill their next sixty years together with? Best to leave that concern for his future self to figure out.
Present Harry clings until, by some silent, mutual agreement not to let each other make a public scene, they eventually untangle. There are a lot of desperate embraces being exchanged, a lot of people in the throes of celebration and terrible loss, which means that Harry and Severus have not raised as many eyebrows as they might have otherwise.
Hagrid shows no such discretion. His heavy footsteps boom closer, making the scattered rubble rattle as he comes bearing down on father and son. If Severus isn't quick enough to move he'll be grabbed as well, and once Hagrid's got one of those tree trunks he calls arms around someone, it's no easy feat to escape. Harry beats awkwardly at his back while the half-giant weeps, eventually convincing him to let go, but by then Hermione and Ron have come staggering across the courtyard as well, trailed closely by Sirius. They stand a few yards back, waiting.
His eyes go to the pile of rags again, staring hard at what remains of the dust. They move over to Severus.
There are a hundred other people that Harry needs to check on inside, living and dead. Facing them will be harder than anything else. ]
Coming, dad?
fade to black?? sobs deeply
He allows others to take his place. The dog, Weasley, Granger, a few other tearful follow-ups. When the embracing is all well and done, though, he settles a proprietary arm over the boy's shoulders to lead him inside, reluctant to let him stray for any length of time just yet.
Sirius speaks up innocently as they wander in, "I say, Severus. Was that the sword of Gryffindor you were cuddling up to?" )
Bugger off, Black.
( It is, perhaps, the most companionable exchange the pair of them have ever had in their lives. )