Archive of Our Own ^beta

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✦ • ❄ • ✦

Severus Snape was not a man given to dramatic displays of emotion. He’d endured too much for too long to waste time on anything as frivolous as a scene. Yet, as he sat across from Healer Pye in the far-too-bright consultation room of St. Mungo’s, he found himself experiencing a rather theatrical desire to flip the table over and march out in a flurry of black robes.

“Residual venom effects,” Healer Pye was saying, the words slow and careful, as though Severus were a particularly dim first-year. “It’s caused significant destabilization of your magical core. I’m afraid—”

“I’m dying,” Severus interrupted, because he was not in the mood for euphemisms. “You could have led with that.”

The Healer’s face twisted into something meant to be sympathetic. It only succeeded in looking constipated. “There’s no way to repair the damage completely. You likely have… a month.”

Ah. There it is. The grand pronouncement. A month. Thirty-one days in which to enjoy the remainder of his utterly miserable existence. 

Severus leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He let the silence stretch, a tactic he had perfected over years of terrorizing students. Unfortunately, Healer Pye didn’t seem particularly cowed. 

“I’ll leave you to process the news,” the man said awkwardly, standing and offering a hand that Severus pointedly did not shake. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“Unless you can stop time or reverse the effects of venom from a cursed snake, I suspect your assistance would be... limited,” Severus replied, his tone razor-sharp.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

He walked out of St. Mungo’s with the air of a man who might hex the first person who dared look at him the wrong way. The December wind was biting, but Severus barely noticed as he stalked down Diagon Alley, his mind a whirl of grim thoughts.

Dying. Well, that was hardly surprising. If anything, he was astonished he’d managed to live this long. His life had been a series of near-death experiences punctuated by long stretches of suffering. Why should now be any different?

But the timing was… inconvenient. If he had but one month left, what was he to do with it? Spend it in the damp, crumbling confines of Spinner’s End, surrounded by the ghosts of every poor decision he’d ever made? Or perhaps he should write a memoir: How Not to Die Gracefully: A Guide by Severus Snape.

No, he decided as he passed the window of an apothecary. I will not waste the last of my days in that miserable hovel. If I am to die, I will do so in comfort. Perhaps even style. The thought was laughable, but it planted a seed.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

By the time he returned to Spinner’s End, Severus had made his decision. He swept into the sitting room like a man on a mission, ignoring the creak of the floorboards and the faint scent of mildew that permeated the place. On the desk lay a pile of unopened mail—advertisements, bills, and one glossy travel brochure that had been sent by mistake.

He picked it up, sneering at the cover. A grand alpine chalet nestled in a snow-covered valley, its windows glowing with golden light. Chalet du Veritas: A Magical Retreat for the Discerning Traveler.

“Discerning, indeed,” Severus muttered, flipping the brochure open. The descriptions were nauseatingly cheerful—spa treatments, gourmet meals, and “cozy evenings by the fire.”

Ridiculous. Self-indulgent. Utterly pointless.

But his gaze lingered on the image of the chalet. The idea of solitude, far from the dreary streets of Cokeworth, was not entirely unappealing. And if nothing else, I can sneer at the decadence of others from a comfortable chair. He smirked faintly at the thought.

With a flick of his wand, he booked the Grand Suite for the entire month. The confirmation materialized instantly, written in an annoyingly cheerful script: Welcome to Chalet du Veritas! Check-in: December 15th.

Severus folded the parchment neatly, his hands steady despite the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. If this was to be his swan song, then so be it. He would face the end on his own terms, in a place where no one knew him, and no one could care enough to pity him.

As he climbed the narrow stairs to his bedroom, the weight of the diagnosis settled more heavily on his chest. He paused by the window, gazing out at the snow-dusted rooftops of Spinner’s End.

“Dying,” he murmured, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. He pressed a hand to the faint scar on his neck, a grim reminder of how close death had come before.

This time, there would be no escaping it. But perhaps—just perhaps—there could be a small measure of peace before it arrived.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Chapter Text

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Severus Snape Apparated to the edge of the Chalet du Veritas grounds in a swirl of black robes. The biting alpine wind wasted no time reminding him why he despised skiing, mountains, and the people foolhardy enough to enjoy either.

Ahead, the chalet loomed, sprawling and ostentatious, its wooden beams dusted with snow and fairy lights blinking like smug, winking Pixies.

In the courtyard, witches and wizards in colorful cloaks bustled about, their laughter rising like steam in the frigid air. They chatted as if their lives weren’t careening toward inevitable oblivion.

Severus tightened his own cloak—a simple black one that stood out among the festive hues like a raven in a confetti storm—and stalked forward.

“Welcome to Chalet du Veritas!” chirped a house-elf in a crisp white uniform, bowing so deeply her ears grazed the snow. “May I take your cloak, sir?”

“No,” Severus replied flatly, brushing past her. The elf didn’t so much as blink, likely accustomed to guests with more galleons than manners.

Inside, the chalet’s grand foyer embraced him with an unwelcome wave of warmth. Enchanted fireplaces crackled along the walls, mingling the scents of mulled wine and pine into a holiday bouquet that bordered on offensive.

The room was a riot of cheer: plush sofas cradling lounging guests, trays of steaming drinks floating by on their own, and laughter rising in merry clouds. It was nauseatingly idyllic.

Ridiculous, Severus thought, his lip curling. Who could possibly enjoy such saccharine frivolity?

Then he saw him.

"Professor Snape?!”

The voice was unmistakable—gratingly familiar. Snape turned, his expression defaulting to its signature blend of disdain and disinterest.

And there stood Harry bloody Potter, snow-dusted and wide-eyed, looking as if someone had summoned him to ruin Severus’s day.

“Potter,” Severus drawled, his voice as dry as the mountain air. “Not a professor any longer, but how delightful to see you lowering the class of yet another establishment.”

Harry blinked, still startled to see Snape at all. “What are you doing here? You hate skiing. And snow. And—” he gestured vaguely “—everything that doesn’t involve cauldrons or complaining.”

“A keen observation,” Severus replied smoothly. “Though I fail to see why my presence here warrants your commentary.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry admitted, dragging a hand through his eternally untidy hair. “I just… wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Nor I, you,” Severus said, his lip curling into a faint sneer. “Yet, here we are.”

Harry opened his mouth, presumably to retort, but a cheery voice interrupted.

“Mr. Snape! Mr. Potter!” A witch in chalet robes bustled toward them, her clipboard floating obediently at her side. “Ah, our Grand Suite guests. Welcome, welcome!”

Severus froze. “Our Grand Suite?”

The witch’s smile faltered. “Oh dear. Hasn’t anyone told you? Due to an unexpected magical overbooking, we’ve had to pair some guests. But not to worry! The suite is spacious enough to accommodate two comfortably.”

Severus’s glare could have frozen the snow outside. “I did not pay an extortionate amount of money to share my quarters, least of all with him.”

Harry, still processing, finally spoke up. “Look, I’m not exactly thrilled about this either, but—”

“Good,” Severus snapped. “Then we are in agreement.”

“Unfortunately,” the witch said, wringing her hands, “the chalet is at full capacity. There are no other rooms available. We’re offering a partial refund in cash and chalet credits.”

Severus’s fingers twitched, his desire to hex someone mounting. “This is absurd.”

“Think of it as character-building,” Harry offered, his mouth twitching into a grin.

Severus shot him a withering look. “Your optimism is nauseating.”

“Better than your pessimism,” Harry replied, his grin widening.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

The Grand Suite, as promised, was expansive and luxurious: soaring ceilings, an enormous stone fireplace, plush furnishings in deep jewel tones, a private hot tub, and a terrace overlooking snow-draped peaks.

Severus, however, barely glanced at the opulence as he stalked toward the larger bedroom, slamming the door behind him before Harry could so much as set down his bag. The pettiness was deliberate. And, in Severus’s opinion, entirely justified.

Harry didn’t argue. He dropped his bag by the sofa and flopped onto it with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess this is happening.”

“Yes,” Severus called through the door, his voice biting. “And it will be marginally less intolerable if you refrain from speaking.”

“Noted,” Harry replied. The grin was audible.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

That evening, the suite hummed with tense silence. Severus sat by the fire, a potions journal open on his lap, while Harry sprawled across the sofa, flipping through a chalet brochure and muttering about skiing schedules and hot tub etiquette.

Severus ignored him. Or pretended to. 

He hated how aware he was of Harry’s presence—the sound of his movements, the way he filled the room with his infuriating aliveness. It was distracting. Unsettling. It was...

None of my concern, Severus thought, snapping his book shut with more force than necessary.

“Problem?” Harry asked, glancing up.

“No,” Severus replied sharply. “Unless you count everything.”

Harry grinned. “Cheer up, Snape. You’ve got a whole month of me to look forward to.”

Severus let out a long-suffering sigh, glaring into the fire. “I would rather face another of the Dark Lord's snakes, Potter."

Harry chuckled, his laugh warm and unapologetic. For a moment, it filled the room like a balm against the winter cold. 

Severus hated it.

But not as much as he thought he would.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Chapter Text

✦ • ❄ • ✦

The next morning, Severus awoke to the faint sound of someone humming. For a blissful moment, he entertained the possibility that he’d misheard or, better yet, that the sound was some sort of ambient chalet magic designed to ruin his day.

But no. The humming grew louder, punctuated by the occasional off-key whistle. It was Potter.

Severus glared at the door, debating whether or not to hex it open, but ultimately chose to preserve his energy. After all, the man could not hum forever. Could he?

Dragging himself out of bed, Severus dressed with his usual precision, smoothing his black robes and twisting the silver fastenings into place. If he was to endure Potter’s presence, he would do so looking appropriately disdainful.

The humming grew louder as Severus entered the suite’s sitting room, where Harry stood by the window, his hair even more disheveled than usual and a steaming mug of tea in his hands. The sight was oddly domestic, which only made it more irritating.

“Good morning,” Harry said brightly, turning to flash a grin at Severus. “Sleep well?”

“No,” Severus replied flatly. “And your ceaseless noise-making has ensured that any chance of improvement is now firmly out of reach.”

Harry’s grin widened. “Glad to be of service.”

Severus poured himself a cup of coffee, silently vowing to ignore Potter for as long as possible. But the quiet didn’t last long.

“So,” Harry began, leaning against the counter, “what’s on the agenda today? Brooding? Sneering at the snow? Or are you finally going to try something fun?”

Severus took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the bitterness. “I fail to see how engaging in mindless frivolity would improve my condition.”

“It might surprise you,” Harry said, his tone maddeningly cheerful. “Come on. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go outside. You don’t even have to ski. Just… breathe the air. Touch a tree.”

“Touch a tree,” Severus repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “How thrilling. I shall pencil it in between contemplating mortality and plotting my escape.”

Harry snorted, setting his mug down. “Suit yourself. But don’t complain when you’re stuck inside all day feeling miserable.”

“Potter,” Severus said, his tone icy, “I would feel miserable regardless of my location. Your presence merely exacerbates it.”

Harry laughed, the sound bright and unbothered. “Whatever you say, Snape.”

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Despite Severus’s protests, the day dragged on, and Harry’s absence left the suite eerily quiet. Severus found himself pacing by the fireplace, alternately sipping brandy and glaring at his potions journal. His mind was anything but focused.

Why did he insist on being so relentlessly alive? Why did he hum? Why did he smile like the world had not been on the brink of destruction only years ago? And why, Merlin help me, does his cheerfulness linger in this space even after he’s gone?

By late afternoon, the silence became unbearable. Severus tossed his journal aside with a growl and stormed out of the suite, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He didn’t care where he went, so long as it wasn’t here.

He found Harry on the chalet’s enchanted ice rink, surrounded by families and couples gliding effortlessly across the frozen surface. Well, most of them were gliding. Harry was… less graceful.

“Bloody—” Harry wobbled, his arms flailing as he tried—and failed—to maintain balance. With a yelp, he toppled into a snowbank at the edge of the rink, his legs splayed awkwardly. Severus snorted before he could stop himself.

“Come to watch me embarrass myself?” Harry called, brushing snow from his jumper. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his grin undiminished.

Severus crossed his arms, smirking faintly. “I find it more entertaining than I expected.”

“Well, come on, then,” Harry said, standing and motioning toward the rink. “You think you can do better?”

“I think,” Severus said, his voice smooth, “that I am not foolish enough to attempt such a feat.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re such a coward.”

Severus bristled, stepping closer. “I beg your pardon?”

“Coward,” Harry repeated with a grin. “Too afraid to try something new. Too scared to admit you might actually enjoy yourself.”

Severus’s glare could have frozen the ice itself, but Harry didn’t flinch. Instead, he held out a hand, his expression softening. “Come on, Snape. One lap. If you hate it, I’ll never bring it up again.”

Severus stared at the offered hand, his pride warring with the faintest flicker of curiosity. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he took it.

The ice was slippery—naturally—and Severus’s first steps were anything but elegant. Harry steadied him with an infuriatingly firm grip, his smile never wavering.

“See? Not so bad,” Harry said, guiding them forward.

“I feel ridiculous,” Severus muttered.

“You look fine,” Harry replied, his tone annoyingly earnest. “Trust me. You’re doing great.”

Severus bit back a retort, focusing instead on the glide of his feet and the warmth of Harry’s hand in his. It was absurd, humiliating, and… oddly not the worst thing he’d ever done.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

By the time they returned to the suite, Severus was exhausted, his legs sore and his pride bruised. Harry, however, looked positively elated.

“Admit it,” Harry said, collapsing onto the sofa. “You had fun.”

Severus sniffed, removing his cloak. “I admit no such thing.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Sure, Snape. Whatever you say.”

And though Severus didn’t reply, a faint, begrudging smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Chapter Text

✦ • ❄ • ✦

The storm howled outside, snow pelting the windows with the force of a Blasting Curse, drowning out all but the crackle of the fire and Harry’s voice.

“I’m telling you,” Harry said, socked feet resting on the coffee table, “the tree came out of nowhere. I barely grazed it, though. Sent snow flying everywhere. You should’ve seen the Nifflers—they looked mortally offended .”

Severus, ensconced in the armchair nearest the fire, didn’t glance up from his book. His neck ached worse than usual, though he refused to show it. “I imagine they’re penning a scathing letter to the Prophet as we speak. ‘Local Idiot Alarms Wildlife with Reckless Skiing.’”

Harry grinned, undeterred. “Right. Next time, I’ll wear a sign. ‘Caution: Potter at Play.’” He took a slow sip of cocoa, his gaze lingering over the rim of the mug. “You should come skiing tomorrow. Much better than skulking in here with your books.”

“If hurling yourself at stationary objects is your idea of recreation,” Severus drawled, finally meeting Harry’s eyes, “I suggest you work on your aim. Some of us value our remaining time too much to waste it dodging snowdrifts.”

Harry’s smile flickered, and his gaze dropped to the fire. He swirled his cocoa absently. “You ever think about it? The war, I mean. What we did. What we… lost.”

Severus stiffened, his grip tightening on the edges of his book. The words hit too close. “Frequently. But I prefer not to entertain such thoughts while imbibing spirits.”

Harry’s laugh was faint, almost bitter. “Fair enough. But after everything… don’t you wonder? What’s the point?”

Severus intended to retort with something cutting, but the quiet vulnerability in Harry’s voice stilled him. Slowly, he closed his book and set it aside. “What’s the point of what?”

“Of surviving.” Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze sharper now. “Of… keeping going. What are you living for, now that it’s all over?”

The irony wasn’t lost on Severus. He rose, his robes shifting as he moved toward the fire, the flames highlighting the scars at his throat. “I endure,” he said, voice clipped. “Out of habit. Out of necessity.”

“No,” Harry said softly, standing as well. “That’s not enough anymore, is it?”

Severus turned, startled to find Harry much closer than expected. “And what,” he said carefully, “do you think would be enough?”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Someone who sees you. Someone who cares.” His eyes flickered to the scars at Severus’s neck, and Severus resisted the urge to adjust his collar.

“You presume far too much,” Severus muttered, though he didn’t step back.

“Maybe.” Harry’s voice was quiet, steady. He moved closer, his face illuminated by the firelight, gold catching in his irises. “But I think I’m right. You’re tired of just surviving.”

Severus’s breath hitched as Harry’s hand brushed his arm, warmth seeping through the fabric of his robes. “You are reckless,” Severus said, his voice low, “if you think—”

“I think,” Harry interrupted, his tone barely above a whisper, “that you don’t hate this—being here, with me—as much as you pretend.”

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Severus’s composure cracked, a fissure spreading through the walls he’d carefully built. He should have pulled away, retreated to his room, preserved the distance that had seemed so critical. Instead, his hand rose unbidden, his fingers ghosting along Harry’s jaw.

Harry’s breath caught, but he didn’t move away. His gaze was intense, piercing, and it made something in Severus’s chest ache. “Stay,” Harry murmured. “Just… stay with me tonight.”

Severus’s hand dropped as though burned. “Potter—”

“Harry,” he corrected softly. “After everything, you can call me Harry.”

Severus swallowed. “Harry… this is unwise.”

Harry’s smile was faint, almost wistful. “Most of the best things in my life have been.” He hesitated, then gestured toward the hallway. “My room’s closer. And warmer, since it’s smaller.”

The offhand remark twisted guilt like a silver blade in Severus’s chest. “I should have let you take the larger room—”

“Don’t,” Harry cut him off. “I like my room. But…” He hesitated again, then pressed on. “It’d be nice not to be alone tonight. The storm’s awful.”

As if on cue, a fierce gust rattled the windows. Severus raised a brow. “Surely the Boy Who Lived isn’t afraid of a little weather?”

“No,” Harry said, his voice steady. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you near me.”

The quiet honesty of the admission made Severus’s breath catch. He watched as Harry stepped back, retreating toward the hallway. An invitation without expectation.

“You don’t have to stay all night,” Harry added. “But I’d… like it if you did. Even if we just talk.”

Severus knew he should refuse. Knew he should retreat to his solitude and the fragile dignity he still clung to. But Harry stood there, firelight playing over his face, making him look at once impossibly young and unbearably weary. Making him look like everything Severus had told himself he couldn’t have.

“After you, Harry,” Severus said.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Chapter Text

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Harry's smile was worth the capitulation. He led Severus way down the hall, past the master bedroom’s closed door, to his own room. At the threshold, Harry paused, turning back. "Last chance to change your mind, Severus."

Severus moved closer, until he could see the flecks of gold light in Harry's green eyes. "And give you the satisfaction? I think not, Harry."

Harry's laugh was soft, intimate in the narrow hallway. He pushed his door open, and Severus followed him inside, where a new fire crackled in the hearth and the storm seemed somehow further away.

The first kiss caught them both by surprise, just inside Harry's doorway. One moment Severus was hesitating at the threshold, watching snowflakes gather against the window pane, and the next Harry's hands were fisted in his coat, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of Firewhiskey and want.

Severus backed Harry against the wall before he could think better of it, one hand braced beside Harry's head, the other cupping his jaw. Harry made a soft sound of approval, arching into him, and Severus's careful restraint threatened to shatter entirely.

"Harry," Severus managed, pulling back just enough to breathe. The room was smaller than his, more intimate, with the firelight casting everything in dangerous shadows. "This is—"

"If you say 'ill-advised,' I'll bite you," Harry murmured, fingers trailing along Severus's collar. His touch brushed the edge of Severus's scars, and they both stilled. But instead of recoiling, Harry's fingers gentled, becoming almost reverent. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. What I meant was, you don't have to hide from me, Severus."

The words hit harder than they should have. Severus closed his eyes against the surge of guilt—if Harry only knew what he was really hiding. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I'm asking for tonight," Harry said simply. His other hand came up to trace Severus's jaw. "Just... let me have this. Let yourself have this."

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Severus meant to refuse. To retreat to his own larger, lonelier room and what remained of his dignity. Instead, he found himself crushing his mouth to Harry's again, swallowing whatever words might have followed. Harry responded instantly, pressing closer, his hands sliding into Severus's hair.

They stumbled toward the small sofa by the fire, unwilling to break apart. Harry's back hit the armrest, and Severus caught him with an arm around his waist, steadying him. The position brought them flush together, and Severus could feel Harry's heart racing against his chest.

"Not what you expected when you came to the Chalet, was it?" Harry asked, breathless and amused. His fingers played with the hair at Severus's nape, sending shivers down his spine.

"No," Severus admitted roughly. He pressed his forehead to Harry's, trying to regain some semblance of control. "This is..."

"Perfect," Harry finished. He tilted his face up, catching Severus's mouth in a slower kiss. "Come to bed, Severus?"

The invitation was soft, tentative. Severus pulled back enough to see Harry's face—flushed and earnest in the firelight. And he gave in right away.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

They made it to the bed in increments, trading kisses that grew progressively softer, more deliberate. When they finally lay down, it was with careful distance between them. 

Severus's chest tightened. One month. One month to memorize the way Harry's fingers felt against his, the way his voice softened when he was being honest, the way he seemed to fit perfectly against Severus's side despite everything.

"I've been watching you," Harry confessed into the darkness, his voice low and intimate. His hand found Severus's between them, fingers intertwining with careful deliberation. "Especially starting from our Occlumency lessons. Not just your instructions—your hands, your voice, the way you moved. It drove me mad, being so close to you in that office. Couldn't understand why I kept noticing things I shouldn't."

Severus's breath caught. "As a fifth-year?"

"Mm. And completely confused about why I couldn't stop staring at my supposedly horrible Potions professor." Harry pressed a kiss to Severus's neck. "Though looking back, I think it started even earlier. The way you'd stalk around the classroom, voice all precise and commanding..."

"Harry," Severus warned, though his hand had slipped into Harry's hair.

"Then there was the Prince." Harry's fingers found the buttons of Severus's shirt, undoing them slowly. "Merlin, I was obsessed. Used to spend hours studying those notes, trying to understand the brilliant mind behind them. The way you'd improved every potion, made it elegant, perfect..."

Severus's other hand tightened on Harry's hip. "You didn't know it was me."

"No, but I wanted to know him so badly. Used to imagine meeting him, learning from him..." Harry lifted his head, eyes dark. "Finding out it was you... that all that brilliance I'd been admiring was yours... It made so much sense. Your hands in class—so precise, just like the Prince's instructions. Your voice when you'd correct our technique..."

Harry pressed closer, each word a heated confession warming Severus's skin. "I used to dream about private lessons with you. Just us in your lab, you showing me how to brew properly..."

Severus pulled him up into a searing kiss. When they parted, both breathing hard, Harry smiled against his mouth.

"Know what really got to me?" he murmured. "When you'd write on the board. The same handwriting as my Prince, but bigger. Couldn't stop staring at your hands..."

"You're half-asleep," Severus muttered, though he couldn't quite keep the fondness from his voice.

"Mm. Doesn't make it less true." Harry pressed a drowsy kiss to Severus's shoulder. "Used to watch you brew, you know. The way you moved... like you were conducting some complicated symphony... wanted to hate you for being so fascinating..."

"Harry," Severus said roughly, the name feeling like honey and danger in his mouth.

"Love how you say my name," Harry murmured, curling closer. His arm draped over Severus's waist, warm and sure. "Took us so long to get here... but we made it...Severus..."

Severus lay still as Harry's breathing evened out, eventually giving in to sleep. In the darkness, he allowed himself to brush a kiss against Harry's temple, to memorize the weight of him, the trust in his unconscious closeness. Everything Severus would have to leave behind.

"Impossible, precious Harry," he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm. If he held Harry a bit tighter than necessary, well... there was no one awake to witness his weakness.

The snow continued to fall outside, blanketing their borrowed sanctuary in white, and Severus kept vigil over the future he couldn't have until Harry's steady breathing finally lulled him into his own uneasy sleep.

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Chapter Text

✦ • ❄ • ✦

Severus woke to Harry's pleasant warmth and the soft sound of snow against glass. For a moment, he allowed himself to drift in the sensation of Harry curled against him, one hand still resting over Severus's heart. The early morning light cast everything in gentle blues and grays, making their shared space feel somehow separate from reality.

Then the familiar pain in his neck flared, and reality crashed back with cruel precision. One month. Weeks, now.

He started to pull away, but Harry's fingers curled into his shirt. "Don't," Harry murmured, voice rough with sleep. "Stay."

"It's morning," Severus said, as if that explained everything.

"Mm. And?" Harry pressed closer, nuzzling into Severus's neck. The touch sent shivers down his spine. "Still snowing. Nowhere to be."

Severus's breath caught as Harry's lips brushed his pulse point. "This is—"

“Shush or I’ll... kiss you,” Harry threatened drowsily. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Severus with surprising intensity for someone who'd just woken up. His hair was a disaster, his borrowed t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, and Severus had never wanted anything more in his life.

The casual domesticity of it made Severus's chest ache. This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid by coming to the Chalet—forming connections he couldn't keep. And yet here he was, letting Harry Potter of all people wind himself into what remained of Severus's life.

"We can't stay in bed forever," Severus said, his voice rougher than intended.

Harry propped himself up again, eyes bright with mischief. "Why not? The storm's still going. We've got food, magic, and absolutely nowhere else to be." His expression softened. "Unless... do you want to leave?"

Yes, Severus thought. Before this becomes something I can't walk away from. Before you realize I'm already dying.

Instead, he found himself reaching up to trace the line of Harry's jaw. "Gryffindors," he muttered. "Always so certain about everything."

"Not everything," Harry admitted quietly. "But this? Us? Yeah, I'm certain about that." He turned his head to press a kiss to Severus's palm. "I know what I want, Severus. Do you?"

The question hung between them, weighted with possibility. Severus could feel his pulse thundering against Harry's fingers where they rested on his neck.

"What I want," he said carefully, "is irrelevant."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give."

"Bullshit." Harry shifted, straddling Severus's hips in one fluid movement. The position brought them chest to chest, and Severus's hands came up automatically to steady him. "You want this. Us. I can feel it in the way you touch me, the way you kiss me, the way you look at me when you think I won't notice."

Harry leaned down until their foreheads touched. "And I'm right. You want this just as much as I do. You're just afraid."

Severus's hands tightened on Harry's hips. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then tell me." Harry's voice was soft but insistent. "Whatever it is, whatever's holding you back—we can figure it out. Together."

The words were like a physical blow. Severus closed his eyes against the hope in Harry's face, against the future he was offering that Severus couldn't have.

"Hey," Harry murmured, pressing soft kisses to Severus's closed eyes, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth. "Stay with me. We've got time."

A harsh sound escaped Severus's throat before he could stop it. He pulled Harry down into a bruising kiss, trying to memorize the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he made a surprised little noise before melting into it completely.

When they finally broke apart, Harry looked dazed. "Was that a yes?"

"That was a 'be quiet,'" Severus muttered, but his thumb was stroking Harry's hip in gentle circles.

Harry smiled, bright and devastating. "Make me."

So Severus did, rolling them until he had Harry pinned beneath him, drinking in his startled laugh. They traded kisses that grew progressively deeper, hands wandering with increasing boldness, until they were both breathing hard.

They did eventually make it out of bed, though only as far as the small sofa by the fire. Harry insisted on calling room service for tea, then proceeded to feed Severus bits of scone between kisses until Severus threatened to hex him.

"You wouldn't," Harry said confidently, curling closer on the sofa. "You like me too much."

That's rather the problem, Severus thought. But he just pulled Harry closer, letting himself pretend, just for a moment, that this warmth between them could last.

✦ • ❄ • ✦