CHAPTER 18

I was afraid that you would avoid me...afterwards. I was sure you would. I was already steeling myself for your coldness, your contempt towards me.

Severus paused in front of Harry's door, hesitating. He tried not to imagine what Harry was feeling. Did he feel raped? Disgusted with himself and with Severus? Severus sighed softly, and his long fingers caressed the small bottle of potion – he was certain that Harry would experience discomfort the next morning. He had toyed with the idea of sending Dobby to Harry, but he felt that this was something he, Severus, had to do. They were married, after all, and they had just shared a bed, albeit the circumstances which had forced them into intimacy. He raised his hand to knock on the door, vaguely remembering how he had not bothered to respect Harry's privacy in the past, preferring to simply open the door and talk down to the youth. He knocked. A few seconds passed; then Harry opened the door, holding his quill and parchment. He was developing the habit of always keeping them close at hand. However incredible it seemed to Harry himself – he was getting used to not being able to speak, and, moreover, to the prospect of most probably not being able to speak ever again.

Severus looked at him very closely. Harry seemed calm. His hair was moist – he had showered, and he smelled fresh and just plain good. Had he wept? Severus wondered. The green eyes were untouched by red or sorrow, although they were grave and strangely bare without the glasses.

"I brewed this for you in case you feel any discomfort later on," Severus said, and his tone was gentle to his own surprise. Harry received the potion quietly and sucked at the end of the quill.

Thank you very much, the quill wrote; then it added immediately: How are you?

"You are asking me how I am, Harry?" Severus said, uttering a bitter laugh. "I forced my way into your body, and you are asking me about my wellbeing? You are not developing what the Muggles call Stockholm Syndrome, are you?"

Harry shot him an exasperated look.

We have discussed this, Severus. You know that you are not a rapist.

"Do I?" Severus said, and the two words seemed to hang frostily in the air.

I do, even if you don't – or don't want to. And so do Dumbledore and my friends, was the prompt answer, and the green eyes flashed. There was a brief tense silence.

"Keep that bottle near you in case you need it in the middle of the night. And if you need...anything..." Severus found himself moistening his lips, "please notify me."

He turned around and passed out of Harry's room, failing to see the slightest of incredulous smiles on his husband's face.

Harry sat down on the bed, studying the little bottle and its amethyst contents, touched that Severus had brewed it for him and come to his room to give it to him in person.

Back in his bedroom, Severus closed his eyes, feeling the sweat of realisation break out all over his body. Was this the reason why he had been so reluctant to marry Harry? Because, in the deepest corners of his mind and heart, he had feared all along that he would be irrevocably charmed by the youth and grow to appreciate Harry for simply being...Harry? He recalled Harry's smile, and he felt the strangest little jump in his stomach and another little jump in his chest. Good grief, what was happening to him? Severus, stubborn as he was, pushed aside these disturbing thoughts, refusing to pursue them further...only to recall that delicious young body, naked and captivating in its unintentional sensuality when Harry had dressed after their consummation...He considered it most ironic that his own body had reacted so strongly after instead of during intercourse with Harry. He knew too well that the desire which had flooded him while watching Harry disentangle his robes from around his waist did not stem from the potion he had taken; it had worn off as soon as he had ejaculated.

Severus kept his bedroom door ajar that night, just in case Harry, for some reason or the other, got up in the night; the youth could move quietly as a cat, but Severus placed a charm on one of the hall tiles which would alert him by setting off a mosquito-like buzzing sound in his room if Harry succumbed to his trademark annoying habit of wandering around at night.

Sure enough, the Head of Slytherin was woken up at three o'clock in the morning by the irritating buzzing sound. Severus silenced it with a voiceless spell and rose immediately; he brushed his hair hastily, sipped some water and flung on his housecoat.

A glow came from the hall; Harry was sitting on the sofa, a newly lit fire crackling gently in the hearth. The youth raised his eyes to his: no, they were still not red, although the circles underneath revealed the lack of sleep; no tear tracks shone on his cheeks; no sorrow filled the thoughtful face. Even at that hour he had remembered to take his writing utensils with him, to Severus's satisfaction. He showed no sign of surprise or unease at Severus's appearance.

"You cannot sleep?" Severus half asked, half observed. Harry shook his head slowly.

"Are you in pain? Did you have to take the potion?"

Harry smiled a little and shook his head again.

"But you are restless, yes?"

Harry nodded and made a gesture which returned the observation.

"Indeed; I, too, cannot sleep," Severus admitted, wondering why he was not reluctant to say so. It also struck him how used he was becoming to interpreting Harry's gestures and facial expressions. Harry motioned with his hand, indicating to Severus that he should sit next to him. Severus was astonished that Harry did not show any sign of revulsion in his presence. He moved towards the sofa cautiously and sat down. Harry drew up his socked feet, resting them on the seat, as if he was comfortable in Severus's direct proximity. Severus opened his mouth to speak, but Harry raised his index finger to Severus's lips and his other index finger to his own lips, asking for silence. Severus understood; it was silence they both needed; silence and each other's presence, however strange this seemed considering their forced closeness during the consummation; and still it made perfect sense to them. After a while, Severus felt Harry relax against his shoulder; turning his head, he discovered that Harry had finally fallen asleep.

He stared down at the sleeping youth. He wanted to cry. He wanted to rest his head against Harry's calm peaceful face and weep. He simply wanted to...let go. He gritted his teeth against the sudden lump in his throat and stroked back his husband's messy hair, exposing the scar, but he was not interested in it.

"You saved my life," he muttered. After watching Harry's face, sweet in repose, for a few minutes, he Summoned a blanket to cover Harry, after managing, more or less, to manoeuvre Harry in a lying position – he dared not, even by magical means, get Harry back to his own bed in case the young man woke up. He did cast a spell on the fire, though, to ensure that it would glow throughout the night.

Back in his bedroom, Severus returned to the bed, too tired to question his uncharacteristic behaviour – or that odd good feeling which had been induced by something as simple as caressing Harry's face and covering him with a blanket.