Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The beautiful art on the banner of this story is by Perselus. No harm is intended toward the artist and I'm not claiming it as my own in anyway.
Title: Love is Not a Whisper
Parings: past James/Severus, Harry/Severus (age discrepancy: 19/39)
Word count: ~4200
Warnings: angst, slight dub-con, mind games, unrequited love, manipulative!Harry, broken!Snape, a loose and probably delusional reading of canon, h/c, oral sex, drunk!harry, drunk!snape, mental illness
Summary: Everyone thought that Severus protected Harry because he was in love with Lily Potter. The truth is that it was all a lie and a convenient cover up to protect Harry and himself from the truth: Severus was actually in love with James Potter and still is. After the war, Severus is a broken and bitter old man. Harry has his own problems and decides he likes Severus anyway.
A/N: For weeks, I wracked my brain trying to write a Snarry fic for Ashii, who is such a brilliant Snarry writer. This is my first ever venture into the world of Snarry, so try not to be too hard on me. It might not be what you had in mind, dear, but once this story came to me, I couldn't stop writing. Also, a special thank you to Alyssa for the beta job. Please read the warnings before reading.
~Love is Not a Whisper~
Love is not a whisper. It does not come slowly or softly. It does not creep in and carefully burrow in a comfortable chamber of your heart. Instead, it is harsh and unyielding. And comes at the most inopportune of times. It tugs on the walls of your heart agonisingly constricting them until your heart feels as if it's about to burst. Love sucks the life, the breath, out of your lungs—clenching them taut against your ribs until every breath is a labour, until every drop of life and soul is expunged from your body. Until the only thing you feel is pain and darkness. Love is not patient or kind. It is manic and obsessive. It is destructive and self-indulgent. And it has ruined the likes of the greatest of men. But worst of all, it is inevitable and incorrigible. Permanent and incurable.
"Mmm, Snape," a deep, velvety voice whispered in his ear. "I've been thinking about this all day." A rough, calloused hand grabbed his and placed it on top of a rather impressive and denim clad bulge. "Feel that?" he asked, a hint of smugness that Severus both detested and adored evident in his raspy voice. "Hurry up and take off your trousers, Snape. I'm going to bend you over that desk and fuck you until you can't remember your name."
With fumbling fingers, Severus undid his trousers and threw them to the side, for once not caring where they landed. He had been anticipating this meeting all day and hadn't even bothered to wear pants underneath his trousers. His heart was racing and a cold shudder ran down his spine, but it didn't matter. He wanted this. No, needed this. More than anything. Regardless of the consequences.
Walking towards the desk, he removed his robe, agonisingly slow, and turned around to face his male lover. If this was going to happen, after he had wanted it for so long, dreamt of it for so long, he needed it to be real. Trying not to get lost in those shockingly blue eyes that were admiring his naked body greedily and hungrily, he cleared his throat. "Call me, Severus. Only Severus." His silent plea was evident in his eyes and he hoped that it would be enough to sway the other boy.
The other boy cocked at an eyebrow at him and laughed, a dark, throaty chuckle that made Severus go weak in the knees. "Alright, Se-ver-us," he hissed, placing a cold hand on Severus' left arsecheek and squeezing, "your arse is mine. Now bend over...we don't have much time."
Without another word, Severus complied, his heart melting at the sound of his given name spoken in such carnal and lustful tones. Stop acting like such a sodding Hufflepuff, he scolded himself. Get your act together.
"Yes," he groaned as confident as possible, hoping to disguise the pain and adoration in his voice with lust. "Take me."
Severus looked down at the half-empty glass of firewhisky in his hand and scowled. He knew better than this, knew about the dangers and ramifications of nursing one's problems in alcohol, especially for someone like him—someone whose genetic disposition to alcoholism was quite high thanks to that useless excuse for a father of his. But still—today of all days—when the new Ministry was throwing an indulgent and exorbitant celebration, on a day that should be held in quiet reverence instead, Severus couldn't help but drown his sorrows in his own way.
Earlier that evening, he had received yet another obnoxious letter inquiring and requesting his presence for tonight's festivities. He had scoffed at the missive upon arrival and ignited it in blue flames before even finishing reading the offensive note. How dare the Ministry try to manipulate him and force him into accepting public awards? Hadn't he already done enough for the Ministry? For the entire wizarding world in general? There was no way that he was going to surround himself with insipid sycophants who would throw themselves at his feet and try to worm their way into his good graces—only because he was a war hero now. For his entire life, he had been treated like a pariah and ostracised by 'proper' wizarding society; there was no reason for that to change now. He was used to the solitude, thrived on it really, and the last thing he wanted was to be lavished with false adoration and medals by the very people who wouldn't have pissed on his burning corpse less than a year ago.
No, on the anniversary of such a tragic event—on that night so many years ago when his heart was ripped from his chest—he wanted to spend it alone, wallowing in his own self-pity. He was an old man now filled with so many regrets. And he would not, could not, watch Boy Wonder being fawned over and adulated as if he were some type of god at this celebration. Having spent six years watching that brat being favoured and treated like a celebrity for an event that he couldn't even a remember, an event that ruined Severus' life, had been more than enough. The war was over now and he had done his part. He had kept his promise—the brat was alive, wasn't he? And that lunatic was dead. So why couldn't he find even a sliver of peace?
And that boy, the-boy-who-lived-to-be-a-thorn in Severus' side, would not bloody leave him alone. For the last six months, he had shown up on a weekly basis at Severus' private residence, uninvited, of course, and annoying as ever. He showed up week after week with a timid smile on his face and bags full of groceries and sweets. It was unnecessary and maddening, but no matter what he did or said, the incessant pest kept showing up, claiming that he had orders from Minerva to check on him. That utter treacherous cow.
At first Severus had been able to cope with it, had been able to sneer and look down on the perfect saviour. The boy received enough praise and special treatment elsewhere; there was no way that he was going to receive it from him as well. However, the brat seemed to have matured or at least got his brain addled even further by Voldemort, so much so that instead of responding to his baiting with anger and irrationality, the boy had the audacity to laugh at Severus. And that wasn't even the worst of it.
Some days, the brat would sit with Severus for hours, no matter how many times Severus had tried to make pointed remarks that his company was unwanted, and he would stare out the window longingly, sighing and running his fingers through his rat's nest excuse for hair. By far, those days were the worst. Severus would stare at the boy, really stare at the boy, and realise that he was no longer in fact a boy. Gone was the childish roundness of his face, his once soft and almost feminine features, which were entirely Lily had hardened—his face now held a chiselled ruggedness that was all too familiar to Severus. His eyes, those twin gleaming emeralds had hardened as well; they barely peaked out of his ever-lengthening fringe and now appeared jaded and worn. The boy appeared much older than his nineteen years of age. And after a few months of hearty meals and a growth spurt, he was starting to look way too much like him—barely resembling the doe-eyed ragamuffin he had been when Severus had first met the boy at Hogwarts all those years ago.
On those days when Potter just sat in Severus' old arm chair and gazed out the window, lost deep in his thoughts, Severus could barely look at him without his chest tightening and heart throbbing achingly, wretchedly. Yet, he couldn't bear to look away either. If he looked hard enough, close enough, just pretended those striking eyes were blue, then it was as if he had been thrust back in time—as if he were sitting there with him. All that was missing was that haughty, feigned look of arrogance that Severus both wanted to curse and kiss off his handsome face. Yes, those days were too much for Severus to handle. His wall of careful, practiced composure would come down crashing around him; he would throw a tantrum like a spoilt 12-year-old boy and overturn their tea set before storming out of the room and locking himself in his study. There he would smash and destroy everything in his sight that wasn't absolutely essential to his research; he needed it, the destruction; it was cathartic and invigorating. And once he was all smashed out, he would catch his breath and the silent tears he had held in for so many years would stream down his face, threatening to strangle him, to drown him with a past that still refused to relinquish his heart.
Yes, all he had left was a worn heart and a Pensieve full of memories, which were tainted with the dark truth, that even then, even when he was balls deep into Severus' arse, James Potter had never really been his. His heart had always belonged to someone else. So yet again, Severus had to face the harsh reality of the present. If he was doomed to forever love a man that did not love him, could not love him, what made him believe that this Potter would be any different? What made him believe that history would not repeat itself? What made him believe that it wasn't still James that he longed for? That he only wanted Potter so he could have a part of James no matter how small or insignificant.
Severus banged his head against the top of his favourite leather armchair and sighed. He had had far too much to drink tonight, half a bottle of firewhisky to be exact, and it was turning him into a maudlin old fool. How despicable. Today was not the day to get caught up in old memories. He usually possessed more self-control than this. Clearly, he blamed the alcohol. He was definitely not getting soft in his old age; he was not losing his mind.
"Sir?" an all too familiar voice called behind him.
Placing his empty glass on the nearby side table, he turned around and snapped his eyes to the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of the last person he wanted to see. Harry fucking Potter.
"Oh, bugger," he muttered under his breath. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and schooled his features into his usual mask of disdain. "What are you doing here?" he snapped, his voice dripping in venom and bottom lip curled.
"I came to see you, Professor," Potter said, fear clearly etched on his pale face, "eh-sir, I mean."
Severus regarded the boy, scowl still firmly in place, and did not invite him to sit down. Of course, Potter came in and made himself at home anyway. The sheer nerve of the brat.
"I can see you've been drinking, sir," Potter said, after a long silence.
Severus raised an eyebrow. "Are you my keeper, Mr Potter?"
Potter hung his head and started fiddling with the sleeves of his robes. "No, sir. I apologise," he said in a small voice. "I'm just surprised that's all. I thought you were a teetotaller."
Severus scoffed and studied the boy closely again, noticing his formal dress robes: black with a deep blue button-down shirt underneath and a matching blue bow tie. "A rather big word for the likes of you, eh...Potter?"
Potter looked up at Severus and blinked, his eyes as wide as saucers and pale cheeks flushing under Severus' intense glare. "Erm...Hermione taught it to me, sir. She once said that you are a teetotaller and I remembered."
"Right." Severus sniffed. "Now, Mr Potter, please tell me why you are here annoying me instead of at the ball being held in your honour? I'm sure you don't want to disappoint your adoring public," he drawled, not even bothering to hide the loathing in his voice.
"I was, sir," Potter said, his voice firmer. He straightened his shoulders and locked eyes with Severus. "When I noticed you weren't in attendance, I came looking for you."
"I see," Severus said stiffly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to ignore how that shirt made Potter's eyes appear almost blue instead of green. "I don't know what you're playing at Potter, but I'm not going back with you to that appalling excuse for a celebration. You of all people should understand—"
"That it undermines my parents' memory. I know. I just don't like to upset people." Potter looked at him again with serious eyes and his brow creased. For the first time, Severus could see just how tired he was, dark bruises under his eyes and pale hallowed cheeks. The years of war and stress had placed lines on Potter's face, making him look much older than his teenage years; he was a young man carrying around a grown man's troubles, a grown man's regrets—much like Severus himself.
"I wouldn't dream of bringing you back there, sir," Potter added, his voice soft, practically cracking. "I just wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure that you were okay." He paused and ran a shaky hand through his hair, the sleeves of his too long robes flapping in front of him.
Severus gasped. "Where did you get those robes? They aren't yours," he accused.
"They're Sirius'." Potter took a deep breath. "I found them in the back of his closet. As you know, I live in his old house—"
"I know perfectly well...where you live, boy. I'm not daft." He rose from his chair and was only inches away from Potter's face, snarling in his face like some rabid dog. That boy always had a way of disconcerting him. "Look at the crest on your sleeve, you stupid, stupid boy. That's the Potter crest not the Black crest. They belonged to your father."
Now it was Potter's turn to gasp. "My father?"
"Are you deaf?"
Potter blinked at him and then gazed down at the sleeve of his robe, staring at the Potter crest as if it were a long lost treasure. "Wow," he said, a dreamy look on his face and completely ignoring Severus' question. "I wonder why Sirius kept them. I-I-" He turned to Severus and smiled at him, a radiating, breathtaking smile.
"Potter?" Severus gulped, he needed to keep himself composed and ignore that sharp pang he was feeling in his chest. How long had he dreamt of having that dazzling smile turned on him? If he squinted, he could have sworn that it was James Potter standing there instead of his son. Severus felt like a sixteen-year-old boy again and had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from gasping and throwing himself at Potter's feet.
"Thank you, sir," Potter replied, wide smile still on his face. "You have no idea how much it means that you shared that with me. I'll treasure these robes always. And think of you, sir."
"That's...that's quite alright," Severus choked out, practically stuttering on that last word. He was a world renowned Potions Master and a war hero. He should never stutter. It was unforgivable.
Potter continued gazing at his robe longingly and Severus couldn't do anything but stare. After closing his eyes and composing himself, he took another step towards Potter. "Why are you here?" he asked again. "It's getting late. You should get home."
"I already told you." Potter dropped the sleeve he was holding and looked at Severus, concern clear on his face. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm perfectly fine, Potter."
"Are you?" Potter took another step closer to him, unnerving Severus even further. "I don't think you are, sir. But I can help you. Let me help you."
Severus leaned back against the wall in order to place some much needed distance between himself and Potter. He arched an eyebrow at Potter and pursed his lips. "And pray tell...how can you help?"
"Because," Potter said, leaning forwards and closing the remaining distance between them, "I should've done this a long time ago." He pushed Severus further into the wall and pressed his lips against Severus'—first softly and then deepening the kiss once he realised that Severus was indeed returning the kiss. Severus let out a soft groan and closed his eyes, tangling his hands in Potter's thick locks. Fuck, his hair was just as soft as he had imagined. And with his eyes closed and Potter's hard body holding him against the wall, rubbing against him, Severus was back in Hogwarts stealing kisses with his secret lover in another abandoned storage closet. Once Severus felt his knees weaken, he pushed Potter off him, more forcefully than necessary.
"Potter?" he said, still trying to catch his breath. "What the hell was that? And are you drunk?"
"Not any more than you are." Potter shrugged and then tried to flatten his hair. "I'm sorry, sir. I've just wanted to do that for ages." His voice was firm but completely unapologetic; he was still ogling Severus—hungrily, lustfully.
Severus was livid now. "And what makes you think...that I would've wanted such a thing? Potter arrogance no doubt."
Potter snorted. "Potter arrogance has nothing to do with it." His tone was light, playful even. "Well, not really. But I was hoping you wouldn't object because...I know."
Severus crossed his arms and scowled. "Know what, Potter?"
"About you and my father, of course," he replied nonchalantly. "I read all about it in Sirius' journals. Apparently, he knew the entire time you two were having your little affair. He even followed you two once." He smirked. "Not so sneaky I guess. Good thing your spy skills have improved since then."
Severus blanched. For once he was speechless. "I-I-"
"Come on, sir." Potter grabbed him by the arm and led him over to the armchair he was residing in before, motioning Severus to sit in it. For some reason he did.
"I've seen how you look at me. And I've seen old photos of my dad. I look just like him." Severus continued to stare at him blankly. "Except for the eyes, I know," Potter added. "But I've thought of everything, sir."
He bent down and pulled out his wand, which had been tucked inside of his long socks, and he made sure to wriggle his shapely arse in Severus' face as he did so. Merlin's beard, Severus thought, he even has James' arse. Ignoring the stunned look on Severus' face, Potter closed his eyes and raised his wand to his face, casting an expert Glamour Charm on himself. Severus gasped.
"I've been working on this charm for awhile," Potter explained, blinking his now shockingly blue eyes at him. They were the perfect shade of sapphire blue that James had possessed. "From the look on your face, I can tell it worked."
"Yes, I know," Potter said, his tone bored and lips locked in a smug smile. At that moment, he looked remarkably like James, even sprouting his same signature bored expression. "Now... how about it, Snape? We don't have all night." Potter cocked an eyebrow at him. It was as if he were channelling James, and Severus couldn't do anything but bite down on his bottom lip and groan.
"Severus," Snape said, once he was able to control his voice again. "Only Severus."
Potter chuckled and licked his lips. "Alright, Se-ver-us," he said, his voice deep and sultry, "let me help you forget." He leered at him. "Or perhaps remember, eh?" Without waiting for a response, he devoured Severus' lips, astounding him and claiming him as his own—just as his father had done so many years ago. "Close your eyes," he said. And Severus did.
Potter continued kissing him and caressing him, first on the lips and then working his way down Severus' neck and chest—his outer robe and shirt being unbuttoned and removed without him noticing. Severus tilted his head back and moaned in appreciation; Potter had talented lips and hands. He could get used to this.
As he sat there savouring every moment of Potter's attention, he couldn't help but get lost in his thoughts again. Everyone thought he had been in love with Lily Potter, that his love for her had been the reason for his rivalry with James, his reason for protecting their only son from Voldemort. It could not have been further from the truth. Only James, Lily, himself, and apparently Black, knew the truth. He had been hopelessly and obsessively in love with James Potter from the first time they met—from that first day in the Great Hall when Severus had attempted to be friendly and James had sneered at him and mocked his second hand robes. "Why would I want to be friends with a slimy Slytherin like yourself? Go crawl under a rock and die somewhere," James had told him, a sneering Black at his side. "That's what Slytherins are good at."
That day, oh-so many years ago, the beautiful boy with the messy, black hair and absurdly blue eyes had broken his heart. But it hadn't mattered. It only caused Severus to love him more and yearn for him desperately. This inner truth and turmoil had almost broken him, would have broken him, if it weren't for Lily. She had been his rock and sounding board, his only confidante. And he had trusted her, Mudblood and everything, fellow James Potter despiser, until Severus had found her and James snogging behind the Quidditch stands one afternoon. Then everything changed. Severus lost his only true friend, the only person he could talk with about James, so he did the only thing he knew how: he pushed his love for James deep into his heart, locked it away in his mind. Never to be spoken about again.
Yes, at some point he had been able to tempt James into fooling around with him and experiment together, but Severus knew that it was nothing more than just shagging for James—that James' heart belonged to someone else.
Slowly, the buried love had destroyed him, pushing him further and further into the darkness and eating away at his heart like a poison, an incurable disease. It hadn't mattered what Severus did, even his dabbling into the Dark Arts and time in the Dark Lord's service had not been able to soothe his broken heart. If anything, it just broke his spirit further and caused him to start giving into the madness and delusions that were always calling out to him and tempting him.
But right now things were different. He had been granted a second chance, a miracle right in front of him, to set things right. Potter had continued kissing and caressing his entire torso, teasing his nipples and belly button for what felt like hours. Now, he was unbuttoning his trousers and Severus snapped his eyes open, shocked to find Potter eyeing his fully erect cock greedily.
"Mmm," Potter said, stroking Severus's prick with his left hand. "Beautiful. Even more Beautiful than I imagined."
Severus closed his eyes again in anticipation of what was coming—of those full pink lips around his cock. It had been so long since someone had touched him intimately like this, much too long. He was desperate for it, gagging for it. But this was wrong, wasn't it? This was James' son. Not James. A man 20 years his junior and barely even more than a boy. He should stop him, shouldn't he?
But then those perfect lips engulfed Severus' hungry cock and all hope was lost. There was no turning back now. Absolutely not. With his eyes still closed and a hot mouth bobbing up and down on his cock, he decided that he didn't care anymore. He had fought for so hard and long against these feelings, against this love, and he was just too tired to continue. It no longer mattered if this was another of his dreams or delusions, which as of late, had continued to take over his mind on a more frequent basis. It didn't matter if he had somehow managed to go back in time or into an alternate reality and this was actually James Potter, calling him beautiful and sucking his cock like it was the most delicious lolly in the world. It didn't even matter if this was actually James Potter's son, his fingers wrapped in those dark curls, because to him, it felt exactly the same. All he saw was James. All he had ever seen was James.
As that hot mouth continued to suck on his cock, expertly so, all Severus could do was tug on the soft, black hair and moan, lost in ecstasy and bliss. The darkness was now spreading out from his heart, coursing deeper into his veins, but it didn't matter. He wanted it, was getting off on it, and was planning never to let go again.
"James," Severus rasped, his voice not much more than a breathy moan. "Don't stop, James. Don't you dare stop."
"Never," a deep voice growled.
No, love is not a whisper but a growl. A fierce demanding growl that takes over your body and causes you to lose all rational thoughts. Love is destruction.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading. I know this was dark and angsty, but I hope everyone views the ending as hopeful because it's supposed to be. The love is not a whisper beginning and ending poem/quote is very loosely based and inspired by the bible verse 1 Corinthians 13:4. I am not promoting or mocking religion in any way. The quote was just used as inspiration. I'd really love to hear your thoughts, especially because this is the first Snarry fic I've ever written. Should I stick to Harry/Draco?
Comments are love.