Sinope's Fiction: A Tower of Transparency

Title: A Tower of Transparency
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Snape/Harry, Harry/Neville
Summary: A chance encounter with a figure from Harry's past leads to present temptation.
Author's notes: This is a birthday gift for Regan_V, on the requested themes of Snarry and infidelity. Many thanks to very_improbable, who was an extremely helpful beta.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

The scorn and desire of a wave,
the green rhythm which at its most secret
set up a tower of transparency.
That secret stayed and soon
I felt myself beating with it,
My voice growing with the water.
- Pablo Neruda, "Tides"

The Wizards' War Museum is one of Harry's favorite places to walk at night; apt, he supposes, given how much he detests it during the day. Still, when Neville has turned out all the overhead lights and swept the rubbish and debris from the floor, the place becomes a mausoleum of the fallen. Silent figures in Daily Prophet clippings stir in the shadows, perpetually in the periphery of Harry's vision, and he can almost imagine them as ghosts instead of memories. Familiar as the contours of his and Neville's flat, each wall and pedestal evokes bright spellbursts of memory. He can see Lucius Malfoy's eyes staring through the holes of the spell-singed Death Eater mask, and Dumbledore's fingers stroking the lone phoenix feather remaining of Fawkes' sacrifice.

In one corner, rarely lingered in by the museum's visitors, the Half-Blood Prince's tattered textbook stands on a pedestal. The book opens to the page showing the hex that killed Voldemort, a furtive scribble in adolescent handwriting thirty years old. Though he's always aware of its presence at his back, Harry rarely lingers in that corner, either. It's easier by far to feel the cold marble under his bare feet, to reminisce about the recently fallen, than to confront that strange juxtaposition of admiration, resentment, and buried regret.

Because of the obvious, Harry's been invited to every War commemoration and party; because of Neville, it's usually easier to go and hide in a corner than to decline. War heroes are allowed to become eccentric recluses — even Severus did, and Harry's found himself in the odd position of envying the man — but living with the Museum's curator means that he has to attend these events or deal with a sulky Gryffindor the next day. In that way, he finds himself at the formal gala celebrating the dedication of the Malfoy-Tonks Memorial Wing of Mungo's, displaying a dazzling smile for the reporters while he mutters at Neville, "You know it's only because Narcissa knew she'd get better press by pairing a Muggle surname with Draco's."

"Shh, you," Neville says with an affectionate smile. Harry kisses him on the cheek and leaves him to the flashbulbs and chatter of the press.

Past the drinks table, where Harry snags a champagne flute, drains it smoothly, and picks up a second one, he can see a few benches clustered in a corner. A pair of witches sit on one end, giggling with gossip, and they give Harry an over-long glance before returning to their conversation. He can feel champagne bubbles in his nose, the leather of the bench-cover beneath his hands, and the hum of laughter and conversation vibrating up through his feet. It's at parties like this, not in the hush of the dark museum, that he feels most alone.

First as a muffling of the noise in front of him, then as a shadow lapping at his feet, then as two eyes watching him with an unreadable expression, Snape enters Harry's awareness. Their eyes meet for a moment, so easily that the action feels intimately normal, and Snape is the first to look away. He picks up a glass of champagne, turns, and disappears again into the crowd.

Harry does not follow Severus, or investigate what brought him to the gala. Years ago, on a night when neither was quite sober, Harry confessed to Neville the unspoken attraction that he'd developed for Snape when they worked together during the War; to seek him out now would be suspicious and fruitless. Besides, Severus was the person who taught Harry the richness of language without words. Harry contents himself with knowing that, tonight, he has a companion in his loneliness.

In the past few years, Harry has developed an arrangement with Ron, facilitated by the second two-way mirror he eventually discovered in 12 Grimmauld Place. It's a simple arrangement: he'll tell Neville that he's visiting Ron, head out, and mirror-summon Ron. Half the time, he really will visit Ron; the other half, Ron knows to cover for him if Neville ever inquires.

Of course, Neville wouldn't stop Harry if he asked to go out alone, and it's not as if Harry's doing anything of which Neville would disapprove. Usually he just heads to the Hog's Head, wrapped in an Obfuscation Charm, and sips firewhisky until he can relax into his chair and speculate idly on the faces hidden beneath each hood and disguise. On rare days, when the air's crisp and the sky's achingly blue and he can smell the barest scent of ozone in the breeze, he'll pull out his broom and fly high, higher than he ever dared as a boy, until the sky turns to twilight and only the strongest charms make breathing bearable.

Today isn't one of those days. Today, he settles onto his ancient wooden bench and breathes in the sharp vapor of Ogden Select, allowing the languid awareness of his own anonymity to spread through his limbs in anticipation of the alcohol's haze. A cloaked figure walks over from the bar and sits on the other side of the table, but Harry doesn't move away from him; the Obfuscation Charm's designed to make bystanders notice anything except the person right before their face.

Harry examines the figure without bothering to disguise the path of his eyes. The cloak hides the man's face and form, but his hands are exposed, bare of identifying jewelry or disfigurements. Beautiful hands, Harry muses, with long slender digits that remind him uncomfortably of Snape. The fingernails are neatly trimmed, not too short, and they move with the careful grace of one used to working with his hands. An image appears in his mind of those nails sliding over his skin, pressing in enough to contrast the smooth fingertips with a line of delicate pain. It's an effort to keep his hand steady as he sips his firewhisky.

The man chuckles, low and intimate. "It's rather discouraging to see that after all my lessons, you still rely on obfuscation to protect you from Legilimancy."

"Oh god." Harry's face colors, and he glares at the man whose voice is undeniably Snape's. "You know perfectly well that you're the only one who can get past those shields; you're the one who put them there."

"So much for the student surpassing his master," Severus says, his voice dryly amused.

Harry resists the urge to knock the man's hood off his head. "Aren't you supposed to be in Tübingen?"

"Well," Severus says in slow, sarcastic syllables, "over in Germany, they've discovered a magical invention called the Floo — perhaps you've heard of it?"

He rolls his eyes. "What I meant was, why are you here? And could I at least see your bloody face when you talk?"

Severus shrugs and pulls back his hood, but does not meet Harry's gaze. "Perhaps I miss speaking a language without umlauts."

"Oh." Harry finds himself almost smiling. "I miss having people to talk to, too."

In Severus's language, the snort he gives in reply is as good as agreement, and Harry's smile becomes full-fledged.

The two share a bottle of firewhisky over the next few hours, and if anyone thinks it strange to see an expatriate spy apparently talking to thin air, they know better than to remark on it. When the bottle has run dry and the tickle of Neville will worry has begun to itch at Harry's conscience, he takes a deep breath and blurts out, "I'll probably be here again, next week."

Severus raises an eyebrow. "Thank you for that information," he says, in a tone clearly asking, and why should I care?

"You're welcome," Harry replies with a grin. "I'll see you around, I guess."

As he heads for the door, Harry tries to convince himself that if he repeats it enough times, he'll believe that Severus thinks nothing of him, has never thought anything of him. If he repeats it enough times, he'll be grateful for Neville's unquenchable compassion by the time he reaches their front door.

When Harry returns the next week, he chooses a shadowed table in the corner, half-concealed by philodendrons clinging to life through magic and desperation. He buys a shot of firewhisky but does not touch it. Instead, he closes his eyes, counts his breaths, and recollects all the occlumency that Snape taught him during their months together. Strand by strand, he erects a wall in his mind, thick with false passageways and dead-ends and beguiling tangents.

In the silence that follows the barrier's completion, Harry's conscious mind surfaces enough to hear the even breathing of Severus's presence. For as long as he dares, he keeps his eyes closed, trying to read that inhalation and exhalation as a language more revealing than words.

He can feel Severus's imprint in his mind, on the other side of the wall, waiting.

Weeks pass like this, strands of conversation and in-jokes weaving a comfortable garment for Harry to gather about himself. The cloak of pleasant memories helps him distract himself when Neville gently suggests an evening out together, or when they make love in the dark and Harry imagines a body taut and slender instead of pillowy-soft and sweaty. He's done nothing wrong, he reassures himself; after all, he spends no more time with Severus than he does with Ron, and Neville's never been jealous of his evenings with the Weasley clan. He's not hiding anything, because there's nothing to hide.

He's drinking with Severus one week, tipsy enough to let his laughter run as loose as his half-flirtatious banter. One thing leads to another, and somehow Harry finds himself begging Severus to let him see his German flat on some excuse. "Please, Severus?" he says, biting and pouting his lips so they're damp and red-flushed, the trick that Neville could never turn down.

Severus sighs with mock-exasperation, stands up, and drags Harry by the arm to the bar's Floo. A puff of green flame and gunpowder-soot smoke later, they tumble into Severus's flat, off-balance and leaning on each other.

Overwhelming silence replaces the background noise of the Hog's Head; Snape's study is cramped and book-lined, lit by dim amber candles, and the two of them are alone. Harry feels abruptly, painfully sober. All he can think about is the proximity of Severus's body: warmth, emanating from his shoulder and hand where they lean against Severus, pulsing through him faster than a heartbeat. He feels like he'll burst into flame unless he kisses Severus; he feels like the question of kissing him has never been "whether" but "when."

Awkwardly, slowly, Harry nuzzles his head against Severus's shoulder, reaches up to cup his face — slightly stubble-raspy but cool to the touch — and tilts Severus's lips toward his own. They're close, so close Harry can feel the prickles of electricity from skin to skin, when Severus turns his head away and steps backward. "Let me ask you a question," he says, and Harry nods mutely. "Does Longbottom love you?"

"Yes," Harry whispers; the very act of saying it stings.

"Does he take care of you?"

"Yes." Harry's eyes are closed now, and some distant part of him is mocking himself for forgetting how ashamed Snape can make him feel with so few words.

"Does he hurt you?"

". . . No."

Severus takes a step further back, and turns away from him, so that all Harry can see is the glint of candlelight on his ebony hair. "Then for god's sake, stop this now. I won't let you blame me for taking that away from you."

"I wouldn't —" he begins to protest.

"Perhaps not at first."

Harry wants to hit Snape, to ask when he started caring about consequences, to shove him against the wall and muffle his protests with Harry's mouth until neither of them care about anything else. He wants to be a teenager again, when he could have done those things without feeling the unbearable weight of responsibility imprisoning him in right choices.

He takes off his glasses, wipes off the fog of perspiration, replaces them, and meets Severus's eyes. "I guess I should go home now."

"I think you should."

Harry steps into the flames to keep himself from asking, But when will I see you again?

The museum closed hours ago, and Harry can smell beef and onions in the air, drifting down from their flat on the upper floor. Harry's standing, barefoot and motionless, facing a photo taken of the Order's surviving members at the end of the War. In the photo, he and Neville have their arms around each other, waving V for Victory signs; sometimes Harry claps Ron on the back, or Tonks reaches down to ruffle Harry's hair. In the corner of the photo, Snape stands alone, still as a Muggle photo. Harry can remember the night before they took that photo; he and Severus had argued about who the next generation would remember, with Snape insisting that newspapers, not history, picked the heroes. He'd been right, of course. It had been the last real conversation they'd had in four years.

Harry can hear Neville's shoes clacking on the marble from three rooms away, but he resists looking in his direction until he feels those gentle, familiar arms circling his waist from behind. Neville kisses Harry's neck, then rests his chin comfortably on Harry's shoulder, their bodies fitting each other like well-worn jumpers. "I've reheated that stew you made last week and picked up some wholemeal bread from the shop. You all right, love?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and thinks, He will never be Severus, and he will never stop loving me. He twists his body around, kisses Neville on the lips, and takes his hand. "Dinner sounds lovely."

Neville squeezes his hand encouragingly, and the two start walking to the exit room, but the moment still feels wrong to Harry.

"Neville?" he finally says. "Tell me about your day. Tell me what's been on your mind this week. I've missed talking to you."

"I've missed you too," he says, giving Harry a quick hug. Harry feels like he's watching himself in a photograph, feeling Neville's touch through thick cotton. This is a story he's seen before, and he knows the way it ends.

finis.