Missed Opportunities

Missed Opportunities

Chapter Five

Two months, four dinners, and an unfortunate sixteen Daily Prophet articles on the dashing Severus Snape and his rotating cast of escorts later, I took my mastery exams – and passed with scores high enough even to quell the self-doubt that has always plagued me.  Ron, Hermione and the Weasleys insisted on throwing me a congratulatory dinner, and invited half a dozen other guests, among them Neville, Minerva, Hagrid, and – as I knew Hermione would insist or plot or set up – Severus. 

My master’s project – a full set of twenty crystal and glass stirring rods, and an equal number of labeled vials in a variety of colors and materials, were displayed – minus one item – along with my dragonhide-bound thesis and my framed Master’s certificate, on Mrs. Weasley’s buffet, protected by a double ward that both kept the pieces from being accidentally damaged or contaminated, and kept the guests safe from being poisoned or having their own magic compromised.  The vials, in particular, were that complex. 

Severus was continually drawn to the array, even during the sit-down dinner, his eyes repeatedly returning to the buffet, a slight frown marring his porcelain forehead.  I kept a neutral look on my face, while my stomach squirmed in anxious anticipation.  After dinner, we broke for brandy and more informal afters, and inevitably, he and I both ended up at the buffet.  I leaned against the wall beside its long length, my insides warmed and calmed by sips of Mr. Weasley’s excellent choice of libation, watching him study each piece, onyx eyes alight with intelligence and inquiry.  He asked a question here and there, and after a couple of cautions, I waved a hand to lower the wards so that he could examine each piece in detail, handing him again a pair of the gloves that were ever-present, carrying them second nature to me now.

He picked up each piece, one by one, usually studying the item silently, but occasionally murmuring in appreciation or question, to which I replied equally quietly.  I watched him, though, the facets of each piece causing rainbow colors of light to flow over his face, revealing different aspects of him as he turned each item in careful hands. 

“Breathtaking,” he exclaimed over one vial, his comment breathed out nearly reverently, warming me in other ways. 

“Yes,” I agreed, though I knew we weren’t talking about the same thing.  “Would you be willing to help me pack them back up?  It takes a careful hand,” I asked, and he nodded an eager assent.  I smiled to myself, thinking ahead to what I had planned.  We packed the pieces side by side, shoulders brushing, fingers brushing, thighs brushing at times, as we moved and reached across each other, my skin humming and my heart beating an eager rhythm.  I handed him the doubled roll for the stirring rods, which he took after a moment’s hesitation, and began filling, slipping each rod into a slot.  I could practically hear him counting, could nearly feel his disappointment against my skin as we moved together, finishing the packing.

“Severus,” I said, turning toward him as I hoisted the second of two leather vial cases to the top of the buffet.  “Come with me to Grimmauld.”  I nodded at the three containers that held my master’s projects, my thesis, and my certificate.  “I can shrink the thesis, but not the rest.  It would save me a second trip…  It’s been a long day,” I said, trying to keep a wheedling tone from my voice. 

His eyes flashed in amusement anyway, though what he thought of my… invitation – for we both knew that was what it was – I did not know.  “Certainly, Potter – Harry.  I’ll be happy to lend a hand for the evening.”

If he knew what I thought at that, he might have withdrawn the offer.  Or perhaps not.  In any case, not too long after, we flooed to Grimmauld Place, having taken our leave of clan Weasley and assorted others, levitating our burdens down to my studio.  “I have to put several of these away before I can retire,” I said, opening the case he had been carrying.  “Why don’t you take a seat over there?”  I gestured with my chin, and he moved to sit on the side of the worktable across from me.

I waved a hand surreptitiously, and a long, wooden box appeared on the table in front of him as he took up a stool.  He looked up at me and I stopped what I was doing to smile at him. 

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Open it,” I suggested softly.

His eyes glinted dangerously, and I shivered, but hid it, I thought.

“Potter,” he growled, and I laughed.  “Just open it, Severus,” I pleaded.  “It’s yours – if you want it.”

He drew the lid off through the rabbited walls of the box and set it aside, brushed away the curls of shaved maple, and, holding his breath and glancing up at me for permission, reached in – bare handed, now, knowing exactly what that meant, and retrieved the molded and carved, ruby-colored stirring rod he had admired two months earlier.  He traced each rune with a reverent finger, held the rod up against the low fire that still burned, though banked, as I was not using the workshop that evening, and finally took possession of it, his long-fingered hand curling around it just so.  I closed my eyes against the sight of him caressing the rod I had labored over, with him in mind, for so many hours… days… weeks. Severus.  All the love, respect, faith, and admiration I felt for the man had gone into its crafting, and I could only hope…

When I opened my eyes, his were on me, glittering more than usual.  “Harry,” he breathed, “I… thank you.  I had thought… your master instructor…”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.  “You… you have been… you are… the most important teacher…” the most important man “in my life, Severus.  No one…”  I ducked my head, unable to meet his eye as I said the rest. “No one means as much to me as you do.  No one ever could.”  I looked up at him and steeled my courage.  “It was made for you,” I admitted.

He held my gaze for a long time, and I wished I dared Legilimancy… or dared let him in past my own barriers… dared even to let myself past the barriers I had erected against knowing.  I love you, Severus Snape.  But I hid that… at least fairly well… and gestured at the rod he still held in his hands.  He did not look down, though, but continued looking at me.  “I do not know what to say… Crystal Master,” he said with a wry smile, giving me my formal title for the first time.  He slipped off the stool and gave a little bow in my direction.

My breath caught, and then I laughed, rather shakily.  “Potions Master,” I answered formally, bowing a tad more deeply in his direction, then straightening.  “I think I prefer Harry and Severus,” I said, wiping a hand across my forehead.  “If you don’t mind.” 

His lips quirked in a smile of agreement.  “Harry,” he said, with another little bow.

I laughed again and rolled my eyes.  “Stop,” I half ordered, half pleaded.  “And you’d better put that away, unless you want it contaminated.  Want to help with these?”

He put the rod away, sighing happily as he slid the cover back into place, and patting the box proprietarily, before turning and saying, “So this was just a ruse, then, banishing me to this side of the table?”

I laughed again, more easily, in agreement.  “These go over there, in the rosemary,” I said, handing him a couple of vials.

We made quick work of stowing the remainder of the vials in their proper places, and went back to my study, where I offered him tea or another brandy, but he begged off.  “I really should go,” he said.  “I have an order to fill, myself, tomorrow, and Geoff is waiting…”

He broke off at that, and my stomach plummeted to my shoes.  “Fine,” I said.  “No need to explain.  I’ll…  Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Harry…”  He took a step toward me.

“No.  Really.  I understand.  Go on, then,” I said, waving him off toward the fireplace and wrapping my arms around my middle, trying not to seem too pathetic. 

He stood across from me… too near… too far…  I wanted to throw myself into his arms and cry… or beg him to stay… or…  I don’t know – kiss him, maybe.  Beg him to love me, I guess.  I wanted him to leave so I could collapse without him seeing… hopefully without him knowing… 

There was an awkward silence, and then he turned toward the fireplace, and took the box of floo powder from the mantle, took out a measured handful, and replaced the box.  He lifted the box that held the stirring rod in his hand, as if in salute, stepped backward into the fireplace, and waited until I lifted my eyes to his, which were filled with something like pleading… like pain… like guilt.  Before I could wonder at that, though, he threw down the powder, said, “Snape’s lair,” and disappeared in a flash of green flame. 

I collapsed where I stood, curled up into as tight a ball as I could manage, and shook with sobs until Kreacher came and cajoled me into going upstairs, and brought me a cup of hot tea that I held until it grew cold, and until the sun began to come up over the windowsill.

Hermione – with Ron in tow – hounded me until I told her what was wrong, of course.  And of course, she was comforting, and Ron cursed Severus under his breath until even Hermione told him to lay off.  It wasn’t Snape’s fault.  Merlin knew, I bloody well knew he was… seeing… other… men…  And… he wasn’t seeing me that way, anyway.  We were… friends… or colleagues… or old war companions, or some bloody thing, and he owed me exactly nothing – not his time, not his allegiance, and certainly not any bloody explanation. 

It was just that I felt bound to him.  No matter that the man was seeing however many other men… no matter that he had not once, not ever encouraged my affections in this direction, damn it.  I still felt… bound to him.  All that I had… all that I was… I owed to him.  And more than that, I wanted to belong to him… wanted to give him… all of me…  But… it appeared he had no desire to take it.

Two weeks later, it was my turn to choose the place for dinner.  I neglected to send an owl, and for the first time in two and a half years, we did not meet.  I don’t know which one of us I was punishing.  I spent the night sitting on the sofa in the study, next to the fireplace, brooding, my legs stretched out in front of me, my hands wrapped around a too-warm brandy, feeling sorry for myself, feeling bereft, wondering if it was possible to mourn something I had never had… wondering if Severus was even mindful of my absence, if it mattered to him at all, or if he happily filled the time with… some other man.  Hermione and Ron had pushed me to just continue… just keep meeting him every other week…  Or to make a decision to let it go.  But… I didn’t have the strength, I don’t think, to pretend… that he meant nothing to me… or that he was just an old friend or old professor or whatever he considered himself to be to me.  I didn’t have the strength to end it.  I tried not to get drunk.

I didn’t hear the floo flare, ensconced as I was in my studio, two days later.  I had managed to subsume my sense of loss and sadness and… humiliation, maybe… in my work, though I had not yet secured premises for the shop I hoped to open before winter.  Instead of investigating potential leases, I kept to my lathe and furnaces and kilns, trying to recapture my motivation in the precision that crystal and glass and potion required, if only to avoid a fatal injury.  Nor, apparently, did I hear the soft knock Severus insisted he had made before he cautiously opened the door to the studio.  I’d long since spelled the wards to admit him – and had completely forgotten the fact.  Not that I’d have undone that access.  I was so completely his… and that felt irrevocable. 

I don’t know how long he stood there, travel cape spelled to dissipate the rain that had been falling for the last two days, keeping me company in my misery.  He must have moved, stirring the air or causing his robes to rustle, and suddenly I was aware of him, even before I whirled around, neatly cracking the bit of glass I had been so carefully attenuating.

“Shit!” I said, jumping back from the molten bits that sprayed across my leather apron.  He jumped forward as if to intervene, and I flicked an alarmed hand in a knock-back spell that pushed him against the wall and held him there.

“Harry!”

“Stop!  Just… stop.  Stay there,” I ordered, and, releasing the spell, trusting him to stay put, I turned my attention to the charmed and potion-coated bits of glass that now lay scattered across the floor and my work table.  Eying the flame, I noted the molten glass that had attached to one end of the burner.  I winced and cast a careful containment spell before working it loose from the metal that had shocked it cold and brittle.  That done, I waved my hand to collect the shards on the floor, so that neither of us would step on them and shred our feet.  Coaxing the bits off the table from around the burner and my tools was a bit trickier, as I could not risk moving anything else, even to clear a path.  Five minutes or so passed before I breathed a sigh of relief and turned accusing eyes toward Severus, still and repentant, standing near the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he began, halting at my growl. 

I had a flash of insight that our positions were bizarrely reversed – usually it would have been me standing there apologizing for making him lose focus while brewing some highly dangerous and deadly potion.  I saw the recognition flash across his face, as well, and he fought against his amusement.  I snarled and shook my head, refusing to allow it, despite the desire of my lips to twitch in answering humor.

He waited silently for me to make the next move.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, finally, surly in the face of my fear and the returned sense of loss.

“We missed our appointment.  I came to see if you were all right.”  He sounded tentative.  I hated it.

I waved a hand.  “You’ve seen.  I’m fine.”  Now go, before I humiliate myself.

He held still a moment.  “Do you want your stirring rod back?” he said into the silence.  His voice was… thin… defeated.

I froze, then gave up, and collapsed onto a stool and dropped my head into my hands.  “To what end?” I asked, my voice directed to the table.  “You know it can’t be used by anyone else, now.”

“You could always destroy it,” he said, dark humor lacing his tone.  A moment later, he moved to take the stool the other side of the table.

“Severus…” I stopped.  There were so many things I wanted to say… that I didn’t want to say.  I looked up at him, and he looked the way I felt – uncertain, uncomfortable, wishing something was different.  I snorted, shook my head, and looked down again, at the burn marks on the worktable.  I groaned – loudly, on purpose.  “Look,” I said, glancing up at him, “Could we just…” I waved a hand.  “… start over.”

He quirked an eyebrow.  “Start over, Potter?  I hardly think we could start over, at this point.”  He sat up straighter and slapped a hand down on the table, creating an echo, then flinched.  I waved a hand to indicate it did not signify – my shop was warded against random sounds that would otherwise create flaws in the work.  “However,” he proposed, “we could, perhaps, back up… a couple of weeks.”

I raised an eyebrow in return.  “Oh?”

“I believe I was thanking you for your exquisite work… that you had gifted me.”

“I vaguely recall offering you a tea… or brandy.”

Over the cauldron that sat against the short wall of my shop hung a clock, silently ticking away the moments. Severus glanced at it.  “Bit early for spirits, Potter.”

“It’s still Harry, Severus.”

“I thought I might have lost that privilege, Crystal Master.”

I paused in the act of stripping off the dragon-leather apron I wore to guard against sparks and molten glass.  “I’m not sure you could do anything bad enough to lose that right, Potions Master,” I said formally.  The side of his mouth twisted in an attempt to suppress a smile.

“I assure you – Harry­ – that I can be very bad.”  His voice had gone soft, silken, and sultry, and his eyes were smoldering.

Oh, dear Merlin… was… was Severus Snape flirting with me?  Please, God!

I gasped, recovered enough, I hoped, that my voice would be steady, and said, as lightly as I could, “Don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping!  Come on,” I added, whipping off my apron and crossing behind him to hang it on one of the pegs near the door, “Tea, then.”

Tea and sandwiches eased us into conversation, first about the stirring rod I had made him, which he had felt too guilty to use, easing my heart some, then about my immediate plans – which were to open for business in Diagon Alley within the month.

“Not Hogsmeade?” he asked, but waved a hand to forestall any answer I might give.  “No – of course not.  Your work would be wasted on students, and they would make up the majority of your customers – if they could even afford you.”

I laughed.  “I assure you, plain stirring rods will be the bulk of my business, my bread and butter.  I’ll reserve the fancy work for… people like you.”

“Or collectors,” he suggested, and at my negation, “Don’t overlook that market, Harry.  A collector might pay as much as a thousand galleons for the very best, most artistic rods.  Not to mention vials, which arguably could go for far more.  And you have the talent.”

“I’m serious,” he added, when I scoffed at that.  He tapped a finger against his teacup, his fingernail making it ring slightly.  “I should take you with me to the next Potions conference,” he mused, his gaze unfocused.

I looked at him inquiringly, working desperately to keep my heart from pounding in vain hope. 

“Paris,” he said with a smile.  He set his cup down.  “In January.”

“Tough time to travel with glass,” we said at the same time, and I laughed.  “Well, it would be.” 

“I’m aware, but warming charms…” 

He paused when I shook my head.  “Affects the temper of the glass,” I said.

“Hmm…  Let’s work on it.  It would be a shame for you to miss this one.  It’s our 300th anniversary – certain to be attended by the best from around the world.”

I winced, for two reasons.  “I’m not sure…” I began.

“But I am,” he said, insistently.  “I’ve been bottling and stirring potions longer than you have been alive, Potter.  I know quality tools and equipment when I see them.  Your work is easily the best I’ve seen in a decade or more.  And the way you’ve thought through the reagents…  You deserve to present at this gathering, trust me.”

“But… I don’t speak French.”

“English is the international language of the Society, Harry.  It will be all right.  Trust me.”

“I do,” I said – and meant far more than the conversation warranted.

“We’ll find a way,” he said.

And we did.  We resumed our biweekly meetings, to the relief of both of us, I think, business discussions keeping our interactions safe… though there was a different undertone to every discussion.  It was, after all, rather hard to talk about rods without falling into innuendo and teasing.  It had been a constant source of amusement and frustration during my apprenticeship.  It was nearly agony, delivered in the velvet-smooth baritone of Severus’ voice.  It rode up and down my arms, my spine, vibrated behind whichever ear was nearest him, and once again, I spent most of my time around him at least half hard, and resumed my vigorous wanking schedule, timed to thoughts of him.

He did not stop dating, but photographs of him and the men he took to various events were interspersed with photographs of the two of us, now, heads bent together in easy intimacy, over some table where we were drawing spell diagrams and vial designs into one or the other journal, or on napkins, or in some instances, on tablecloths, which we then whipped off the tables before we left, to the initial dismay and eventual amusement of more than one Maître'd.  He helped me prepare my paper proposal, his mentorship easing my nerves at every step along the way.

My feelings for Severus continued to overwhelm me.  The scent of potions and bergamot and cinnamon that clung to him filled my nostrils, and made me inhale deeply every time he bent close enough, and his long fingers tapping a menu, or journal, or his teacup mesmerized me, so that I am sure he wondered if I was becoming absent-minded – or more so than usual, for me.  I nearly always arranged to arrive at our chosen destination ahead of him, because watching him maneuver between tables to follow some host or hostess toward me gave me such a sweet opportunity to study his hips, his long legs, his torso, the way his arms balanced him, the way he missed the swish of his robes every time we met in some Muggle establishment – increasingly necessary to keep the secrets of our work from being accidentally overheard by some passing wizard, particularly as his fame – and mine, I admit – grew.  I loved his voice, and his hair, and his brilliant, beautiful eyes, and the way he bent near to whisper something for my ears alone.  And… I ached to take him home with me… always.  I’d have followed him anywhere…

So I followed him to Paris.