Missed Opportunities

Missed Opportunities

Chapter Six

January finally arrived.  My application to both vend and present at the IMPS – International Makers of Potions Society – conference had been approved.  I was sure it was because Severus had helped me draft my proposals and sponsored my application, but he insisted I had earned the privilege on my own merits.  We spent a week hand-packing a hundred vials, an equal number of my best stirrers, and two dozen or so ladles, spoons, and spatulas into the containers Severus had spelled with environment-containment charms that we had exhaustively tested for months, before determining that they interfered not at all with the integrity of even the most sensitive vials and rods. 

I spent two anxious days awaiting word from Paris that they had arrived safely, as far as could be determined without close inspection, before Severus and I headed there ourselves.  By the time we arrived at the international apparition point that we usually used when dining in Paris, I was vibrating in anxiety, and Severus put a warm hand on my back to steady me, and whispered into the back of my head, “Easy, Potter, or you’ll crack crystal and glass before you get within ten meters of your work.”  I stepped back into his warmth, surprised that he let me.  He slid a hand to the side of my winter travel robe, and pressed it to my hip in clear support.  I took a breath, shaky for a completely different reason, then.

We made our way to the convention hotel, and I stood uncertainly at the counter while he checked us in.  “Just the one,” he said in agreement with something the clerk said.  She handed him an envelope with two polished brass keys and a number written on the front.  “Merci,” Severus murmured, and shifted the robe across his arm to regain control of his luggage.  Oh, bloody hell – he’s going to talk French all weekend!  I thought in despair.  The thought threatened to run right to my cock, and I bit my cheek until my eyes watered to keep that from happening, with moderate success, though I was glad I had not yet shucked my winter robe.

“Come,” Severus said, turning and leading the way to elegant elevators.  I shook my head at his unexpected familiarity with Muggle technology, but realized he had done a fair amount of traveling, what with his publications and presentations and all.  I watched him press the button to call the lift, and then the 7, for the floor our rooms were on, evidently. 

Room, singular, as it turned out.

He led the way down a narrow hallway to room 714, slipped a key from the envelope, and stuck it in the slot.  The key wriggled and the lock shivered.  There was a click, and the door opened inward.  Severus stood to the side and looked at me… looking at him.  He frowned and jerked his head toward the room.  I narrowed my eyes uncertainly, but entered the room, brushing past him, acutely aware, abruptly, of his utter, intense masculinity.  He followed me, and dropped his bags on the nearer of the two narrow but elegant beds, while I stood stock still, frozen in the sudden realization... 

Holy mother of Merlin – we’re sharing a room! 

A frisson of… fear?  Anticipation?  Hope? ran down my back, and I shivered.

“Are you cold?”  His voice was sharp with concern, and he stepped up behind me to reach around to feel my forehead for fever.  “You didn’t catch floo fever, did you?” 

I shook my head, unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and answered.  “No.  I’m sure not.  I… just…”  I shivered again when he withdrew his touch, and turned in time to catch the look of consternation on his face.

“There are a number of illnesses that make the rounds of conventions, Harry,” he said, studying my face and picking up one of my hands to press my fingernails and check my pulse.  “You need to pay strict attention to preventive spells and basic hygiene.  Try to stay out of others’ personal space.”  He dropped my wrist and snorted.  “Though that can be incredibly hard with some ethnicities.”  He glanced at me.  “Some groups take offense if you do not breathe in the air that they exhale, or if you draw back from a touch.”  He scowled at that, and I could not even imagine how he must have hated that, as private a man as he was.  “In any case…”

He crossed to his bags, withdrew a vial – not one of mine, I noted absently – and tossed it at me.  “One sip now, and another at bedtime.  Twice a day until we’re back home.”

I raised an eyebrow at him and he snorted before clarifying, “Con crud preventive.”  I laughed at the blunt terminology, and took the sip as ordered. 

I hung my formal robes while he used the loo, squeezed past him in the small room to do the same, then spent moments staring at his kit on the counter by the sink, trying to get used to the idea of the forced intimacy which felt, somehow, much, much different from him using the guest loo at Grimmauld Place.  I finally took a breath, completed my business, washed my hands – being excessively careful not to splash his kit, and opened the door, only to come face-to-face with him.  He’d been straightening his robes, checking himself over in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

“I beg your pardon,” he said with a smirk, giving a last tug on his cravat.  He held his ground in some adolescent jockeying for position and power, and I finally snorted and pushed him aside, turning away from his uncharacteristic grin to get to my own robes.  I freshened up enough for a quick run to check on my wares and identify the space I was to set up in, in the morning, and then an informal dinner out, acutely aware of the man moving around on the other side of the room.  The conference would start first thing the following day.

We sat in the dark, smoky hotel lounge, hours later, our feet stretched out in front of us, Severus shockingly informal, given we were in public, sipping at some “eloquent brandy”, as he put it.  “I assume I still have to teach you to appreciate a fine brew, Mr. Potter,” he said, waving his glass in my direction.  I was still trying to wrap my mind around it – Severus Snape, at ease in Paris, the night before giving a formal address to his international colleagues.  I sipped at my brandy, mostly to keep myself from losing control of my thoughts, to rein in my impulses, which were running rampant, heading mostly south.

People stopped by to say hello to him.  Sometimes he introduced me, sometimes they begged an introduction, sometimes he and his conversation partner both ignored me.  A few people attempted to greet him in the French way, with a kiss in the air to either side of his face – and he sometimes allowed it, which set my teeth on edge.  A familiar-looking man came up to us, and Severus stood to greet him, a smile on his face.  The man shook Severus’ hand and grasped his arms as they talked.  Severus looked… fond of the man, and I realized his face was familiar because I had seen him paired with Severus in the paper.  I felt… out of place… intrusive… but he moved on, and Severus sat and returned to commenting on people he apparently knew, as they entered or left.  Others came up and drew him into conversations about this or that potions matter, in terminology I could barely follow, despite being somewhat familiar with Severus’ work, as well as the potions required in my own field.  It was new and a bit intimidating, and I caught his amused glances as I sat in perplexity and jealousy, feeling very, very junior to him, in his professionalism, and very out of place, given the easy camaraderie between him and his peers.

A number of the wizards and witches who approached Severus clearly recognized me.  It helped, I think, that The Prophet had splashed pictures of me and Severus together across the front page.  Otherwise, I’m sure I’d have been overlooked, as out of place as I was.  A dark-haired man in expensive robes, to whom I took an immediate dislike, greeted me in a slimy voice that made uncomfortable prickles run up the nape of my neck.

“Ah.  Mr. Harry Potter!” he said in an accent I could not place, gripping my hand too tightly and too long, pulling me toward him so sharply that I had to take a step closer to keep my balance.  His eyes bored into mine so strongly that I felt myself throwing up my shields in self-defense, though I do not think he was using Legilimancy. “I so hoped to make your acquaintance.  Giving a talk on… what was it?  Properties of glass, or some such?”

He continued to mangle my hand, despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that I had loosened my hold, and was clearly interested in repossessing it.  I was acutely aware that he had hold of my wand arm, and that my wand was poking me in my ribs, uncomfortably out of reach, tucked up my left side as it was.  Not that I would have pulled it, but it would have been nice to have the option.

“Exothermic Reactions in Vial Creation,” I replied stiffly.

“Ah, yes – whether to turn up the heat or down,” he said dismissively.

Severus stepped up beside me and took my left elbow in a grip so strong I would have protested, had I not been so grateful for his presence.  “Richard,” he said coldly.  “Do unhand Mr. Potter, here.  Wouldn’t want the press drawing incorrect conclusions, would you?  They might think you’ve decided to bludger for the other team.”

“Mr. Potter,” he continued mildly, when Richard finally let go and glanced around as if expecting to see the press appear with quick-quotes quills, “why don’t you tell Richard the full title of your talk?”

Hardening my gaze, now that I had Severus’ support, I recited, “Exothermic Reactivity of Grignard versus Collins Reagents in the Creation of Vials for Healing Potions”.  The man blinked.  I did not wait for his verbal reaction, but turned to Severus.  “Don’t we have a meeting tonight?”

“Indeed.  I was just about to call time,” he said, a glint of approval and something darker in his eyes.  And with that, still holding onto my elbow, heedless of the fact that there were, indeed, members of the press hovering and cameras flashing – though where they had come from, I did not know, Severus turned us both toward the door, nodding to people as we passed, and exiting the lounge.  It was only when he raised a hand to his robe that I realized he had his wand out.

We took a floo connection, rather than the lift, back to our rooms, Severus insisting we enter the floo together.  He did not let go until we stepped from the fireplace to the hearth of our room, and even then, I had the impression he was unwilling to let go.  Some thought or emotion sped over his face as he looked down at me, standing so close to his chest that I almost got a crick in my neck looking up at him, frozen and wavering back and forth, as if deciding whether to lean in.  I so wished to lean in…  He inhaled sharply and hesitated a moment before letting me go and stepping back, breaking eye contact.  I finally remembered to breathe.

“Who was that?” I asked, for lack of anything else to break the tension.

“Richard Daltry.  American.  Arse.  Stay away from him.” 

Snape’s face was darkened, and it was not a request, but for some reason, neither of those raised my hackles as much as warmed me.  I nodded.  “Slimy git,” I said in as casual a tone as I could manage.  I was shaking – but whether it was from the ugly feel of the man in question or from the intense effort it was taking me not to lean forward, wrap my arms around Snape, and burrow under his jacket for safety, I didn’t know.

“He is that,” Snape said, finally moving away.  He stepped to a night table between the two beds, doing nothing but breathing, fists clenched at his sides, shocking me.  He's upset.  What about?  He consulted a parchment, and sharply called out, “Abby.” 

There was a crack, and an odd-looking House Elf appeared.  It took me a moment to realize it was her – I assumed it was a her – attire that looked so odd.  Apparently, French House Elves wore something other than towels.  This one wore a light blue shift with the insignia of the hotel on its left shoulder.

“Monsieur wished for something?” it said in French-accented English.  

“Tea, please – for two.”

“As Monsieur wishes.” 

With another crack, she was gone, and Snape straightened and turned to look at me, his face carefully controlled. “You’ll want to review your layout for your table tomorrow.  Venders typically show up a half hour or more before viewing begins, to set up their wares.”  He strode to the dresser neither of us had bothered to use to check the conference programme.  “Merchants have access from eight.  Conference presentations begin at nine, as does the merchant room.” 

He buried his head in the programme, and did not look up.  I wondered if I had done something wrong, but did not know how to ask, so settled for sitting at a small, round table, across from him, pulling my conference materials to me.  Abby – I assumed it was Abby – reappeared with tea and biscuits, and the ritual of tea eased the uncertain tension in the room, as the two of us discussed the various presentations available and Severus talked me through how to participate without becoming overwhelmed.

His own presentation was scheduled for late afternoon, leaving just enough time to change into even more formal robes before the awards banquet, which we would be attending, even though Severus was not up for an award that year.  Vending closed a half hour before his presentation, so I would be able to attend, though he warned me that he would need to be in the assigned room well before I would be able to get there, given that I would need to pack my remaining wares and see them stowed in our room before I could go.  I hoped I would be able to get there on time.

Eventually, I started to yawn, and he looked up.  “Get some sleep.  Tomorrow will be an exceptionally long day.”  One side of his lips lifted in distaste and I laughed, stretched until my back cracked, at which he rolled his eyes, and got up.  “I’ll just shower now, rather than in the morning, if it’s all right with you.”  He waved a hand, head already buried back in the programme. 

I showered, put on some sleep pants and a t-shirt, and exited the bathroom.  Severus was still reading, so engrossed that he did not even appear to notice me moving around the room and finally, tentatively, settling onto the bed that was, unfortunately, nearest the window – and the table at which he sat.  I slipped under the blankets and laid on my back, trying to quell my awareness of the man just feet from me in the small room.  Eventually, I turned on my side, toward him, shutting my eyes to slits, studying him through my lashes… this dark, beautiful man that I had hated in my ignorance, and then fallen for in my understanding.  The small circle of light from the fixture over the table focused on his reading material, which I recognized as the parchment on which he had written the text of his talk.  His eyes moved as he reviewed what he planned to say the next day, his fingers absently stroking the edges of the parchment as he thought.  I drifted to sleep, my love for this man warming the room, his presence making me feel safer than I had since… since I was born, I think.

I woke to him nudging the edge of the mattress, jostling me awake with his knee.  He was dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt, already tucked in, and was tying a cravat.  His hair was damp.  For just a moment, I cursed the fact that I had missed… what?  The sound of him in the shower?  I shook the image out of my head and sat up, groaning slightly.  He smirked at me and nodded his head toward the table between the beds, on which sat the ‘con crud preventive’ and a vial of what could only have been pepper-up potion, to judge by the color and the vial it was stored in.  I nodded my thanks, not prepared for conversation just yet, and downed the potions, eyeing the other unmade bed.

Severus slept there last night.  I estimated the distance from his pillow to mine – a meter and a half, if that, the room was so small and the beds so close. I could almost have reached out to touch him.  I shivered, and, although he had turned away, I could tell he had picked up on it.  He turned to eye the vials, and then me. 

“Let me know if that shivering gets worse.  I have a stronger remedy on me, if need be.”

“’M fine,” I mumbled, untangling my legs from the blankets.

He nodded, accepting that, and picked up his waistcoat.  “Breakfast before anything else.  It will be downstairs – included with the conference fee.  I will be ready in ten minutes.  Will you be?”

I nodded and he quirked an eyebrow, clearly dubious.  I got up, grateful that, for once, I did not have morning wood, and stumbled to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.  That done, I made short work of getting ready.  He clucked at the open collar of my shirt, drew a tie from his bag, threw it at me, and glared until I shrugged and put it on, tying it inexpertly under his watchful glare.  He finally snorted in amusement, waved his wand, and tucked it up his sleeve, as I choked at the sudden tightness over my throat and surreptitiously loosened the tie enough to feel a bit more comfortable.  We threw our robes over our shoulders in unison, and he reached to straighten a wrinkle in one shoulder of mine.  I tried not to gasp and nodded my thanks, then looked him over – allegedly to assure that he was similarly straightened, as if there could be any question of that, but actually just to appreciate how… together he looked… like one of those bloody pictures The Daily Prophet was always running.  I nodded, he smirked, and I followed him out of the room.

Breakfast was like the night before, only brighter.  People interrupted Severus to say hello or exchange a word with him, and I sat there, barely noticed.  The six or so others at the round conference table introduced themselves to us, blinked at my name, and looked awed at Severus’.  I was continually amused to be shunted to the status of “irrelevant”, compared to Severus’ apparent fame. 

“Come, Potter,” Severus said as I finished a final swallow of coffee and a last mouthful of the bangers and mash I’d taken from the spread at one side of the room.  I hastily placed my serviette on the table, pushed back my chair, and followed him out of the room, appreciating the view far too much for my health.  He led me to the area where my wares were kept under strong cushioning, temperature control, magic-dampening, and anti-theft spells.  I showed my wand to prove my identity, and we each grabbed one of the leather cases, proved our identities again at the entrance to the vending area, and headed to the spot I had been assigned. 

It was fairly quick work to arrange things, especially with Severus helping, the most complicated aspect being the setting of the protective wards.  Again, we combined our magic with ease to get that done, our wands and hands moving in synchrony or counterpoint, as each spell demanded.  It was an easy, effortless choreograph, like dancing, like making music together, I imagined.  The witches and wizards at the tables near mine looked at my display out of the corners of their eyes, raising eyebrows at the complex workings Severus and I were performing to assure that nothing would crack, be contaminated, or be stolen over the next seven hours. 

I finished the final steps of the spells, exhaled deeply in relief, and looked up to see Severus watching me with an odd look on his face.  “What is it?” I asked.  “Did I mess it up or something?”

He shook his head, eyes glinting at me, a half-smile on his face.  “I’m just memorizing this moment.  I wish I had thought to bring a camera.”

I grinned up at him, warmth flowing through me at his words.  “Thank you, Severus,” I said in a low voice.  I gestured at my work, and then more generally just… around.  “For… everything.  For all your help… for your encouragement and support.  I… I would never be here, if it weren’t for you.”  I would never be who I am, if it weren’t for you.

He smirked.  “Don’t thank me yet.  You haven’t dealt with the hordes of the great unwashed IMPS.”  He paused and reached a still-gloved hand to push a stirring rod parallel to the others, looking down.  His hand rested on the table before pulling slowly away.  He inhaled deeply, as if leaving cost him something, then pulled off his gloves in that damned strip-tease.  He raised his hand as if to hand them to me, and I shook my head.

“Keep those – if you don’t mind.  I’ve got others here for lookers.”

He snorted.  “Your ‘lookers’ will be buyers, Mr. Potter, if I know my colleagues.”  He pulled out his wand and cast a silent Tempus.  “I must be going to my first meeting.  The vending area is open all day – no down time until it closes this afternoon.  You will need sustenance.”  He paused to consider.  “I’ll see that something gets to you – one way or another.”

“Thank you.”  I rubbed my gloved hands against my trousers.  “I… I’m a little nervous,” I admitted.

“There is no need for that.  Your work is exquisite.  My only hesitation is in sharing you with the wider Potions community.  I would prefer to keep your work for myself,” he said with a wry smile.  I grinned at that.  He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me, still smiling.  “I thought you might need these.”

I looked down to the small, carved wooden box he had handed me, and opened it while he waited.  Inside were business cards, each carrying my name, with my Crystal Master insignia, the address of my shop, and a moving picture of me at work at one of my forges – how he had gotten that, I did not know.  His smile widened briefly, and then he turned and walked off, leaving me in a bizarre mixture of terror and warmth.

The day was every bit as overwhelming as I expected it to be, and I had little time to breathe, let alone eat.  Attendees strolled through the vending area looking at books, cauldrons, collections of herbs, finished potions, potions that were partially rendered and needed only a final ingredient, scales, measuring spoons and cups (which I tucked into the back of my mind to ponder later), dippers, ingredients of fouler origin, and other things I was too busy to notice.  A couple of the venders would have been at home in Knockturn Alley.  I had only a few minutes to examine the booths around mine before two witches stepped to my booth, exclaimed wordlessly, and began to quiz me on my wares.

Sandwiches appeared at my elbow at some point, and I grabbed a bite or two before packaging up a vial for a severe-looking, distinguished, brown-haired, wizard who had talked knowledgably and quietly as he handled rods and vials.  He had his own gloves in his pocket, and I wondered if he worked glass and crystal himself, based on his questions and the expert way he handled each piece he touched.

“You might say I am a… connoisseur of fine crystal,” he replied when I asked.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to…”

He raised a still-gloved hand to stop me.  “No need to apologize, Crystal Master,” he said, and genuine mirth eased the severity from his face.  It was the first time anyone there had given me my title, and I stood taller as he continued to look, while I carefully wrapped his chosen vial, aware that he noted the lavender with which I cushioned it, and the warded wooden box I tucked it into.  I showed him the warding and unwarding spell built into the box.  He shook his head, as if in disagreement, and I prepared for criticism.  When it came, it was unexpected.  “You charge too little,” he said, smiling again.  “I consider myself lucky to be amongst your earliest customers.”  He hefted his purchase.  “Next year,” he said ruefully, “I may not be able to afford you!”  He laughed at that, and shook my hand.  “A pleasure, Mr. Potter.  You are giving a talk tomorrow, are you not?”  I nodded and he nodded back, a friendly gleam in his clear blue eyes.  “I am looking forward to it.”

Severus appeared at my side the moment he left, holding two steaming cups of tea.  “I’ve already fixed it the way you like it.  There’s a warming charm built into the cups.  It’ll keep, if you don’t have time for all of it right now. How has your day gone?”

“What time is it?”

“Half two.”

“Already?”

“Mmm.”  His eyes had followed my latest customer as he made his way down the row of booths, but he turned back to me without comment, smiling to himself.  “Two more hours.  My presentation is at half four.  Salon B.”

I barely had time to nod before my next customer demanded my attention.

An hour and a half later, the coordinator of the vending area stood at the entrance, her wand at her throat, a Sonorus allowing her announcement that vending was now closed and that customers should complete their purchases and leave the area to be heard over the din of voices and other sounds.  She reminded us of the awards dinner that evening, and gave instructions for venders regarding storing or transporting their unsold wares.  My last customer waited patiently for me to wrap his stirring rod, remind him of its care, and hand him a card.

I slumped in the chair in my booth, the first I’d sat down the entire day, and looked over the remains of my wares – two stirring rods and five vials.  I was stunned and overwhelmed and more than a little worn thin at the edges, my nerves in tatters from the constant…  It felt like I’d been constantly interrogated.  Still, my exhaustion slowly shifted to humor, and I found myself grinning.

“Not much to pack,” a familiar voice said, and I turned to see Severus behind me, a smirk on his face.

I laughed and shook my head, somewhat bewildered. 

“You’ll want to guard your galleons.  There’s a branch of Gringotts in the hotel – deposit them before you do anything else.”

“I have to pack these…” I began.

“Let me,” he said, nudging my hip with his knee.  “Go on.  You need to secure your earnings so you’re not robbed by the unscrupulous or conned by someone wanting you to spend your galleons on some miracle growth potion.” He snorted when I flushed at that.  “Go on,” he repeated.

I glanced at my wares uncertainly, and he cocked his head at me as if questioning whether I trusted him.  That settled it, of course.  “Don’t you have a presentation in something like a half hour?”

“Twenty minutes, so if you’ll leave me to it, I shall have everything packed well before then,” he said pointedly.

I nodded, but wavered, and he put a hand on my back and pushed.  “Hurry, Potter.  I have a paper to present.”

I hurried, finding the Gringott’s branch at the directions of the hotel staff, once I got their attention.  After depositing a shocking number of galleons and sickles, I turned back to the vending area, but was stopped by a security goblin, who said, “All empty.” 

“Even the venders?”

“Gone.”

I shrugged, certain Severus would have done something appropriate with the few bits I had left after the day, thanked the goblin, and turned to find Salon B, where Severus would be presenting. 

It was a huge room, packed with a crowd sporting a colorful variety of clothing, representing wizards from every continent – or so the programme had claimed - some of whom looked particularly odd to me, until I realized they were wearing Muggle attire, looking out of place amid the robes and hats and cloaks the rest of us wore.  Nearly every seat was taken, and there was a dampening spell that disallowed enlarging or conjuring seating, though some of the standard seating seemed to have morphed anyway, into chintz covered, plush chairs of the sort Dumbledore had favored.  I edged my way along a wall, eyeing the green symbols floating in the air that signified open seats in the crowd. 

Severus was up on the speaker’s platform, talking with some wizard who was apparently in charge of getting presenters what they wanted, or making sure they knew the Sonorus and image-projecting spells that would allow the audience to see and hear them.  I considered my options, and ended up taking a seat at the left edge of the crowd, about a third of the way from the front.  I wanted to watch Severus, but I wanted to watch the crowd, too.

The man Severus had been talking to turned toward the podium, and I realized it was the distinguished wizard who had called me Crystal Master.  He pointed his wand at his throat, and his voice boomed out into the room, cultured and sure. 

“Good afternoon, everyone.  If you would please take your seats, we will begin our last presentation of the day.” He waited for the room to quiet a bit, clearing his throat when a couple wizards at the back of the room continued their somewhat loud discussion.  They turned and looked at the front of the room, and one of them gave a good-natured wave, calling, “Sorry, Geoff!  Quidditch bets, you know!”  The room laughed good-naturedly, and someone called out, “Sit down, Artie!  You’re holdin’ up the show!” and the crowd laughed again.

Once the two recalcitrant wizards took seats, the man smiled and said, “Good afternoon.” 

Someone called out, “You said that already!” and was shushed by his neighbors, as laughter broke out again.  I saw Severus shake his head, but he was smiling.  I wondered if the IMPS group was always this… comfortable.

“All right, all right!” Geoff said, holding his hands up for silence.  “As most of you know, I am Geoff Crittenden, head of the Crystal Masters’ Guild.”

“Not terribly creative!” someone shouted.

Geoff smiled and retorted, “That’s because Crystal Masters have more class than you IMPS cretans – present company excepted,” he said, bowing to Severus, who bowed back in mock seriousness.

My brain had stopped.  Geoff Crittenden.  Geoff Crittenden?  Holy mother of Merlin!  The head of the Crystal Master’s Guild had… I swallowed, and my stomach tightened into knots.  Holy mother of Merlin!  Crittenden was a bloody genius when it came to manipulating glass and crystal, creating many of the spells and charms that went into stabilizing the materials used to form vials for the most potent potions.  Oh my god – he said he is going to attend my talk!  I felt nauseous, and nearly missed his introduction of Severus.

“I would like to welcome to the podium our distinguished speaker, Mister Severus Snape.  As I am sure most of you are aware, Mister Snape began his career as the youngest Potions Master in three centuries, and has had a distinguished career, not only as a Potions Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Great Britain, a task he assures me was more terrifying than his role in the Second Wizarding War, but also as the inventor of the Extended Release formulation of the Wolfsbane Potion, the creator of the cure for spattergroit, and the person responsible for preventing disaster in fertility potions.”

There was some shifting and appreciative mumbling in the audience, and a smattering of applause, but Mister Crittenden held up his hands.  “Please reserve your applause until after Mister Snape presents his next brilliant idea.  After all, you might not like it!” 

The audience laughed, and some witch called out, “It will be perfectly all right, Snape – you’re still the most shaggable wizard in the room!”

I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.  Far from being a staid, boring crowd of academics, the group seemed more like a large group of friends…  It wasn’t much different from a meeting of the Order, really – a bunch of colleagues all getting together to discuss common problems.  I sat back and watched as Severus took the podium and waited for the group to settle down to a respectful, listening silence.

“Thank you.  It’s good to see you all again, though I must say, Harold,” and here he turned toward an elderly wizard in the front row, “you look better with your eyebrows singed off.”  The crowd hooted again, and the wizard in question laughed, stood and bowed to the crowd, and clapped his hands as he took his seat again. 

“I am here to talk to you about ethical issues in the use of will-altering potions.  Will-altering potions include, as you know, Amortentia, Liquid Imperius, and…”

I listened to Severus with half an ear.  I had read his paper.  It was brilliant, compassionate, stern, ethical, pragmatic, balanced, and ended with a call for greater attention to ethics, relationship, legality, and responsibility to clients and to society as a whole, a responsibility to one’s own balance in potion-making in general.  It was a deeply spiritual, thoughtful paper, and I was stunned at its depth, so that my appreciation for the deep integrity of the wizard I admired underwent yet another sea change, deepening my hopeless love for the man.

Severus was a masterful speaker.  His voice rolled over us like velvet, like thunder, like the quiet thrumming of a dragon’s rumbling breath, like Liquid Imperius itself, compelling us to agree.  The audience was enthralled.  He was poetic, convincing, commanding, and heads nodded throughout the room.  I was captivated, watching him, his colleagues in the palm of his hand, even those who had never met him before.  He was elegant, cultured, refined, and utterly, utterly brilliant, and I looked around the room, and then back up at him, feeling once again how completely out of his league I was – in the room, in this collection of knowledgeable scholars and researchers and practitioners, and most especially, in the company of Severus Snape.  A wave of hopelessness washed over me, and I struggled to accept the simple truth that I would never – never ­– merit this man’s…

Gods.

He was beautiful.  In every way.  And I… I was ordinary, a once-upon-a-time boy hero who had served his purpose and was done, just making his way in the world like any other working wizard, no better than anyone else, and certainly not a fit companion for a man like this.  I never would be.  I sat in the audience desperately trying to come to grips with the fact that… I would never have more of him… that I was bloody blessed to have what I did have with him… that it was likely pity or some sense of obligation that had him agreeing to meet with me, mentoring my presence here… that were it not for the time I begged of him, he would likely be with someone like… Geoff.

Oh my god. 

Geoff.

I froze.  The blood in my veins froze.  My breathing froze.  My heart stopped beating.

This was Geoff.  That Geoff, I was sure.  The one he’d left me for.  I practically groaned, wrenching my mind into obedience, reminding myself that he had never been with me… that he had owed me nothing, the day I gave him the stirring rod I had crafted for his hands.  He was perfectly free to be with Geoff Crittenden…

And why shouldn’t he be?  Crittenden was charming, genuine, likeable, attractive, I suppose… and… unlike me, he was brilliant, Severus’ peer intellectually and professionally, someone worthy to be on the arm of Europe’s, possibly the world’s, foremost Potions Master.  Gods, I was a fool!

More rapidly than I could have consciously managed, I gave it up, accepted it, realized that my longing for the man was ridiculous and unattainable and ignorant… that I should give him room to have the life he deserved, should set him free of the demands I made on his time, should – Dear Merlin! – stop flirting with the man, as if he must not have been chuckling to himself at my childish efforts to throw myself at him.  It was all I could do not to bury my face in my hands in shame, not to leave… the room… the hotel… Paris.  But… I could not do that to him.  He had sponsored me, and I would not embarrass him by not meeting my obligations.  I sat, stunned by my realization, staring between Severus and Geoff Crittenden, who was nodding and laughing and applauding as Severus made point after telling point, while I sat, shunted to the side by my own inadequacies, and my entire being slowly crumbled into loss and emptiness.

I listened to him finish, flushed with pleasure for him at the applause and calls of congratulations and agreement, despite my despair and the fact that my chest ached horribly.  I stood to allow people out of the row I was in, so they could go join the mob that surrounded him as he stepped from the stage, and stood off to the side, supporting myself against the wall as I watched him.

“Mr. Potter?”

I turned, almost blindly, toward a group of three men not much older than me, if at all, two of them shifting from foot to foot, looking between me and the one they had apparently elected their spokesman.

“I bought a stirring rod from you this morning.”

“Oh – yes!  The one for antivenom, right?”

The wizard nodded, pleased.  “We – the three of us… we were wondering if you would sit at our table at the awards dinner… and maybe we could have drinks afterwards, if you’re willing.  Our treat.”

I blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

The spokesperson blushed.  “I’m sorry.  We… we know you probably have better things to do, but… it was just… I mean…”

“No,” I said, glancing quickly at the crowd around Severus.  “No.  It’s all right.”  I came to a sudden decision, and turned to the other two, sticking out my hand.  “I’m Harry.  Harry Potter.  And you are?”

The three introduced themselves, though I barely kept the first names straight, as they were all somewhat similar in appearance.  Thomas Something-or-another was the spokesman for the group.  The other two – who I mixed up immediately – were Guillaume, who told me to call him Bill,  and Charlie, which should have made it easy, but only confused me more, Ron’s brothers coming most immediately to mind. 

We chatted about something I barely kept track of, one eye on the group surrounding Severus, who was laughing at something, his head thrown back in genuine amusement, his  long, thin throat exposed, white scars glimmering above his high-necked shirt.  I ached to go to him, but held myself where I was, and forced my attention back to the trio of wizards in front of me.

Eventually, the group around Severus broke up, at a wave of his hand.  I excused myself from Tom, Bill, and Charlie, promising to meet up with them at the banquet.  Severus headed unerringly for me, not even having to look to find me.  A flush of discomfort came over me.  I was a burden for him to keep track of.

But he did not look like that when we met in the middle aisle of the room, slowly being transfigured into the banquet hall for that night.  He was smiling, at ease, moving with a lanky smoothness that communicated his comfort and relaxation, now his talk was over.  He draped an arm across my shoulders and squeezed, then dropped his arm, still smiling.  My chest hurt.

“Brilliant talk, Profess – er… Severus,” I said. 

He laughed.  “Thank you, Mister Potter,” he drawled, hearkening back to potions lessons years past, then changed gears.  “Deposit your galleons all right?” he asked, turning us to head out of the room to allow the maintenance wizards to get on with their setting up.

“Yeah – yes.  Thank you for helping me pack up.”

He waved a hand dismissively.  “It was nothing.  You sold almost everything.  There was little to pack.  Quite a successful foray, I would say.”

I couldn't help but grin up at him at that.  “It was, wasn’t it?”

He turned his smile on me, amusement and enjoyment evident in his eyes.  “Quality and excellence is always valued, Potter.  Never sell yourself short.”

I dug my elbow into his ribs.  He was forever teasing me about my height.  His eyes sparkled, and my chest still hurt, and we threaded our way through the throng to the lift, making our way to our room to prepare for the banquet.