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Rebirth of the Fire	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3598 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Rebirth of the Fire
- 1
Title: Rebirth of the Fire
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Content Notes: Present tense, AU (in that Severus lives), mild angst
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1900
Summary: Severus takes Harry through the preparation of a Yule log, barely speaking as he does. Harry finds comfort and peace in being at Severus’s side, in his nineteenth solstice.
Author’s Notes: Another of my Advent fics, for alisanne, who requested Snape shares his Yule traditions with Harry. That is pretty much the plot of the fic.

Rebirth of the Fire

Harry Apparates into the middle of snow.

He spends a moment squinting around the clearing that Snape directed him to, and finally nods. Yes, there’s a screen of trees he recognizes, over there behind the brisk wind and the splattering flakes of cold. He strides towards it, dragonhide boots making undignified squeaking noises.

Well, not for much longer. The dragonhide boots are part of the Auror trainee costume, and Harry has already decided to give his notice after the holidays. He doesn’t want to face the turmoil and fuss it would cause now, but…

There is nothing he’d rather do less, it turns out, than sit in more classrooms and listen to more lectures about Dark wizards.

Snape’s cabin forms quickly out of snow and approaching dusk. It’s a place as sturdy as the wind or its master, and Harry knocks hard on the oaken door for a long moment before Snape opens it. Harry’s eyes are level with the horrible scars on his throat, now.

Snape doesn’t blink. He turns and leads Harry into the center of the cabin, a room that wasn’t there a week ago. Harry supposes he must have created it using wizardspace.

There’s a faint chill to the air that suggests the middle of the woods even though it isn’t, and a hint of greenery Harry knows is illusion, but he still has to fight to avoid turning around after the glimpse of holly that’s almost there. Snape stops in the middle of the room and closes his eyes, bowing his head.

Harry waits in silence. Their negotiations, it turns out, are best conducted that way, and so are their shared times.

Severus finally opens his eyes and turns around to kneel in front of the fireplace. Seeing his face, Harry relaxes and can stop thinking of him by the same name as the professor at Hogwarts. What seemed a random pile of stones is revealed as a hearth, and Severus’s fingers glide and dance over it, and over the gigantic log that waits beside it. Harry turns and picks up the axe that Severus told him about yesterday.

It’s a ceremonial axe, with silver edging the blade and a series of runes carved on the handle which Harry can’t read but which sure look impressive. However, the edge is sharp enough for the work Harry has to do, which is splitting and carving the huge log into a piece manageable enough to fit into the fireplace.

Still huge, though.

Harry’s muscles flex as he lifts and chops and cuts, and Severus kneels there watching him. His gaze turns heated not long after Harry’s muscles do. Harry can feel it, and revels in it, but he never turns away from the log, the precise motions necessary to swing the axe, and his growing sense of contentment.

Something like this. Something like this is the work he wants to do, not the endless work of chasing Dark wizards. Work that will support him, or him and someone else, and create warmth.

Harry turns around with the piece of log in his arms, and Severus rises to his feet and reaches behind him for something. Harry watches as he opens a silver flask with gleaming etchings on the sides. The etchings show galloping stags jumping over logs much like the one Harry holds. Harry approves.

He doesn’t think Severus did the stags just for him, but he might have.

From the flask, Severus shakes out salt that he uses to anoint the log. Harry knows that it will make the log burn with purple and blue and silver sparks, and he holds the wood more firmly, so that none of it will fall to the floor.

Then Severus turns and gestures, and Harry heaves the log into the hearth.

A second later, Severus kneels and stretches out his hand. Harry comes up, kneeling beside him and clasping his fingers.

There is a long, concentrated moment of stillness. Harry closes his eyes to appreciate it better. He knows what Severus wants to do: use their magic and will to summon the fire.

Harry is not sure he can do it, since he’s never done it before. But he’s willing to try, and Severus seems to prize that more than success.

Such a change from Hogwarts.

The thoughts dart through his mind and disappear. Then he’s concentrating on the log, thinking about the way his muscles warmed up when he cut it, thinking about the salts that Severus has scattered on it, the things that might happen if they can just make those colors leap to life—

And there it is. There it is. Harry opens his eyes and there’s heat on his face, so soft that it’s more like kneeling next to a window with sunlight coming through it than a fire. But, after all, this ritual is to celebrate the eventual return of the sun.

Severus’s hand trails for a moment along the back of his, palm to knuckles. Harry bows his head and crouches there for a count of seven before he stands. He knows that Severus told him something about cooking over the fire, and he did bring some food they can do that with.

But Severus’s hand folds over his elbow and holds him motionless. Harry stares down at him, trying not to frown, wondering if he’s done something wrong.

Severus only shakes his head and leans up to his ear. Harry finds himself holding his breath. Severus is going to speak, and that is amazing.

“Take off your robes and lie down before the fire.”

Harry finds that his breath has stopped. He holds Severus’s eyes, and Severus doesn’t move. He only remains still, his hand still clasping Harry’s elbow, his body so motionless that Harry thinks of snow on the ground outside.

And then Harry nods and has to breathe again and reaches for the buttons of his robes, and Severus sits back to watch him undo them. His own robes are only fastened by a single button, or a single spell, that he removes with an idle twitch of his fingers. Harry finds himself watching that long, birch-pale body by the light of the flames.

Severus has fewer scars than Harry thought he would. Or maybe nothing compares to that enormous set of scars from Nagini’s bite on his neck.

Harry doesn’t have anything as interesting to bare. He hasn’t lived as long as Severus. His life doesn’t tell a story on his skin, or at least it’s a story Harry knows too well and not one that he wants to read again. But from the fascinated way Severus stares at the scar the locket left on his chest, he realizes that perhaps the story could still be interesting for someone who doesn’t live in his body.

And he tries not to feel too proud, or abashed, or embarrassed, or anything else that might hurt his relationship with Severus. What he does instead is kneel down and reach out, taking Severus’s wrists in both hands, and bringing Severus’s hands to his chest.

Severus lets out a soft but explosive grunt, which reminds Harry of a bunch of flour bags getting hit. Then he leans forwards and lets his lips rest against the ridge of Harry’s collarbone in what is not a kiss. They don’t move.

Harry tips his head back anyway, because of the feelings that surge through him when Severus does that, and moves his hands to the back of Severus’s neck, bringing him in. Severus doesn’t take his own hands away. He shifts closer, and nudges Harry a little, and whispers something. Wandless magic whisks a bearskin from the wall to the floor beneath them.

Harry lies down and parts his legs. Severus makes that grunt again, staring between them as he reaches for his wand. Harry cocks an eyebrow. He would have thought Severus would just use wandless magic—he’s a lot more proficient at that than Harry thought—again.

Severus half-shakes his head, and a hank of hair falls across his face. “This is too important,” he breathes.

Harry drops his head back on the bearskin and bathes silently in the strength of that conviction.

Severus uses the wand to cast a spell that loosens and slicks him. Harry stretches luxuriously in the moments it takes effect. He’s cast it on himself a few times, but he couldn’t have a good time when Severus wasn’t there.

He reaches out a hand and clasps the back of Severus’s neck again, drawing him close. He closes his eyes and silently turns his cheek against Severus’s. Then he lets him go.

It’s permission for whatever Severus chooses to take it as permission for.

Severus does just that, and gives a soft, low noise as he stretches Harry with his fingers, too, and then lubes his cock up and slides inside. Harry breathes out, and in, and Severus’s hands stroke his sides.

Harry finds himself focusing on them. Flat palms, and calluses, and a scar on the right ring finger, and the soft scrape of nails. How has he never noticed before what marvelous things hands are?

Well, at least the hands touching me right now are, he thinks, and he reaches up and curls his hand behind Severus’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss again.

Severus turns his head to the side, resting their cheeks together once more, moving up and down on top of Harry. Harry feels as though the warmth from the fire has leaked into his bones. Bearskin beneath him, and his lover inside him, and the fire next to him…why would he need a Warming Charm ever again?

When he comes, it’s a quiet, gentle, rippling pleasure, nothing like the fiery maelstrom he expected. Then again, he thinks with a smile as he turns his head so that he can kiss Severus’s stubble, he hasn’t been able to imagine what sex with Severus would really be like.

Severus finishes within him with the same noiseless exhale that he used the first time Harry came to his door asking to visit. Then he lowers himself on top of Harry instead of rolling off, and adds another layer of warmth to the ones that Harry was already thinking about. Harry runs his hand through his hair.

“Is this going to be a Yule tradition, too?” Since it’s words, Harry instinctively whispers, not wanting Severus to take the breaking of the silence too badly. “Making love on a bearskin in front of the fire?”

“If both of us want it.”

Harry slips his hands along Severus’s shoulders and flanks and ribs, the body he hasn’t had time to learn yet, but the body he wants to learn. “I want it.”

When Severus smiles, Harry hears his lips move.

The End.
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Rebirth of the Fire