Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Unexpected Side Effect of Draught No. 9	By : lovetoseverus Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 25605 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 27
- 28
- 29
Chapter 28: The Heart’s Folly
Harry wasn’t sure when he figured out that his feelings for Severus were changing.
He wasn’t even sure what his feelings were changing to, only that there was a growing sense of comfort there, an awareness that he was happier and more content when Severus was around; that more and more now, something just felt out of place when he wasn’t in the man’s presence.
So many things had happened over the last week and a half – really, over the last few months – that Harry could barely remember where one thing began and another ended, or even where he was in the middle of it all. He kept thinking about his life, watching as it played out before his mind’s eye: a continuous parade of memories and conversations and draughts, each one blurring into the next until eventually they all just became a circle.
But mostly he thought about Severus.
Harry sighed and stared unfocused at the ceiling. It was late afternoon on a Wednesday and, like so many days before it, he’d done little to pass the time except grab a bite to eat from the kitchen and then pace around the drawing room, looking out the window, before giving up and returning to his bed. He was growing more and more restless with his life, but in the absence of a new path – hell, anything to do – he often found himself alone, with only his thoughts for company. Sometimes it was frustrating being the only one of his friends who didn’t have something to be getting on with: school, or teaching, or work of some kind. But he also knew that was mostly by his own design. Ever since he’d started with Evochi, he’d put lots of decisions on hold. He also guessed there’d be some emotional sorting out to do once he was finished, but he just hadn’t anticipated it would be so… confusing.
He reached over and grabbed a reddish-brown ball off his nightstand. It was about the size of an orange, and he rolled it against his fingers for a moment before lobbing it at the wall opposite his bed. It hit with a thump and then bounced back towards him. The ball was a rubberized miniature of a Bludger he’d accidentally nicked from George’s office. He’d played with it while George had animated his tattoo, and then found it was still in his pocket when he’d returned home that evening. At the time, he’d just shrugged, making a mental note to bring it back to George later. That was five months ago.
Harry leaned back against his pillows in order to vary the location of his aim. He liked the rhythmic sound it made as it bounced off the wall, and the feel of its smooth, almost sticky texture as it landed back in his palm. It helped him to think. And anyways, he figured if George had needed it back, he would have asked for it by now.
Thump.
Harry’s eighth session had only been three days ago, and already he couldn’t get it out of his mind. At the time it had filled him with such a sense of purpose – of hope – that his spirits had been buoyed for the first time in… too long. He’d thought he was happy, or at least getting happier, but returning to the empty and colder-than-he’d-left-it Grimmauld had made quick work of that optimism, reminding him all too painfully that his doppelgänger’s life was not his. That in fact ‘Potter’ had simply been a shade of his psyche, not some separate person with a separate life somewhere. And that there was no such person as Devon, either. Well, presumably, anyway – something still nettled in the back of Harry’s mind about that.
Thump.
At least he felt like he’d finally arrived at a place where he was content with his sexuality. Then again, he supposed his dreamscape, the interlude with Charlie, and seeing a version of himself with Devon had helped paved the way for that, at least mentally. Yet he also knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t a new thing. It had always been there, but just didn’t have a reason to surface until after he’d got together with Ginny.
Thump.
In many ways, she had been a logical choice for him. Dating her was an exercise in stability and familiarity, things that had kept him grounded and sane in the months leading up to the war. She had made Harry feel things he’d never felt before. And he had been attracted to her – it had just waned quickly, morphing into something more akin to the affection one carries for a family member; a sister. Or maybe it had just taken some catching up on his part to realize that comfort and attraction were two different things.
Thump.
To top it off, mornings kept finding Harry waking up on the tail end of some erotic dream. It had started out as a rather pleasant routine, but when the remembered touch of phantom hands began haunting his waking hours, too, the dreams quickly became a mockery of his life, serving only to underscore his loneliness. It was times like that he could barely suppress the urge to sneer at himself. Imagine: Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding world, alone. Who would’ve even thought it possible?
THUMP.
The force of Harry’s throw caused the ball to bounce off two walls, slam the door of his armoire closed, dribble halfway across the floor, and finally roll to a stop next to the nightstand. Harry lay there a second before leaning over to pick it up again.
Being alone certainly wasn’t because of a lack of options, he reminded himself. He knew there were many who’d happily take up the cause to be his companion, especially for a night, but he also knew those people only wanted his celebrity. He couldn’t just go and pick up some random bloke in a pub like his friends could. As soon as one of them spotted his scar, he’d no longer be Harry, he’d become Harry Potter, this fantasy person who could never live up to their expectations.
Thump.
No, he needed someone who could see past all that, who knew his celebrity was simply the result of something that had happened to him outside of his choice or control – and as a baby, no less. He needed someone who knew him for him.
You need Severus, his mind offered.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, tightly squeezing the ball in his hand. The truth was, that very sentiment had been repeating itself like a mantra in his head for days now. It was the reason he’d been spending so much time lost in his thoughts; the reason he couldn’t sit still or even sleep well. Every time he let his mind wander freely, it somehow came back to Severus – things they’d talked about, meals they’d shared, draughts they’d done… and the revelation Harry’d made during the staff party about Severus’ jealousy over him. But what did it all mean?
Harry chucked the ball out the door to his bedroom, listening as it ricocheted its way down the stairwell and into the lower floor. It satisfied him somehow to know that the clatter would inject some life into the house, however temporary. Then, suddenly struck with an idea, Harry patted his hands around in the sheets piled on his bed until he located a thin, charcoal notebook underneath his duvet. He pulled it out and began flipping through the pages, hoping some of his more recent passages would shed some light on the situation.
The fact that Harry kept a journal was something not even Ron or Hermione knew about. He didn’t write in it every day, and when he did, his notes were often little more than abstract ideas or senses about things. He had begun the practice during the long months that preceded the war, when they were Horcrux hunting and jumping from one survival instinct to the next. Unloading his thoughts periodically had helped him to keep his head clear.
It was only now, as he read over his scribbled notes, that he noticed a pattern forming. There were entries about Severus, but that wasn’t what surprised him. After all, he’d spent quite a bit of time with the man over the last six months – it stood to reason Severus would make an appearance in there somewhere. No, what surprised Harry was how many entries about Severus there were, and that the amount of them had increased sharply in the last month – a time frame that seemed to fit with the kiss after Harry’s sixth draught.
Not for the first time, Harry was glad that winning the war against Voldemort hadn’t involved a romantic test of any kind, or he’d have failed miserably, leaving the state of Wizarding Britain in limbo simply because he was incapable of picking up on or interpreting relationship cues. Harry snorted at himself.
But there was more to it, too. He knew that. The kiss may have opened his eyes on some level – awoken something in him that he wanted to explore further – but it was all the hours he’d spent with Severus, really getting to know the man, that had changed the nature of his journal entries. Harry could barely remember the professor he’d had while he was at Hogwarts. He wasn’t even sure that person existed anymore. Now it was just Severus – his friend, his mentor, his… his… what, exactly?
That was the real question, wasn’t it?
Harry looked back down at the journal in his hands. He’d never before connected what he was writing with how he felt – he’d done it simply to unburden his mind at random intervals. But now he could see it had been there all along, laid out before him in the abstract passages of his journal. Somewhere along the way, senses had become feelings, feelings had become thoughts, thoughts had become realizations.
Somewhere along the way, Severus had become very important to him.
Circumstances had brought them together in a way Harry couldn’t have anticipated. He guessed the same was true for Severus. If someone would have told him a year ago that he’d be friends with Severus now, that he’d actively seek out the man and miss his company when they were apart, he’d have thought them mad.
But was Harry prepared to try and make a move, to see if there was something more between them? The mere thought of that sent a tendril of nervous energy through Harry’s stomach. Then again, Severus had seemed to make his feelings known in his own way, although shepherding Harry through a rehab process and protecting him – well, he’d always done the latter, hadn’t he? Was it possible Severus had had these feelings for awhile? If so, for how long? Was it just as likely Harry was misinterpreting them?
No, he didn’t think Severus’ behavior was entirely platonic. Ron and Hermione, and a host of other Hogwarts teachers, had looked out for him for years, too, and none had ever tried to kiss him after an intense, shared experience. Or hid possible messages in song lyrics. Or acted jealous when potential suitors were afoot, no matter how unlikely a match it would have been.
Harry sighed and closed the cover of his journal. For so long, he had just been reacting to his life, unsure of where to start or even what he wanted, most days not even trusting or believing it was actually his to live. And it wasn’t that he knew those answers now any better than he did then, but one thing seemed certain: he was never going to find out if he didn’t at least get out of bed.
But first, there was one thing he had to do.

SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
It was the dinner hour at Hogwarts, and Harry had chosen that time to visit because he knew everyone would be congregated in the Great Hall. Sure enough, as he entered the library, only a few straggling students remained. Some clearly had no intention of moving any time soon, books piled six or seven high next to them, studious and exhausted expressions on their faces. One student rushed past him out the door, presumably on her way down to eat. End-of-term exams were near, and then students would be off for two weeks for their holiday break.
Heading to the counter, Harry watched as the stern, elderly face of the librarian swam into view. How was it that she always seemed to know when someone was there? It was eerie. To top it off, Harry wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, and didn’t really want to ask for specifics, so he settled on inquiring after historical records of witches and wizards who had lived previously.
Madam Pince gave him the once over, looking down the length of her nose through the glasses perched there, before abruptly turning and walking over to a row of shelves behind the counter. Harry watched as she selected an old, crusty-looking book that was barely two inches thick. When she returned, she set it on the counter and pushed it slightly in Harry’s direction. Her peevish expression hadn’t changed, though. Maybe it never did.
Harry glanced at the cover. “Um, thanks, but I’m not sure this is the book I’m looking for. I need something that has historical records that go back several years. Well, more than several, actually—”
“And that is what I have given you,” she snapped. “Now, is there anything else you require?”
Harry looked down at the book again and then back to her face. Her expression was making him rethink another attempt. “No, I guess this will be it. Thanks.”
She nodded rather brusquely and ushered off. Harry briefly considered going to locate Hermione, as she knew how to navigate the library (and had always seemed to have a better rapport with the tetchy librarian) but knew this was something he ought to do on his own – she wouldn’t approve, he was sure of it.
Selecting an out-of-the-way table, Harry sat down and deposited the book before him, its thud quite a bit heavier sounding than he would have expected. Intrigued, he pulled it closer and inspected its cover: British Wizarding Society Public Records, d. 1207-1998, 177th Edition, Compiled by Gemma Eales, Ministry of Magic Registration Secretary.
Almost 800 years in one book? Harry thought. That’s daft. But when he opened the cover, he realized the joke was on him. It was a Wizarding book, of course! He guessed the thickness was simply to accommodate the lengthy title on its spine, whereas its heft (a thought he confirmed in short order) was to keep it laying flat while open. He shook his head at himself. Even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to magic cropping up everywhere.
He flipped through a few of the pages, but stopped when an acute sense of déjà vu settled over him. This wasn’t the first time he’d sat before a book with blank pages, awaiting the unknown. For a moment, he wondered if he needed to write in it, like Riddle’s journal, but then figured Madam Pince would have his head if he tried it. Even though he was currently out of sight from the front desk, she’d still know… somehow.
Fortunately, that’s when he noticed the surface of the pages seemed to shimmer at him, though it was so slight that it barely caught the ambient light in the room. It reminded him of a Pensieve with memories in it. He wondered…
Taking stock of his surroundings, he turned his head to see who was around. He had chosen his table wisely, for the only other person he could see had their back to him. Bracing his hands on either side of the book, Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, hoping he was doing the right thing, and then tipped his head into the center where the pages met the binding. He expected to feel the cool press of paper against his forehead, but instead felt only vapor. It tickled his face as it engulfed him, and he could only assume he’d passed through it correctly when he landed on his feet in the middle of a dark room. Or he guessed it was a room. Everywhere around him was nearly black; there was no definition to the ceiling or walls or floor.
A sudden scraping sound made him jump and he whipped around and watched as an illuminated, wooden podium slid along the floor and creaked to a stop before him. A tattered piece of parchment was affixed to one corner; it had clearly been there awhile, as the edges were now going brown with age. He could just barely make out the inscription. It read: Please state your inquiry clearly.
Blinking, Harry looked around at the nothingness that surrounded him. What the hell, he thought with a shrug. “I would like to look up a wizard,” he said, his voice sounding too loud as it rang out into the silence. He felt a bit foolish talking to an inanimate object, but it seemed to have worked when the letters on the parchment began rearranging themselves. It now read: Please state a full name.
“Oh, um…” He decided to start in an easy place. “Harry James Potter?” he offered, unsure of what to expect.
If he’d thought the process had been a little unsettling so far, it had done nothing to prepare him for what happened next. To start, the scraping noise that’d heralded the arrival of the podium sounded again, and he watched it retreat backwards into the expanse of black before him. Then, a great lurching sound erupted around him – his only warning before enormous bookcases began whizzing past him at lightning speed. He was too shocked to move, and feared what might have happened had he taken a step to either side, anyway. He blinked his eyes against the on-rushing of air until the units began to slow, and then finally stop.
When he was satisfied the bookshelves weren’t going to move again, he turned his head to look at them. They appeared to be made from some kind of thick, knotty wood, and bore elegant carvings along their facing edges and supports. Every square inch, floor to ceiling (or as far up as he could see, anyway) was packed with books – thousands and thousands of tiny little books, uniform in height and with thin spines. They looked like journals…
Before him, a small metal piece swung out from the end of a shelf, creaking from disuse. Amid its rusty patina, the placard read: Po-Pz / 1980 / 20th Century. From the shelf in front of Harry, almost at eye level, a blue booklet suddenly ejected itself. Surprised, he juggled it between his hands until he caught it properly.
He looked down at the cover. It was dusty, but there, unmistakably in gold foil, it read:
Harry James Potter

b. 31-July-1980

d.

Wizard (Half-Blood)
For a moment, his eyes remained fixed to the ‘d.’ line, realizing it could have been filled in earlier this year if things had gone a little differently. He shuddered and quickly replaced his booklet back on the shelf; he didn’t want to think about that right now. The booklet had barely left his fingers when the podium appeared again, this time seeming to materialize out of thin air but still bearing its former instruction. Harry decided to try another easy one.
“Hermione Jean Granger,” he called out, wanting to make sure he got the hang of this before going further.
The shelves shifted again, rumbling and groaning as though they moved only with great effort. This time when they stopped, the placard read: Go-Gz / 1979 / 20th Century. As before, a booklet ejected itself, but Harry was ready this time and caught it easily. Hers (Hermione Jean Granger, b. 19-September-1979, d., Witch (Muggle-Born)) was yellow and slightly thicker than his own. Smiling slightly, he replaced it and tried a third name. The shelves shifted forward several rungs until Ron’s red booklet (Ronald Bilius Weasley, b. 1-March-1980, d., Wizard (Pure-Blood)) flew out at him.
Curious about what the different colored books meant, he called out Severus’ name to the podium next. His booklet (Severus Tobias Snape, b. 9-January-1960, d., Wizard (Half-Blood)) was blue, just as Harry’s had been. Sure enough, the colors seemed to represent the person’s blood heritage, though Harry wondered why the cataloging system even bothered with that given the sheer magnitude of books in the archive. Unless there was a need to run a certain query… Harry dismissed the thought with a small shake of his head. There were many things about the magical world he still didn’t understand, and suddenly got the feeling there were many more he was probably better off not knowing. He replaced Severus’ book on the shelf and turned his attention back to his task.
Feeling bolstered by his initial searches, Harry took a deep breath and readied himself for the next name he was going to call out; the reason he was there in the first place. He closed his eyes as he intoned to the stale air, “Devon Glyn.”
However, the bookshelves remained still. It caused Harry to open his eyes and see that the podium had appeared again. At first he wondered if he hadn’t spoken the name clearly enough, or if a middle name was always required, but then he noticed something new had appeared on the parchment. Leaning closer, he saw it was giving him two choices: 1804 or 1922. Not sure which to select, he decided to start with 1804.
This time the podium remained where it stood while the bookshelves began their usual, breakneck arrangement. When they were done, the placard that emerged read: Ga-Gn / 1804 / 19th Century. However, the red booklet that ejected itself had an unfamiliar name on the cover: Devon Glastonbury. Harry furrowed his brow, a sinking feeling beginning to stir his stomach, but he decided to ignore it for the time being. Instead, he replaced the booklet and turned back to the podium, calling out 1922 next. The shelves shuffled for a while this time, and when they finally stopped (Ma-Mn / 1922 / 20th Century), Harry once again grabbed the red booklet and read its cover: Devon MacGuinley.
It was then that the words of Harry’s doppelgänger echoed in his mind: No, he doesn’t exist in your reality. And it seemed Potter had been right: there did not appear to be anyone named Devon Glyn in this timeline. Furthermore, only two people in recorded Wizarding history even seemed to match the name Devon and the four letters of his surname. Harry’s heart sank further. Perhaps the reason Devon wasn’t in this time was because…
Making a hasty decision, Harry called out, “Please show me any wizards with the surname Glyn, from…” – he did a quick calculation in his head – “1950 on.” He wasn’t sure if this type of query would be allowed, but when the massive bookshelves jostled about into a new arrangement around him, he supposed it had been a fairly straightforward search.
The placard that slid into view was smudged with dust (no wonder, with all the shuffling about these shelves do) and he brushed at it with his fingers. It was labeled: Ga-Gn / 1959 / 20th Century. He righted the blue booklet that leapt into his hands and read:
Joseph Duncan Glyn

b. 4-April-1959

d. 14-January-1981

Wizard (Half-Blood)
Although Harry hadn’t been tempted to open the booklets for anyone else, not really wanting to know what it said outside of the information on the cover, very little would have prevented him from doing so with Mr. Glyn’s book. As it happened, the first page was fairly innocuous – it indicated he had married a witch named Fiona, who appeared to be a year younger. Her information was listed as well, with a cross-reference to her maiden name and pertinent dates.
It was the next discovery that caused Harry’s breath to catch in his throat. Joseph and Fiona were both in their early twenties when they died, and within two days of each other. It was also earlier in the same year Harry’s parents died – timing that fit with the first war against Voldemort. Harry wondered if they’d been part of the resistance… and lost. Since they were both relatively young, that probably meant they hadn’t yet started a family.
Thinking back to his eighth draught, Harry recalled that Devon had been a year behind Potter. If Devon’s parents had survived, he likely would have been born sometime in late 1981, or possibly early 1982. Had Fiona been pregnant at the time of her death? Harry certainly hoped not. He slid the book back into its spot on the shelf, refusing to think about another life that may have been robbed by Voldemort.
No, he doesn’t exist in your reality.
Harry sighed.
Yet what would he have done if Devon had existed? It wasn’t like he could just go look him up and say, “Hey, you and I were together in a figment of my imagination. There’s this potion, you see…” Harry snorted and shook his head. He wasn’t even sure he would want that relationship even if Devon had existed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of seeing Potter – of seeing himself – happy. And in love. He wanted that, perhaps now more than anything.
So what was he doing here, then, looking up non-existent people in dusty books? Why had the potion shown him a relationship he could never have?
Something warm squeezed Harry’s shoulder and he jumped. It felt like a hand, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing there. Above him, he saw only a muted, white fog. Something must have triggered an exit, though, for he suddenly felt his consciousness pass back through the archive’s confines and leave him squinting in the light of the library. A familiar face came into view.
“Hermione?” Harry’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I’m surprised you even know where the library is.”
“Ha bloody ha. No, really.”
A sly grin graced her face as she reached into her robes and pulled out a thick, folded parchment. The corners were bent and the whole thing looked a little worse for the wear, but Harry recognized it instantly: The Marauder’s Map.
“That’s where that’s been? You’ve had it all this time? I thought I lost that!”
She handed it to him. “I just found it in my bag. It’s probably an unfair advantage for Head Girl, don’t you think?” Her tone carried a note of mock concern and Harry laughed.
“Only if they know about it,” he said, and they grinned at each other.
“What were you looking up?” Hermione asked, nodding her head at the book Harry had just closed with a snap. He gave her a look and she smiled. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“No,” he said, then pulled the book against his chest and stood up.
“I thought you were sleeping at first, you had your head so close to the pages.”
“No, I was just… reading.” Harry knew he probably looked guilty as hell, but Hermione seemed to accept the answer, or at least had the grace not to press further. This was not the venue for that discussion.

SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
Thirty minutes later, at some clothing boutique in Muggle London that Harry barely remembered navigating to, Hermione emerged from a dressing room and stepped onto a small, carpeted dais in front of where he was sitting. He absently registered that it was the fourth or fifth time she’d done that, but the first in which she’d spoken to him.
“What do you think of this one?”
Harry started slightly; Hermione knew perfectly well he hadn’t been paying attention. Regardless, she just stood there, looking at him from her vantage point in the mirror, a look of mild inquiry on her face.
“Uh, nice, I guess, but I don’t know the criteria. What’s this for again?”
Hermione sighed. “The Ministry Ball this Christmas. I’m meeting with Chancellor Montgomery in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures next week, and since I’m a top candidate for the job, I’m invited to the party. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley will be there, too. So, it’s not too much?” She twirled this time, apparently to watch how the dress flared out along the bottom.
“I don’t know, I’m useless at this stuff. Why didn’t you bring Ginny? I thought that’s what girls do together, they pick out each other’s clothes and stuff.”
Hermione shrugged without taking her eyes off herself in the mirror. “You looked like you could use a change of scenery.” She turned to look over her shoulder to examine how the dress fit in the back. “Yes. I think I’ll get this one.”
With that, she disappeared back into the dressing room, and Harry slipped easily back into his thoughts. Little did he know, he would be next on the docket. After a pointed reference to his careworn, too-casual attire, Hermione directed him to the men’s department and conspired with the clerk to outfit him in something appropriate for the holidays. When he argued that the Weasleys weren’t a formal bunch, and wouldn’t care about his old denims, she cryptically remarked that a new outfit might come in handy in case of a special occasion. Before he could ask what she was talking about, she stepped away with the clerk to settle the bill. Eventually he gave up trying to figure Hermione out and accepted the new outfit, realizing it had looked quite nice on him and he was probably due.

SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
With their purchases shrunken and stowed in their pockets, Harry and Hermione decided to take a walk through one of central London’s public parks. The weather was pleasant enough for mid-December, and although there were lots of other people about, few spared more than a glance for the two friends. They were probably all Muggles, anyhow, so Harry and Hermione had the rare opportunity to enjoy some privacy.
After a particularly long stretch of silence, Harry took a deep breath. “I met myself in my eighth draught.”
Hermione brushed some snow off a park bench before she sat and looked up at Harry. “Oh? What happened?”
Sitting down next to her, he replied, “It was a version of me, sort of like an alternate reality. He was in this long-term relationship with a bloke named Devon. He told me Devon didn’t exist in real life, but like an idiot, I went to look him up anyway. That’s what I was doing when you found me in the library.” Harry sighed and looked away, watching the pigeons peck at the ground in a futile search for food. He was surprised when he heard Hermione’s giggle.
“Oh, Harry, that’s not stupid! I would have done the same thing!”
He looked over at her. “No, you wouldn’t. You aren’t nearly so pathetic.” This set them both to laughing. When the mood sobered again, he added, “I don’t know why I did it, really. It just felt like unfinished business somehow, like if I let it slip away without investigating it, it would mean I couldn’t move on with my life. I just had to know.” He shook his head. “God, that sounds so stupid.”
“Not at all. If I’d seen myself in a situation like that, I’d’ve wanted to know who the person was, too. I have experienced Evochi, if you recall, and I know how real it feels. There’s nothing wrong with being curious, at least.”
“Right. Curious, or obsessing over a figment of my imagination?”
“Well, what was it about him that made you want to look him up?”
“Why does it matter? He doesn’t exist.”
“That’s not the point. What’s important is what he represents for you. Maybe the potion was trying to tell you something even if your interpretation isn’t right.”
“Like what? That I’m alone and unhappy and wish I wasn’t? Or that I probably just need to get laid?”
Hermione swatted his arm. “Harry!”
“What? It’s the truth. The last time I was with someone… well, really with someone, was Ginny. That was almost a year ago now. Sometimes it feels like I’m always going to be alone.”
“Oh, stop,” she admonished, “now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself. You’ll find someone.”
“But how?”
“Well, you could start by telling him how you feel.”
“What? Who?” Harry really wished his heart would stay put in his chest and not keep jumping into his throat whenever Severus’ name came up. For even though Hermione hadn’t specified, Harry knew they were both thinking of the same person. Had he really been that obvious? He supposed he wouldn’t have been able to hide it from Hermione, anyway; not much got by her. He sighed. “I don’t even know how I feel.”
“Harry, you’ve only just had the experience of seeing yourself – you know what I mean – in a happy relationship with another guy. I’d wager it’s the first time you’ve ever seen yourself happy like that, period, and in a scenario you may not have anticipated. My point is, this is new for you. You’ll figure it out, just give yourself a little time.”
Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. Then Hermione stood up and leaned into his eyeline, her eyes twinkling a bit. That look never boded well for him.
“What?” he asked, somewhat warily, as her grin turned cheeky.
“You’ll get your Prince.”
“Oh, God, don’t start with that again! I do not have a crush on the Half-Blood Prince!”
“Whatever you say, Harry.”
With a laugh, she ducked behind some trees for cover, only just managing to avoid the snowball that Harry had cobbled together and thrown at her back.

SSHP-SSHP-SSHP
After they Apparated back to Hogwarts, Hermione stepped through the ward on Hogwarts’ main gate, but stopped once she realized Harry had not followed her through.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Even though Harry knew Devon wasn’t an option for him, it’d still had the effect of giving him more questions than answers. Over the last several days he’d wondered ceaselessly about relationships, the next phase of his life, what he really desires and how he should go about getting it, what he wants to do as a career, where he wants to live, who he should spend his life with, if he will marry, and if he should revisit his plans for solo travel and go to a tropical destination like his dreamscape told him.
He took a deep breath. “All I ever wanted was to have a normal life, and now that I can have one, I don’t even know where to start. Is it bad that I kind of miss it?”
“Miss what? Voldemort?” Hermione looked a little aghast.
“No, not him.” Harry grimaced. “Just the adventure, I suppose. It was exciting. For so many years, it was all I knew.” He wasn’t even going to discuss the irony of feeling a little lost now that the Voldemort in his psyche was gone, too.
“You did have an extraordinary childhood,” Hermione agreed. “Maybe that’s where your unsettled feelings have been coming from. Now that the war’s over, this might all feel a little anti-climatic. The world doesn’t need saving anymore.”
“And I’m okay with that. Honestly!”
She regarded him closely. “Are you?”
Harry’s knee-jerk reaction was to say ‘yes’ but then he thought about it. It was true that he didn’t want a repeat of Voldemort or the war or even anything remotely like it, but he also couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him he still didn’t quite fit yet. “I guess I don’t really know what normal looks like. What if it’s boring? What if I don’t like it?”
Hermione smiled, an expression that seemed just shy of a giggle. “Oh, Harry. There isn’t some template out there that dictates what a normal life is. It’s whatever you decide to make of it. And for the first time, the choice is actually yours!”
Harry frowned. “I know, that’s sort of what freaks me out.”
“Well, have you tried to talk to Severus about it?”
“What? Why would I do that?” Once again, Harry’s heart stuttered to life inside his chest and Hermione smiled in that knowing way of hers.
“You’re not the only one trying to rebuild a life now that the war is over, Harry. There’s someone else who’s probably still coming to terms with the fact he survived when he didn’t expect to.”
Shocked, Harry looked over at her. He’d never really considered that before, that other people might be having a hard time finding their place in a changed world, just as he was. And specifically a certain someone.
“You spent the bulk of your formative years either chasing Dark wizards or avoiding them,” she continued. “For better or worse, it narrowed the focus of your life – sometimes to the point where you couldn’t see anything else. Maybe you just didn’t dare hope for anything else. But now that it’s all done, maybe…”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s time to just focus on you. What do you want?”
Harry knew the answer without having to think about it. “Someone to share it with,” he said simply. “I mean, you and Ron have each other now, and I…” Harry trailed off with a sigh and gave the cuff of each of his coat sleeves a sharp tug. “I think I just need something to do. I’m going nuts at home by myself.”
Hermione pulled her coat tighter around herself, staving off a shiver. “Do you want to come in, then?” She indicated Hogwarts with a nod of her head. “We can talk more inside.”
“No, I meant a job. I need something to do with my life.”
“I thought you wanted to be an Auror? Or play Quidditch?”
“Yeah, I did for awhile, but I don’t think they’re for me anymore.” He waved a hand dismissively, suddenly realizing this was not the conversation he wanted to have, or at least not who he wanted to have it with. “Anyway, we can talk about this later. I think I’m just going to head home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Go on, I’ll be fine.”
Hermione looked unconvinced, but leaned over and gave Harry a quick hug anyway. “Okay, well… thanks for coming with me today. Talk to you soon?” Harry nodded and she turned and made her way up the path towards the front doors.
He watched her for a few moments, fighting with the impulse to follow, or go home, or go… somewhere. Well, he knew where he wanted to go, but now that he was here, he felt silly imposing on the man. Severus was probably relaxing after a long day of teaching and wouldn’t want to be disturbed, anyway.
Harry looked down at the path beneath his feet and the outline of where his shoes had pressed into the snow. To his left was the direction of Grimmauld Place – one Apparition hop and he’d be at home in the company of an old elf and the rhythmic droning of his thoughts. Again. To his right were the snow-covered rooftops of Hogsmeade, which promised a delicious meal and warm hospitality. That certainly had more merit than an empty house, but the fact he would be doing it alone (and that it would be his fourth trip in less than a week) suddenly made him feel even more lonely.
Then he looked back up at the castle, the small windows that dotted the towers seeming to twinkle at him, and considered a third option. Maybe it was time to make a different choice and see where it took him – the choice to do what he wants to do, consequences and all. If his life really was that blank canvas he’d seen in his eighth draught, then the burden of action lie with him.
Making his decision, Harry pulled the thick sheaf of parchments from his pocket and tapped his wand against it. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
Like an inkwell that had been upended, dark blotchy stains spread from the center outwards until the lines, contours and passageways of Hogwarts came into sharp relief. Trying to remember where in the bundle of paper he would find the dungeons, Harry lifted several flaps until he located the stairwell he had become quite familiar with over the last few months. From there, his finger traveled down the hallway, walking through it in his mind’s eye, until he located the correct classroom. Sure enough – there, in perfect detail, was a tiny set of footprints above a rippling banner. It read: Severus Snape.
A smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. He didn’t know why the nudge was telling him to go, but ultimately it was feelings, not reasons, that made him decide. For as long as he could remember, that was just how he was wired. Words and journals and thoughts could no longer define his state of mind. He just needed to see Severus.
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The Unexpected Side Effect of Draught No. 9