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Missed Opportunities	By : thewandcrafter Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 7901 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all contained within it belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, Bloomberg, Scholastic and others, not me. No money is made with this fanfic.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Missed Opportunities

Chapter Four
The next two years were a whirlwind of activity. Hermione went into training to become a solicitor, and Ron completed Auror training. Their engagement was more of an “it’s about bloody time” than a surprise to anyone. Ginny toured constantly with the Hollyhead Harpies, and the rowdiness that accompanied any professional sports team melded well with the general chaos that was the Burrow, and gave Molly a whole brood of females to mother, easing the loss of Fred just a bit, I think. Neville sat for his mastery in Herbology and passed. Luna was off hunting some unheard-of creature or seven with her father and the grandson – or was it great-grandson? – of Newt Scamander. Draco had taken over Malfoy Enterprises and was shaking up the wizarding world by devoting a majority of the Malfoy fortune to philanthropic enterprises.
I pursued my studies and apprenticeship, and learned to treat the burns, and eye and lung problems that accompanied accidental fume exposure… and learned not to make the mistakes that caused those in the first place.
And Severus and I continued to meet for dinner.
We met nearly every fortnight or so. I can’t remember exactly how that came to be, only that when I sent an owl saying I would be in Scotland, two weeks after our first dinner, he returned it with a name and a time, and we met at some out-of-the-way pub. It wasn’t exactly Muggle, but then, no place in Ireland and Scotland is completely wizard-free. If ever there was a place to be “out” as a wizard, Ireland and Scotland would be two such places. Nevertheless, both of us preferred to keep our meetings free from intrusion.
We had an object lesson in that, two years or so after we left Hogwarts. Snape had, indeed, retired as the Potions Professor, a fact that had Minerva wringing her hands and desperately seeking a replacement that was even half as qualified. Not that there were many of those around. Severus really was a potions genius, as it turns out. Not that I hadn’t figured that out already.
He had left to engage in research – a much more suitable pursuit for someone of his brilliance and his… love of children. And in the process of refining Wolfsbane Potion, finding a cure for Spattergroit, and saving the world from a disastrously erroneously conceived fertility potion by catching the error in Potions Monthly, he became the toast of Europe.
It started with an invitation to address the International Potions Guild at its annual convention in Geneva. He had just published the results of his research into the Wolfsbane Potion, and was due to receive an award from some international werewolf liberation group. Apparently, in some parts of Europe, werewolves were being hunted to extinction. Severus’ potion was going to save lives, and make the monthly transition every werewolf suffered from nearly painless – as well as utterly safe. The fact that he had found a way to preserve the potion so that it did not need to be brewed immediately before being ingested gave werewolves unprecedented freedom to live lives that would be almost completely normal.
“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” I asked, when he told me of the invitation. We were sitting at a linen-covered table at a brasserie in Paris – it was Severus’ turn to pick, and he was determined to expand my “appalling palate”, as he referred to my taste in food, which ran, more often than not, to steak-and-kidney pie or American “hot dogs”, though I never subjected him to such.
He tapped his lips with a long, pointed finger and considered the question. “And why do you think I should accept the invitation?”
“Well, first of all, you deserve the award,” I began, continuing despite his snort. “And second of all, it gives you an opportunity to make contacts, see if you can fund some of that other research you’ve been talking about.”
Ah. There I had him.
He pondered me over his glass of wine – something he’d made me pronounce, and which he’d promised I would enjoy. I did enjoy it. I just didn’t know the difference between this particular wine and the one we’d shared the last time, at the restaurant I had selected and which he had pronounced “not fit for mongrels” once we were done. Most of the time, my choices fared better than that, in his estimation, but this time, he really was disgusted, and had been proven right when I suffered abdominal pains for three days straight, afterwards. Hermione or Ron must have contacted him, or maybe Kreacher and Winky, because he sent a vial of cure via owl, on the third day of misery, along with a note that said, “Don’t be a fool, Potter.  Ask next time.” He gracefully neglected to say “I told you so.”
In any case, as we sat in Paris in a restaurant that, in all likelihood, would not cause me stomach cramps and worse, he listened to my second rationale, and a light lit in his eyes. He nodded approvingly and said, “We shall make a Slytherin out of you yet, Mr. Potter.”
I felt inordinately flattered. “No need to insult me,” I huffed, and he laughed and lifted his glass. I touched mine to his, and he said, “To Geneva.”
“To Geneva,” I said. “You deserve it, Severus.”
I froze. It was the first time I had uttered his name – his given name – in his presence, other than when introducing him to people. It was the first time I had addressed him as ‘Severus’. He had stilled, too, and I waited for him to chide me for taking a liberty he hadn’t granted. I opened my mouth to apologize, and then realized he was smiling at me – as much as he ever smiled, that is, which means mostly that the area around his eyes crinkled and his mouth took a less severe line.
“Two years, three months, and seven days,” he said, his eyes… twinkling at me.
“Huh?” I said, eloquent as always, when I was confused.
“It has only taken you two years, three months, and seven days to get there… Harry.”
Oh.
Dear.
Merlin.
He was waiting for me. All that time, he had been waiting for me – to get to it. To discover that… he no longer saw me as a student… to realize that he saw me as an adult, as… not an equal, exactly, but… at least as someone worthy of… his friendship, maybe… ready for something other than a teacher-student relationship. He had been waiting for me… to grab hold of my adulthood, rather than waiting for him to grant it to me, and to meet him as a peer.
When I could breathe again, and manage to keep the tears in my eyes from spilling over, I looked up at him over my still untouched glass of wine, and tried not to choke as I repeated, “To Geneva.”
But… it seemed I had left it too late. He came home from Geneva not only with the funding for his next project, but with a boyfriend. And cover spreads in every wizarding magazine published in both Europe and the Americas. And more invitations – to professional events, to balls and fund-raisers, to premiers in both the Muggle and Wizard entertainment worlds. His talk had been that brilliant… and the wizarding world on three continents – at least – had taken note, and once again, the tall, darkly elegant, mysterious Severus Snape was in the spotlight, and shortly, was acclaimed Europe’s Most Eligible Wizard.
Hermione and Ron increased their visits to Grimmauld Place. I know they were worried about me. Every damned time Snape attended some damned event or another, pictures of him and his… escort… would be front-and-center in whatever publications had covered the event. And every time, I swore I didn’t care, that he was entitled to his… success… to his happiness… that I was glad for him. I promised myself to read the articles and not examine the pictures in excruciating detail, looking to see the degree of intimacy between him and whatever man had the honor of being at his side. But that was hopeless.
And every time, after Ron had flooed back home, Hermione would look at me and say, “Oh, Harry…” and hold out her arms, and I’d fly into them and sob until the shoulder of her robe or jumper was soaked with my despair.
After he came home from Geneva, I had expected him to… I guess to dump me. Not that those words made sense. After all, we weren’t dating. I don’t know what, exactly, we were doing, but… it never ended in a kiss, never ended with his strong arms around me, never ended with me inviting him up to my… bed… or, heaven forfend, him inviting me. I didn’t even know where he was living – which turned out to be a brownstone not far from Grimmauld Place, but I didn’t know that until much later.
In any case, for some reason, I expected him to be entirely… occupied… by the handsome man with the striking features, wavy brown hair, and blue eyes with whom he had been paired in the press. But it was his turn to select a restaurant, again, and his owl tapped on my window on the Thursday after his triumph, with the name of a restaurant – the first place we had dined, in Muggle London. I fought down my jealousy and sadness and an inexplicable rage, and called Hermione. I needed reinforcements, if I was going to dress to meet him. She and Ron understood without my having to say a word about it, and came to spend the day with me, then helped me get ready.
“Hey,” Ron said, just as I was about to leave by the front door.
“What?”
Ron just stood there, looking uncomfortable and sympathetic, and then said, “He’s still a greasy git. And you’re my best mate. If he hurts you, I’ll make him wish Nagini had succeeded.”
I choked out a laugh, and Ron thumped me on the shoulder, and for once, Hermione did not berate him for being obnoxious about Snape. “It’ll be all right, Harry. You’ll see. Just be his friend – like always.”
Like always. Except it wasn’t quite like always. Because Severus Snape, who had never been paired with anyone since… Oh, gods! … since my mum… had a boyfriend. Still, we met at the Italian place, and he looked good, flushed with success and happiness and…sex, my mind supplied, viciously. I didn’t even know if it was true. All I knew was that, by god, if Snape were my boyfriend, I’d be shagging his eyes out of his head, making him come and scream and beg for it, leaving him raw and sore and still wanting more. I grit my teeth and met him at the table.
We weren’t there long enough for our order to be served. In the space of fifteen minutes, we were accosted by no fewer than twelve witches and wizards, wanting a photograph, an autograph, a potion, a cure, a damned kiss, for Merlin’s sake! The owner bustled over when Severus raised a hand to summon him. “We’ll take our order as delivery, I think,” he said, getting up and pulling his robe tighter around him. “Please send me the bill.” He looked at me. “Your place or mine?” he asked, apologetically.
The owner fended off two people who were approaching at a rapid pace, now they saw Severus on his feet, apparently ready to make his escape.
“Mine,” I said without hesitation, knowing how close Grimmauld Place was. He nodded, and I gave the owner the delivery address. We walked out the door, and strode as quickly as we could to the apparition point. He held out his arm, and I took him by the elbow and Apparated us away. It was not exactly how I had envisioned inviting him to my home… but it suited, in the end.
After we finished our meal, and he had talked out his discomfort and shock, and we’d discussed his trip – totally neglecting to talk about the brown-haired man, I said, “As long as you’re here, can I show you around?”
He’d been to Grimmauld Place before, of course, when it had served as the headquarters for the Order, during the war, but I had made changes, and now that he was here, I was eager for him to see them. Especially my laboratory/studio.
I showed him the interior, first. He wanted to linger in the library, which was brighter, more welcoming, and filled with not only the texts that had been here when he had last been, but also tomes from my own, building collection. But that would give it away, so I pulled him off, promising him a brandy in the library after we finished our tour. He looked back, his eyes lit with an acquisitive need, as we left the room, and I laughed under my breath, anticipating his surprise when he discovered the nature of my additions.
He made appropriately appreciative sounds as I showed him incidental updates, saving the best for last. I opened the French doors that led to the solarium, where I had a number of more delicate plants growing, but I gave him little time to investigate, crossing the room to throw open the doors to the garden.
I’d planted a range of things here. Or more accurately, Neville had planted them, with me tagging along and assisting as he directed. We’d chosen the plants together, though – basic potions ingredients, kitchen herbs and vegetables, and those plants necessary for the potions I used in my work. I leaned against the wall surrounding the garden, a spot without plants clambering over the wall, and watched him catalogue the contents of my garden, his face wrinkling in perplexity, and was delighted that I had confounded him.
“Come on,” I said, gesturing him back toward the house. “One last thing.”
We descended the stairs to the kitchen. I waved at Kreacher and Winky. “Brandy and afters in the library in…” I looked at Severus, considering. “… twenty minutes, would you please, Kreacher?” I could feel my eyes sparkling in amusement at Snape’s curiosity. He was restraining himself, I could tell, but I knew he wanted to know what had me so excited.
I tapped some bricks next to the fireplace and murmured the incantation that let me through the wards to my workspace without having to reset them after me, reached out and took his hand, and pulled him through the wards and the door that opened behind them.
His gasp was enough for me. I stopped a few paces inside, dropped his arm, crossed my own, and turned to see his reaction. His face shifted through shock, amazement, curiosity, and longing, and with a laugh, I gestured permission. “Go ahead. Look. Only, stay away from that corner – I have something brewing over there.” He threw me a disgusted look, and I laughed. He prowled my domain while I inhaled deeply, at my ease here more than I was anywhere else in the world, even my bedchambers, despite the fact that I wanked there nearly nightly…
Lusting after this man.
“No one is allowed in here,” I said, watching him peer at the crystal vials lined up where they caught the light coming from the single window I allowed myself. Other vials sat protected in darkness, and some sat in water or protected by herbs or liquid brews. I pointed each of them out, and he nodded in appreciation, murmuring approval or a question from time to time.
I pointed out the four sequential furnaces, the lathe and the grinders, and named for him the blowpipes, mandrels, marvers, and other tools of my trade, and described the processes that took place at each station, while he listened raptly, as I tried not to hold my breath at his abandonment of any façade or pretense, and his face became an unguarded study in the joy of intellectual curiosity.  Dear god, you’re beautiful, I thought, and then shook myself out of that to answer some question or another.
I moved to check on the potion I had brewing in the corner, and he gestured and asked, softly, “May I?” I nodded my consent, unconsciously asserting my ownership, and acknowledging his concession to the fact that this was as much my domain as his potions lab was his. He approached, keeping a careful distance, but I handed him a stirring rod that had a small spoon incorporated on its end, which I had made for sampling potions. He examined it before dipping it, after my approving nod, into the clear blue that simmered over a low flame. It left a string of the right viscosity as he lifted the spoon.
“Excuse me a moment, would you?” I asked. “It’s ready.”
He watched as I divided the potion into four smaller cauldrons, to which I fitted cork lids. I labeled each cauldron with my own notation for contents, as well as the date and time. “Annealing brew,” I said, looking up. “I’m working on a finish that will protect against aconite decay in…” He nodded wordlessly, and I finished the job and cast a stasis spell over the original cauldron. “I’ll need to clean that, but it can wait,” I said.   “Kreacher will have brandy for us… and something to go with, I imagine. He thinks I’m too thin.” I gestured toward the door, and, after looking me up and down as if matching his assessment against Kreacher’s, causing me to flush, he preceded me out of the lab.
He stayed into the early morning, that time, grilling me on the properties of glass and crystal, and I struggled to explain that glass is not a single entity, and that the quality and characteristics of the end product depend on everything from whether the object was made from soda-lime, borosilicate, leaded glass, or crystal; the method of production – blown, mold-blown, flatworked; the temperature of the furnace or flame; the annealing process; the composition of the tools; the fuel that sourced the fire… all before the application of potion or spell or charm… He listened avidly, asked pointed questions, probed the range and nature of the items I made, and demanded more.
It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating, and my heart sang with it, with this brash, intellectual, equal exchange.  Dear Merlin, how I loved the way we interacted that night! I felt… respected.
At some point, I excused myself back to my lab, and returned with a roll of soft velvet, doubled and divided into long, thin pockets, from which I withdrew, with carefully gloved hands, a dozen stirring rods, explaining the characteristics and specific purposes of each, which brews and ingredients they were suitable for, and which not, and why. They were the best I had made to date, a requirement of my mastery exam, which I would sit in two months, though I did not tell him that. He leaned forward over the low table between us, restraining himself with difficulty, and I laughed to myself, pulled a second pair of gloves from my pocket, and handed them to him. I remember that they had to stretch to accommodate his larger hands, and that, for some reason, brought a smile to my face that I carefully hid from him.
There was one rod that repeatedly had drawn his attention – molded and sculpted rather than drawn into a single, smooth length. Red crystal, with flashes in its interior that were the result of the spells I had cast during its creation, the whorls that twisted it just so, and the runes etched into its surface invoking the most protective magic I had been able to muster. It was a Potion Master’s rod – though they were all at least competent enough for that level – and I will confess, I had made it with this particular Potion Master in mind, though I knew that my major professor would make a bid for it.
Severus admired it where it lay, and used one gloved finger to roll it over, to examine the runes on the other side. He looked to me for permission, and at my nod, held it up, so that he could see its facets reflected in the fire. He snorted and shook his head, a small smile on his face. When he laid it down, with exquisite care, as I held my breath and awaited his assessment, he looked up, shook his head again, and sat back in his chair, peeling the gloves off his hand, finger by finger, a sensuous strip tease that had me gasping for breath, and trying to hide the fact. He smiled, unfocused a moment longer, laying the gloves across one knee.
“You, Mr. Potter, are a master.”
My chest swelled with some emotion too complicated to be pride, too filled with relief and joy, and my eyes teared a bit. I had to swallow past the lump in my throat before I could reply with a quiet, “Thank you, Severus. That… that means a lot, coming from you.”
“It should mean a lot coming from anyone. I meant it sincerely. Your work is exquisite. You may expect…” He hesitated. “If I may,” he continued more carefully, “I would like to… If this is your usual quality of work…”
He seemed to be fumbling for words, and I grinned at him. “I’ll be open for business by November, sir, and I would appreciate your patronage.”
He nodded and a small quirk of his mouth let me know he was as amused at himself as I was. He noted the time, finally, and said, “I have taken far too much of your time, this evening, Harry. My apologies.”
I waved that off, but he rose and handed me back the gloves. “If I may visit another time… If it would not be an intrusion… I would love to see you at work – perhaps just a demonstration, if my presence would affect the final product too much?”
“I can ward against that,” I said, accompanying him to the door. I hesitated a moment. “I… I have a floo, you know. You’re welcome to use it. I keep it closed to everyone but the Weasleys, my master instructor, Minerva, and Kingsley… but I can certainly open it to you, if that would be… It would let you visit. My lab, I mean.”

His eyes lit with anticipation. “I would appreciate that, if you are sure… I wouldn’t come through without your permission, of course.”
I held up a hand in protest. “Severus, you are welcome in my home any time.”
He smiled again. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll use the floo, then, if you don’t mind. It’s a bit late…”
The fireplace flared, and he stepped in, made eye contact, and said, quite deliberately, his tone making the invitation clear, his eyes twinkling and reflecting the green of the floo powder, “Snape’s lair.”
He was gone before I even started laughing.  Oh holy Merlin! Where’s Hermione? Oh, gods… too late for that!  I sat laughing and replaying the evening in detail for long minutes before I convinced myself to go to bed.
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Missed Opportunities