Image Credit: me, Pintarest, and Warner Bros.
The morning after is never kind to Severus. He feels its loss too much. He feels everything too much, which is why he limits his time with others. Harry dresses in the gray of dawn, taking for granted what Severus sees slipping away. Harry’s grin, the reflection in his glasses, speak of the next time. His green-fire gaze promises there will be a next time. Another night of stolen bliss, since this one has gone so well. What he looks forward to, Severus fears he, himself, will never have again. That’s the true difference between them.
When Harry leaves the Headmaster’s quarters, Severus replays the most sublime moments of their time together. By the window, he relives the boy’s insistence. How Harry pushed at his lips, pulled at his clothing, and demanded that Severus open his mouth, until there was no thought of their roles and Severus had to do what this beautiful, demanding young man wanted him to do.
There were perks to being reinstated as Headmaster and having Harry return to him as a teacher. Such nights were one of them. But not the mornings. The mornings were reserved for reverence, befitting what one night spent with Harry, naked in his arms, meant to him. If the nights were priceless, the mornings were sacred.