The Boy Who Lived A Bit [Snarry]

Chapter Twenty

Snape's consciousness was segmented. One part of it was telling him to wake up, to make sure Harry was alive and unharmed, to get them all the hell out of there. The large majority of it, though, was telling him to let go, to just let the peace come and take him away, that he couldn't feel his legs anyway so what would be the point of waking up?

He worried about Harry... but perhaps it would be better for the boy if things happened this way? What would The Boy Who Lived Yet Again, the war hero, the Saviour of the fucking world itself want an old git like him around for afterwards? Potter's praises would be sung from one end of the Earth to the other. Every witch and wizard in existence would want to kiss him or shake his hand or marry their daughters off to him. The last thing the boy would need would be a lame ex-Death Eater trundling around after him, scowling at all his fans, scaring potential wives away. And then what? Eventually, the boy would see the light and decide to bugger off and Snape would be left alone worse than he had been before – because now he would have known what love could actually be, before it was torn away from him.

No. This was best. Not waking up. Giving in. Letting go. It was best for everybody if he simply didn't come back from this fight. He had served his purpose, made at least some amends. Now it was time for him to go.

Thank-you, Albus. Goodbye, Harry bloody Potter.

* * *

If there was one thing in which Severus Snape absolutely DID NOT believe, it was the concept of Heaven. His astute mind could not entertain the theory. The mere notion of it offended his sensibilities. And yet – what else could this be?

He was surrounded by softness and warmth. He could hear laughter and singing. He could feel the exquisite beauty of tender lips pressed gently to his own. He could smell... Chocolate Frogs and lemon sherbets?

Snape's eyes flew open. Ceiling. Messy raven hair. Round spectacles. He couldn't see much else. But then, then there were emerald orbs opening to him, and the softness against his mouth retreated a short distance.

'Harry.'

Smirk. 'Welcome back.'

'Back from where, Potter?'

'Wherever you've been for the last five hours.'

'Asleep?'

'Passed out, more like. How do you feel?'

Snape considered that question for a moment. 'I am fine. Except,' he sighed resignedly. 'I cannot feel my legs.'

Concern and fear flashed through the green eyes before a slow smile spread over the lovely pale face. 'Sorry.' And Potter shifted properly and scrambled down off the bed, standing beside it and reaching down to rub at Snape's legs ineffectually through the covers. 'Is that better?'

Snape merely watched Potter's hands for a little while. 'You were sitting on me.' It was a statement, and he whispered it, feeling at once relieved and silly and grateful as pins and needles made their presence known in his lower limbs. He looked up suddenly. 'How long have you been sitting on me, you idiot child?'