Chapter Text
Snivellus. Viper. Slytherin bastard. The words burned like cuts from a curse he himself had invented. Levicorpus. Funny, isn't it? Watching your tormentor hang upside down, helpless, humiliated. But laughter was never for him. Laughter was for them. For the four of them.
Severus Snape stood, his forehead pressed against the cold stone of a blind wall somewhere on the seventh floor, trying to catch his breath. The air smelled of dust and his own blood, seeping from his nose. The bullying today had been particularly inventive. Not just shoves and taunts, but something more refined. A black trail behind him that couldn't be wiped away, making his robes stick to the floor, pinning him down, while James Potter and Sirius Black shouted something about a "filthy slug" that ought to crawl like one.
And she stood nearby. Lily. Her red hair was a torch that had once illuminated his darkest childhood. Now that torch burned his skin. "That's enough, James," she said, but her voice lacked its former fury, that fire that had once made her stand up for him without a second thought. Now it was a simple statement: "Enough, you've beaten your toy, you can stop now." And she left. Left, throwing him a look that held not hatred, not gloating, but something worse—pity. And mild revulsion.
He pushed himself away from the wall forcefully, swallowing the bitter taste of humiliation. He hated them. Hated James with his smug grin. Hated Black with his stupid, showy bravado. Hated Lupin for his silent approval and pathetic attempts to "reason" with them after the fact. Hated Pettigrew for his obsequious giggles. But most of all, in that moment, he hated himself. For his weakness. For the fact that still, beneath all the filth and pain, a part of that boy remained who believed that red hair and green eyes were salvation.
He mechanically wiped the blood from his face, healing the cut. His hands trembled with impotent rage. He wanted revenge. Not a childish prank, not a nasty spell in a dark corridor. He wanted something that would break them. Not physically. Not instantly. He wanted to tear out the very core of their well-being, their confidence, their happiness. He wanted a poison that would act slowly but inexorably.
The thought of revenge was his only anchor. He survived in this castle only because of it. But what revenge could there be? They were stronger, more popular, protected by the favor of teachers and universal adoration. They were the light, and he was the shadow everyone tripped over.
He needed to get away. Away from these walls, from their gazes. He tore away, his robes billowing silently behind him like bat wings. He didn't see where he was running until he found himself at the doors to the Restricted Section of the library. Madam Pince usually locked it for lunch. An old spell, borrowed from a half-rotten tome, easily dealt with the lock.
The coolness and silence of the old repository enveloped him. It smelled of parchment, magic, and time. Here he was safe. Here he was strong. He wandered between the shelves, running his fingers over the spines, not looking for anything specific, just letting the ancient wisdom calm his blazing mind.
It was there, around a corner, in a secluded nook, that he heard voices. High, excited, belonging to two upper-year Hufflepuff girls. They were discussing something animatedly, their noses buried in some society magazine. "...they say he's still incredibly attractive for his age," one sighed. "Well, of course," the second echoed. "Wealth, status, that charisma... And he's been a widower for so long. It's a mystery why he never remarried." "Maybe he hasn't met the one? Or is he still pining for his wife? That's so romantic..." "Or just very choosy. They say Mrs. Black, you know, the mad one, kept trying to snag him for her cousin, but he wouldn't even look. Said his heart belonged to only one person in his life, and he wasn't looking for a replacement."
Severus was about to turn and leave, bored by this silly chatter, but his attention was caught by a name. "Black?" the first girl asked. "But he's a friend of the Potters, right? I heard Sirius Black, that rebel, practically lives with them now after he ran away from home." "Exactly! Fleamont Potter. Father of that James. That's who I meant. A true lion of the old guard. And rumor has it, his weakness is clever young men. They say he adores lively debates and a sharp mind. A shame James didn't inherit that trait," the girl giggled.
Severus froze, rooted to the spot. Fleamont Potter. The father. The foundation of all their well-being. The source of their wealth, their confidence, their damn light. Confident, influential, respected wizard. And... lonely.
Shards of thought, like pieces of glass, began to form a single, terrifying, brilliant picture in his mind. He wasn't just listening to gossip. He was listening to a weapon. He had seen him once, at King's Cross. A tall, stately man with graying temples and the same unruly hair as James, but well-groomed and noble. With piercing, intelligent eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He was smiling softly at his wife, and his gaze held such tenderness that even Severus, cynical and embittered, felt a momentary stab of something like envy. For that very "happiness" he wanted to destroy.
And the plan was born. Instantly, clearly, with chilling clarity. This would not be a crude attack. This would be a siege. This would be decay from within. He wouldn't touch James. He would touch his idol. His foundation. He would seduce his father. He would worm his way into the very heart of their family, their sanctum, and defile it. He would make this majestic, respected man forget his eternal love for his dead wife and want him, Severus Snape. The dirty, poor, tormented half-blood from Spinner's End.
And then? And then... he would discard him. He would let James and the whole world know that his father, his saintly father, preferred the company of the one his son despised most. He would humiliate their name. He would shatter their family from within. He would become Fleamont Potter's secret sin, his shameful passion. And Black... Black, whose well-being now depended entirely on the Potters' charity, would lose everything too. He would be a penniless outcast twice over.
This was not crude, physical revenge. This was precise, sophisticated, venomous revenge. This was the revenge of a Slytherin. He turned sharply and left the Restricted Section, ignoring the surprised looks from the girls. The tears of rage and pain were gone from his black eyes. Now they burned with a cold, absolute, merciless fire of determination.
He walked through the corridors, no longer feeling the humiliation of the recent incident. He only felt power. He knew his target. He saw his path. He mentally chastised himself, feeling the familiar pang in his chest at the sight of a flash of red hair in the distance. Lily. No. She had made her choice. She had stood and watched. Now her happiness with Potter-the-younger would be destroyed too. It would be collateral damage. He almost regretted it. Almost.
He forced himself to think about the cold, calculated steps he had to take. How he would study Fleamont Potter. His interests, his business, his circle. He needed information. He needed an entry point. He walked to the Slytherin common room, and his shadow, long and sharp, ran ahead of him, as if foreshadowing the darkness he was bringing to the House of Potter.
His revenge had begun.
The next few weeks, Severus lived with a single goal: to gather information. He became a shadow, a ghost, devouring knowledge. He didn't waste time trying to avoid the Marauders—their attacks were now just background noise, annoying interference in his grand design. He barely even reacted, which seemed to anger Potter and Black even more.
He started with newspapers. In the library, he combed through the archives of the Daily Prophet for the last ten years, looking for any mention of Fleamont Potter. He looked not for the society pages, but for the business sections, articles on charity, reports on Wizengamot sessions. Fleamont Potter, it turned out, was not just a wealthy heir. He was a shrewd investor in promising research, owned shares in several apothecary businesses—which particularly interested Severus—and was a known patron, sponsoring a program for gifted children from poor families. The irony was thick and sweet as treacle.
Then came the society gossip. Here he was more discreet, using eavesdropping charms on groups of girls from Hogsmeade chatting over butterbeer, or on flocks of curious Ravenclaws. He learned about his favorite wines (Islay firewhisky, thirty-year-old), his passion for antique tapestries and Quidditch memoirs, that he hated flattery and fools but valued wit and directness.
But the most valuable source became, paradoxically, Sirius Black. Or rather, his endless boastful stories about his wonderful new life at the Potter estate. Severus forced himself to endure his presence in the common room, pretending to be absorbed in a book while Black chattered about "old man Potter" who was "just brilliant," how he allowed him everything, took him to a dragon farm in Romania, and discussed motorcycle improvements with him. "He's nothing like my family," Sirius said with fervor, usually addressing Lupin or a crowd of adoring first-years. "He listens. And he's damn smart. Last week we argued about the ethics of using werewolves as guards until three in the morning."
Severus absorbed every word, every detail. He learned Fleamont's routine: early rise, work in the study until noon, a walk on the grounds, afternoon reading in the library. He learned that in the evenings he loved to play chess (and always beat James) and listen to music—magical variations on themes by classical composers. He was building a psychological profile. Intelligent. Bored. Progressive for his age and circle. Compassionate, but with an iron core. Yearning for intellectual companionship. Lonely.
Loneliness was the key. Severus knew his tastes. Now he had to become them.
He spent hours in front of the mirror in his dungeon room, practicing not his expression—no, his own, aloof and haughty, was perfect—but his manner of speech. He honed arguments for hypothetical debates, practiced slipping elegant quotes from magical treatises and classic Muggle literature into conversation. He had to appear not as an obsequious youth, but as an equal. Despite the age and status difference. Especially because of it.
Finally, it was time for the first move. He learned that Fleamont Potter, as a Hogwarts trustee, was to visit the school for a meeting with Dumbledore regarding the new hospital wing, which he was sponsoring. This was his window.
He lay in wait for him in the Great Hall, pretending to be returning from Potions. He chose the moment carefully—the Hall was almost empty, only a few students bustling at their table. When the tall, imposing man in impeccable robes of dark emerald emerged from Dumbledore's office, Severus took a few quick steps, as if heading for the exit, and... seemingly accidentally dropped a book. Not just any book, but a rare folio on advanced aromatic alchemy he had specially borrowed from Slughorn.
The book fell to the stone floor with a thud, right between him and Fleamont. "Oh, my apologies, sir," Severus said, his voice sounding exactly as he had rehearsed: low, polite, without a hint of fawning or obsequiousness. He bent to pick up the book, but Fleamont was faster.
"Allow me," his voice was velvety, deep, with a slight huskiness. He picked up the book, and his eyes behind his glasses glinted with curiosity as he read the title. "'Ethereal Essences and Their Application in Necromantic...' My word. Not the lightest reading for... a student."
He nearly said "for one so young," but stopped. Severus felt a thrill of satisfaction. The first trap had sprung. "Complexity is not a synonym for impossibility, sir," Severus parried, accepting the book. Their fingers barely touched. "It merely requires greater diligence." "A reasonable remark," Fleamont smiled. The smile was warm, but his eyes held a slight wariness. He recognized him. Of course, he did. Snape. That boy his son and adopted son so disliked. "Mr.... Snape, if I'm not mistaken?" "Precisely, sir. Severus Snape. Seventh year, Slytherin." "Yes, I recall. Slughorn never tires of singing praises to your talent in Potions." "Professor Slughorn is too kind," Severus cut in, making it clear he disliked flattery. "He values results, not personality."
Fleamont tilted his head slightly, studying him. The wariness gave way to interest. "Modesty? Unexpected. James usually says that you..." he hesitated, choosing his words. "That I have an exceedingly high opinion of myself?" Severus finished for him with a light, almost invisible smirk. "Probably. Although, I believe it's mutual. We simply prefer to demonstrate our qualities differently. He—through collective sporting achievements, I—through individual academic success."
He didn't defend himself. He didn't attack. He simply stated, elevating their enmity to a philosophical difference in outlook. And his tone held not a trace of resentment or malice. Only cold, almost scientific statement.
Fleamont Potter looked at him with increasing interest. This wasn't the spiteful, pale youth he'd imagined from his son's stories. This was a preternaturally mature, acerbically witty young man with a piercing gaze and steely composure. "I suppose there's some truth to that," Fleamont finally said. "Potions is an art for soloists. Quidditch is a team game." "Precisely, sir."
There was a short pause. Severus knew he had to retreat first to avoid seeming pushy. He gave a slight nod. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Mr. Potter. And thank you for the help with the book." "Likewise, Mr. Snape," Fleamont replied automatically, still studying him. "Good luck with... the ethereal essences. Be careful with the necromancy." "Danger lies not in knowledge, sir, but in its application," Severus tossed over his shoulder, already turning away and heading for the exit from the Hall.
He walked, feeling Fleamont Potter's interested gaze burning into his back. He didn't look back. He wasn't supposed to look eager. He was supposed to be unattainable. Intriguing. A mystery.
His heart beat not with excitement, but with cold, ruthless triumph. The first pawn had been placed. The game had begun.
That night, lying in bed, he allowed himself to smile in the darkness. He thought of James, of Black, of their smug faces. They had no idea that the shadow they so despised had already crossed the threshold of their home. And it wasn't planning on leaving.
The next stage was correspondence. Severus understood that one chance meeting was nothing. He needed to cement the interest, turn it into something more. He chose the most elegant and anachronistic method—parchment and ink.
An opportunity presented itself. Browsing a fresh issue of the Alchemical Review, he came across a controversial article on the compatibility of moonstones with solar magic in the distillation process. The author, a recognized authority, was, in his opinion, reasoning very superficially. And he knew that Fleamont Potter, according to Sirius, had recently acquired several rare moonstones for his collection.
He wrote a letter. Not to Fleamont. No, that would be too direct. He wrote a letter to the journal, under his own name, with scathing, impeccably argued criticism of the article. And at the end, almost as an afterthought, added: "...this gap in methodology is especially surprising, given recent acquisitions in private collections, for example, by such a renowned connoisseur as Mr. Fleamont Potter, whose specimens just demonstrate an anomalous reaction to sunlight under certain conditions..."
He sent the letter and waited. The calculation was that someone on the editorial board who knew Potter would forward this letter to him, either to amuse or to warn him. The calculation proved correct.
A week later, a school owl flew to him during Potions class with a letter on thick, high-quality parchment. A severe, elegant handwriting. The Potter crest on the wax seal.
Dear Mr. Snape, An acquaintance at the 'Alchemical Review' was kind enough to provide me with a copy of your letter. I must say, I am impressed by the depth of your analysis and... the caustic accuracy of your remarks. You are quite right about my 'Acquisitions'. Curious, how are you aware of this fact? If your time permits, I would not mind continuing the discussion. My moonstones, I confess, cause me some puzzlement. Your opinion, as a fresh perspective, could be invaluable. Sincerely, Fleamont Potter
Severus reread the letter three times, feeling a surge of cold power. He had hooked him. The question about the source was merely rhetorical, a formality. The invitation was what mattered.
His response was in the same vein: slightly haughty, impeccably polite, full of hints at deep knowledge.
Dear Mr. Potter, Thank you for your letter. The sources of a scholar's information, even a budding one, must remain his professional secret (let's just say the walls of Hogwarts have ears, and some of them are particularly talkative). Regarding your specimens, the anomaly you mention is characteristic of stones mined in the quarries of Norway during the last lunar eclipse. Their structure...
He wrote a whole treatise on half a parchment, displaying erudition, but intentionally made one small, almost imperceptible error in his assumption about the polishing method. An error only a true connoisseur could spot. It was a challenge. An invitation to a further, closer intellectual duel.
Fleamont replied two days later, politely pointing out the inaccuracy and offering his own, even more complex theory. The correspondence began.
Letters came once a week, then more often. They discussed alchemy, magical history, controversial Wizengamot decisions. Severus meticulously prepared for each letter, spending hours in the library so his responses would be flawless. He never yielded, never agreed just for the sake of it. He argued, parried, attacked. He became for Fleamont that very "clever young man" the gossips talked about—an opponent equal in sharpness of mind, but utterly dissimilar in background and views.
He felt Fleamont's interest growing. From polite, somewhat detached responses, his letters turned into lengthy, enthusiastic discourses. He began asking questions about Severus himself: about his views on the future of the Dark Arts, about his plans after Hogwarts.
Severus answered evasively, painting a picture of a lonely, misunderstood genius forced to make his own way alone, without family support or connections. He didn't complain. He simply stated, seasoning the story with acerbic humor. He spoke of Spinner's End not as a slum, but as an "invaluable source of practical knowledge about human nature." He mentioned his Muggle father only in passing, calling him "a clear example of how the absence of magic is not synonymous with the presence of intelligence or virtue."
He was playing on subtle strings. On sympathy. On intellectual snobbery. On the enlightened aristocrat's desire to "discover" and "appreciate" a diamond in the rough.
Meanwhile, life at Hogwarts went on. The Marauders didn't let up. Once they tried to ambush him by the lake, but Severus, warned by his talent for Occlumency, escaped through a secret passage he'd found in his third year. He heard their disappointed shouts and smirked in the tunnel's darkness. Their petty misdeeds now seemed pathetic to him. He had a goal. A great goal.
He saw Lily. She sometimes threw strange, perplexed looks his way. She must have heard he was corresponding with James's father. Probably, she was trying to figure out the catch. But Severus avoided her. The thought of her was a weakness, and he couldn't afford weaknesses.
Once, passing the Gryffindor table, he heard James loudly complaining to Sirius: "...and that creep, Snape, is writing to Father! Can you believe it? I don't understand what he's feeding him! Father says he's an 'uncommonly thoughtful young man'! He's just mental!"
Sirius frowned. "Strange. The old man usually doesn't fall for flattery. Snivellus must be using some Dark charms." "Or he's just sucking up to make me lay off him," James snorted, but his voice held uncertainty.
Severus walked past, his face unchanged, but inside a triumphant chorus sang. Doubts were already being sown. The seed of discord had been planted.
It was time for the next step. Letters were good, but not enough. A personal meeting was needed. And an opportunity arose. Fleamont mentioned in one letter that he would be passing through Hogsmeade at the end of the month on business and would stop by "Gladrags Wizardwear"—a known antique shop—looking for a rare ingredient.
Severus wrote that he was also interested in that ingredient for his research and politely inquired if Mr. Potter would mind if he joined him briefly to look at the item, should it be in stock.
The reply came quickly: "I would be delighted for the company of a fellow enthusiast."
He chose his clothes with the same calculation as his words. No shabby robes. He wore his best, black robes, perfectly fitted, meticulously polished boots. He washed the potion residue from his hair and tied it back in a low ponytail to open up his face—pale, with sharp features and large, black eyes. He looked not wealthy, but... significant. Serious. Mature beyond his years.
The meeting at "Gladrags" went perfectly. They talked about ingredients, books, politics. Fleamont was charmed. He saw not a boy, but a colleague. Severus caught his gaze on him—interested, appraising. And in that appraisal was already more than just intellectual curiosity.
When they left the shop, Fleamont unexpectedly offered: "Mr. Snape, would you care to share a pint of ale with me at the Hog's Head? I would hate to cut short such a stimulating conversation."
Severus paused briefly, feigning slight thought. "I suppose my essay on Ancient Runes can wait," he said finally with a light, almost imperceptible smile. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Potter."
They sat in a corner of the old, smoke-filled tavern, and Severus allowed himself to gradually "soften." He spoke a little more about himself, his research, cautiously lifting the veil on his "difficult life," but without self-pity, with a bitter humor. He spoke of how hard it was to seek knowledge when you had no money, no support, only your own mind and stubbornness.
Fleamont listened, and his eyes showed increasing admiration and... something else. Something resembling tenderness. "You are a remarkable young man, Severus," he said finally, accidentally using his name. "You... you remind me of myself in my youth. Just as hungry for knowledge. Just as alone."
Severus lowered his gaze, pretending to be embarrassed by the compliment. Inside, he was exulting. The fish had bitten. Truly bitten. "That is flattering to hear, sir," he murmured. "Though I doubt your youth was quite as... rich in deprivations."
"Everyone has their trials," Fleamont said softly. His hand briefly touched Severus's arm—a quick, warm, almost paternal gesture. Almost. But there was a certain delay in the touch, a certain awareness that wasn't fatherly.
Severus didn't pull his hand away. He allowed the touch to happen, raising his black, bottomless gaze to Fleamont. "Indeed," he agreed quietly. "Everyone has their trials."
At that moment, the tavern door burst open, and a noisy group of upper-year Gryffindors tumbled in. Led by James Potter and Sirius Black.
The cheer on their faces instantly turned to shock, then anger. They froze, staring at the strange pair: James's father and their arch-enemy, sitting together over pints of ale, engrossed in an intense, almost intimate conversation.
Severus saw them first. His expression didn't change. He merely raised an eyebrow slightly, as if surprised by their rude intrusion, and then slowly, demonstratively returned his gaze to Fleamont, as if their presence was of no consequence.
Fleamont, noticing his look, turned around. His face lit up with a smile at the sight of his son. "James! Sirius! Perfect timing! Join us."
But James didn't move. He was pale with rage and astonishment. "Father?" his voice was hoarse. "What... what are you doing here with... with him?"
The silence at their table became thick, palpable. Severus allowed himself to smile—a cold, barely noticeable smile meant only for James. A victor's smile. "We were discussing some alchemical dilemmas, Potter," he said, and his voice sounded surprisingly soft, almost friendly. "Your father is an astonishingly knowledgeable conversationalist."
Sirius stared at him with such hateful amazement, as if seeing him for the first time. He saw not the nasty Snape, but a calm, self-assured young man sitting next to his benefactor. And this image clearly didn't fit into his worldview.
"Let's go, James," Sirius said sharply, grabbing his friend's arm. "They're busy." "But—" "Let's go!"
They turned and stormed out of the tavern, slamming the door.
Fleamont sighed, shaking his head with slight embarrassment. "Forgive them, Severus. Youth... it is often hot-headed and ignorant." "No need to apologize, sir," Severus took a sip of ale. "I've long been accustomed to... your son and his friend's peculiar attitude. It shouldn't cloud our conversation."
But the conversation was already clouded. The seeds of doubt and jealousy had been sown not only in James but in Sirius as well. Severus saw it. And he knew it was only the beginning.
When they finished their ale and got up to leave, Fleamont addressed him again: "Severus, I will be in London next week. I have a dinner planned with several members of the Apothecaries' Guild. Your knowledge of potions could be most valuable. Would you care to join me? It will be a strictly business affair, but I believe you might find it interesting."
This wasn't just dinner. This was an invitation into his world. Into his circle. Severus paused, feigning deliberation. "My schedule permits it," he said finally with a slight nod. "Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Potter. I would be pleased."
They stepped out onto the street of Hogsmeade. Fleamont offered him a ride back to the castle, but Severus politely declined. "I prefer to walk. It allows me to... process what I've heard." "I understand. Until next week, then. I shall send an owl with the details." "Until next week, sir."
He stood and watched as Fleamont Potter disappeared into the crowd, his tall, stately figure standing out. Then he slowly turned and walked up the road to the castle.
The wind tugged at his black hair. His chest felt cold and empty. There was no joy in his success, no triumph. Only solid, icy resolve. He thought of Lily's green eyes, full of confusion. Of James's furious glare. Of Sirius's lost expression.
He checked himself. Sentimentality was a luxury he couldn't afford. Revenge is a dish best served cold. And he intended to serve it ice-cold.
The London restaurant "The Silver Phoenix" was not a walk-in establishment. One came here by recommendation; Ministers of Magic and editors of fashionable magazines breakfasted here; the fates of magical corporations were decided over a cup of tea. The interior was Art Deco: dark wood, chrome details, subdued lighting, and quiet, unobtrusive music drawn from the air by small, invisible orchestraions.
Severus Snape felt like a fish in water here. Or rather, he forced himself to feel so. His black robes, though not expensive, were of impeccable cut and fit him in a way that suggested not poverty, but an ascetic, conscious choice. He carried himself with a cold, almost haughty calm, following half a step behind Fleamont Potter, listening carefully to his introductions.
"Lord Aimond, Lady Preston, may I introduce my young colleague, Mr. Severus Snape. An immensely gifted potioneer, whose knowledge, I have no doubt, will soon eclipse that of many of us," Fleamont presented him, and genuine pride rang in his voice.
The noble witches and wizards looked at Severus with polite curiosity mixed with mild snobbery. But Severus didn't falter. He answered questions clearly, concisely, with deadly precision, not trying to ingratiate himself, but demonstrating such a level of competence that the snobbery in their eyes gradually gave way to respect. He quoted texts they had only heard of, offered solutions to problems they had struggled with for months.
Fleamont beamed. He caught glances full of approval and mild envy. He, the patriarch of an ancient family, not only held his own with this young genius but seemed to be his mentor, his patron. It flattered his ego. And it made him look at Severus with increasing warmth.
During dinner, Severus sat to Fleamont's right, and their conversation never ceased. They discussed the properties of rare roots, argued about potion standardization methods, and Severus deftly wove hints of his "difficulties," of how hard it was to get ahead alone, without support, into the conversation.
"Talent like yours should not be wasted for lack of resources, Severus," Fleamont said seriously when dinner drew to a close and guests began to depart. "I mean it. I have an extensive laboratory at the estate. It stands idle. James..." he waved a hand, "James is only interested in things that fly and shine. You could put it to much better use."
Severus felt something cold and slippery stir inside him. This was the moment of truth. An invitation into the lion's den. Into the Potter home. "That is... a very generous offer, Mr. Potter," he said, pretending to hesitate. "But I would not wish to be intrusive. And..." he cast a meaningful glance aside, "I doubt my presence would be met with joy by all the estate's inhabitants."
Fleamont frowned, understanding whom he meant. "My house, my rules, Severus. I value intellect and talent. And I will be happy to see you in my laboratory whenever you wish. James and Sirius... will get used to it."
His voice held a steel Severus hadn't heard before. The father, the head of the family. The one whose word was law. This was a new facet of Fleamont, and it made him an even more attractive target.
"In that case... I gratefully accept your offer," Severus inclined his head.
They left the restaurant into the cool London evening. Fleamont suggested using the Floo network, but Severus, to his surprise, declined again. "I'll walk," he said simply. "I need to... process this evening."
Fleamont looked at him, and a whole range of emotions was readable in his eyes: admiration, paternal concern, growing attachment, and something else, warmer, more personal. "You are astonishing," he said quietly. "Quite unlike anyone else I know."
He took a step forward. They stood in the shadow of an archway, hidden from prying eyes. Fleamont put a hand on his shoulder. The touch was firm, warm, full of latent strength. "Do be careful getting back," Fleamont said, and his fingers slightly squeezed Severus's shoulder. Lingered. Too long for a simple goodbye.
Severus didn't pull away. He raised his gaze to the older man, allowing him to see in his eyes not a boy, but an equal. A conspirator. "Do not worry about me, Fleamont," he said for the first time, dropping the formality. "I am always careful."
He saw Fleamont's lips twitch at the sound of his name spoken in that low, dark voice. Saw his pupils dilate. The fish wasn't just hooked. It was well and truly caught. "Until soon, Severus," Fleamont replied softly, and his hand slowly dropped.
Severus nodded and melted into the night, leaving Fleamont Potter standing alone under the arch, with a pounding heart and a head full of thoughts he probably himself had deemed impossible just a couple of months ago.
The first visit to the Potter estate was a carefully staged performance. Severus arrived exactly on time, not a minute late. The estate was just as he had imagined: ancient, well-kept, full of light and warmth. It smelled of old wood, fresh baking, and money. Money that was as natural here as the air.
James and Sirius, to his satisfaction, were nowhere to be seen. A house-elf maid led him to the laboratory—a spacious, sunlit room with panoramic windows overlooking the garden. The equipment here was state-of-the-art, the ingredients the rarest, arranged in perfect order.
Fleamont was already waiting for him. He looked slightly excited, almost boyish. "Well?" he asked with a smile. "Does it meet expectations?"
Severus slowly looked around the room, his face remained impassive, but in his eyes he allowed a genuine, greedy interest to ignite. This was the only genuine emotion of the entire evening. "This is... impressive," he said, and his voice held almost reverence. "The collection of fire salamanders... they are of such an age... And the vacuum distillation apparatus... I've only seen those in pictures."
They immersed themselves in work. Or rather, Severus worked, and Fleamont mostly watched, enchanted by the deftness of his hands, the precision of his movements, the depth of his concentration. Severus was brewing a most complex potion requiring filigree precision, and he did it with such ease, as if brewing ordinary tea.
Suddenly the laboratory door burst open. "Father, have you seen my—" James froze on the threshold. His gaze fell on Severus, and his face twisted into a grimace of pure hatred. "You! What are you doing here?!"
Severus didn't even look up from the flask, continuing to stir the potion with precise circular motions. "I am engaged in the obvious, Potter," he said in an icy tone. "Brewing. Potions. That is, generally speaking, what one does in laboratories."
Fleamont frowned. "James, behave. Severus is my guest. He is using the laboratory for his research." "His research?" James exploded. "Father, are you out of your mind? This is Snape! He's... he's..." "He is an exceptionally talented wizard," Fleamont interrupted coldly. "And I would thank you to show him respect while he is under my roof."
James stood, mouth agape, unable to believe what was happening. His own father was defending Snape. From him. "But... Sirius said—" "Whatever Sirius said," Fleamont's voice became dangerous, quiet, "it does not give you the right to burst in here and be rude to my guest. Apologize."
James flushed with rage and humiliation. "Never!" he shouted and, turning on his heel, ran out of the room, slamming the door so hard the vials on the shelves rattled.
A heavy pause ensued. Severus finally looked up from the potion and looked at Fleamont. His eyes held no gloating, no offense. Only slight weariness. "I did warn that my presence would cause... tensions." "This is not your fault," Fleamont said firmly. His face was stern. "James is behaving like a spoiled child. It's high time he learned that the world does not revolve around him."
He stepped closer, looking at the perfectly clear potion in Severus's flask. "It's beautiful," he whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
He stood so close that Severus could feel the heat of his body, the scent of expensive cologne and old parchment. "You... you do it with such ease," Fleamont continued, and his voice acquired a new, velvety tone. "With such... grace."
His hand rose as if to touch Severus's hand, still holding the wand, but at the last moment he lowered it. "I'm glad you're here," he said quietly.
Severus raised his black, unreadable gaze to him. "The laboratory is truly exceptional," he replied, deliberately ignoring the personal subtext. "Thank you for the opportunity to use it."
But he saw the flash of disappointment in Fleamont's eyes. Saw that he wanted more. And that was exactly what was needed.
He became a frequent guest at the Potter estate. He came, worked in the laboratory, sometimes stayed for dinner. James and Sirius made their contempt clear in every way possible, but under Fleamont's watchful eye, they were forced to maintain a semblance of decency. Their hatred simmered beneath the surface, and Severus felt it like a warm breeze before a storm. He relished it.
He saw Fleamont growing more attached to him. How his gaze became more languid, how his touches—seemingly accidental—became more frequent and lingered longer. He saw the internal struggle growing in the older man—a struggle between duty, the image of a respectable family man, and a growing, forbidden attraction.
Severus masterfully played on this string. He was simultaneously available and unattainable. He allowed himself rare, sparse smiles that seemed meant for Fleamont alone. He shared his thoughts, his plans with him, creating the illusion of a deep, exclusive connection. But he never crossed the line. He made Fleamont want more. Wait. Suffer.
Once, late in the evening, as they sat in the library over a game of chess (Severus intentionally lost, but did it so artfully that it looked like an honest fight), Fleamont cracked. "Severus," he said, pushing the chessboard aside. "We both know what's happening. I... I can't ignore it any longer."
Severus looked up at him, feigning mild bewilderment. "Happening, sir? We are playing chess. And, I must admit, you almost beat me."
"Don't do that," Fleamont said quietly. His hand trembled as he poured himself a firewhisky. "Don't pretend. You can't fail to see what I feel for you."
Severus leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His face was an impassive mask. "And what do you feel, Mr. Potter?" he asked softly, almost dangerously.
"I... I admire you. Your mind. Your strength. Your... beauty," the last word was exhaled with effort, like a confession of a crime. "I think of you constantly. It's... it's driving me crazy, Severus."
Severus allowed the silence to hang between them, heavy, tense. "You are forgetting yourself, sir," he finally said. "You are a respected wizard, a family man. And I am a student, who have a complicated relationship with your son."