duhuds.cc 
He walked around Gryffindor tower. He walked up to the Astronomy tower. He walked to the library and the great hall and the kitchens before admitting to himself that all he was doing was delaying arrival at his inevitable destination.
So he walked down to the dungeons. What he would have done once he got there, had there not been a light on in Snape’s office, he didn’t really know. Would he really have continued to Snape’s rooms? Knocked?
Harry shook his head at himself, relieved to put off that test of courage for a while.
Forever, if he was lucky.
He tapped on Snape’s office door and waited, shivering. It was really cold down here. Yeah, Potter. Cold. Not nerves, not Harry Potter slayer of Voldemort. Of course not.
He jumped when the door opened and Snape stood there, peering out at him.
“Hi. Want some company?”
“No.” But Snape didn’t close the door, in fact backed away a little, so Harry strolled on in. The front office was dark; the light was coming from the back.
“What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Harry glanced at the rear office, then at Snape, still standing by the door. He was in a black robe and what looked like black silk pyjamas. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“No.” He shut the door and strode past Harry into his private office.
Harry followed. Snape sat on the edge of his desk, hands braced on either side. Harry saw a glass on the desk with an amber liquid in it. Snape seemed sober, though.
“No alcohol,” Snape said, and Harry realized Snape had noticed the direction of his stare.
“No, I know. I can think about it, though.” He smiled. “Why are you still up?”
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
“Ah. Your arm,” Harry concluded. Snape gave him a befuddled look.
“Oh,” Harry said. “Your arm’s not hurting you?”
Snape looked at it as if he’d forgotten he had one. “No.”
“Is it black and blue?” Harry asked. Snape pushed his robe and pyjama sleeves up to reveal a pale, wiry forearm, the Dark Mark a faded scar on the inside. He pushed the sleeves higher and Harry moved closer, sucking in a sympathetic breath at the long, dark bruise along the man’s upper arm.
“Ow.”
Snape turned his arm, eyed the bruising dispassionately. “I’ll live.” He let the sleeves drop but Harry reached out to catch them, stopping them at the elbow.
Snape’s head jerked up, but Harry was looking at the Dark Mark.
“It faded,” he said quietly. “Like my scar. May I?” He glanced at Snape, who said nothing, and took hold of Snape’s wrist, turning his body so the mark was right side up to his view. That this put him more or less in the circle of the man’s arms didn’t escape Harry. He let his fingers hover over the brownish scar, remembering.
“Did it … has it ever …” He sought for the phrase. “You know, hurt since then? Like an itch or a sting, for a moment?” He looked at Snape, doubting he had made himself understood. “And it’s a kind of … split-second nightmare?”
“As if he has returned,” Snape said, his tone soft, transparent. Harry nodded, exhaled.
“Then you realise he hasn’t, he can’t.” Harry touched the scar lightly, watched Snape’s fingers twitch in response. “And you wake up from the nightmare.” Harry shook his head and smiled. “He scared the piss out of me.”
“You have some sense, after all,” Snape said quietly.
Harry looked up at him, silently sharing both amusement and memory. He felt Snape’s fingers curl about his elbow, watched Snape’s eyes search his face in darting, questioning glances. Harry leaned closer, letting his palm rest over Snape’s Dark Mark. His eyes lidded of their own accord and his mouth opened. He felt Snape’s breath stroke hot over his tongue, and inhaled.
Then, nothing.
Harry opened his eyes. Snape hadn’t moved physically, but his expression was once again locked down, controlled.
“Severus—”
“It’s late.” Snape sidled away from him, awkward, his usual grace lost. “We should … go to bed.”
I agree, Harry was tempted to say, but he was in no mood for jokes. He ached for the contact he’d almost had – god, he could taste it – and he was troubled that Snape seemed to want him, but not enough to act.
He tried again. “Severus—”
But Snape held up one hand, rigid, not angry but implacable. “Harry. Let it go.”
Harry stopped. Snape’s use of his name felt like a plea, and he found he couldn’t push in the face of the man’s obvious discomfort.
He sighed. “Okay.”
Snape started away. Stopped.
Harry’s heart jumped – then plummeted when Snape left the office, not pausing or looking back.
Harry doused the light and left, locking the doors behind him before returning to his rooms. He returned to his bed, lay there for a long time with his mind whirling, then – surprisingly – fell asleep.
Day Five
“Good morning, Severus. May I call you Severus?”
Snape closed the book he was holding, seeming to weigh the request. “I suppose.”
“Really?” Harry suspected he looked fairly foolish beaming from ear to ear. Snape confirmed it.
“If it matters to you, I do not find the pathetically eager puppy act in the least appealing.”
Harry chuckled. “It matters, Severus.”
“Come here.” Snape took up the familiar phial and scalpel.
Harry marched to the table. “My blood is yours.”
“You would do well not to irritate a man about to lay a knife against your flesh, Mr. Potter.” Snape took hold of his wrist.
Harry closed his eyes, marshalling patience. “Will you please call me Harry or do I have to hex you into it?”
