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Chapter Text

Severus had always expected death to be final. He had resigned himself to it long before his last moments, knowing that, when the time finally came, there would be no second chances, no lingering echoes. His body would wither, his magic would fade, and he would be gone—mercifully, completely, gone.

So waking up was an immediate problem.The first thing he noticed was softness , That alone was suspicious.

The bed beneath him was far too plush, the sheets smooth, luxurious, and distinctly unfamiliar. The air smelled clean, lacking the damp rot of Hogwarts’ dungeons, the metallic tang of blood, or the faint musk of medicinal potions.

Instead, there was lavender, parchment, and burning wood. Severus froze, his senses sluggish but rapidly sharpening, crawling their way toward the only logical explanation: This was wrong.

He inhaled deeply. The room was warm, not in the smothering way of a sickbed, but the steady, controlled heat of a well-maintained hearth. The glow of sunlight seeped through heavy curtains, casting golden slants of light against the impossibly pristine, white marble floor.

And above him? Not the collapsing wooden beams of the Shrieking Shack.

His breath caught.

Severus forced himself upright, expecting the familiar flare of pain, the protesting stiffness of a body ruined by war and exhaustion.

But there was nothing. No soreness. No weakness , Just silence.

Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his hands. They were his—long, pale fingers, the same shape, the same breadth—but not right. His scars were gone.. He had carried those scars for decades—silent, stubborn reminders of the war, the choices he had made, and the price of survival. The burn along his fingertips had been earned in his apprenticeship, the cut on his palm a memento of a desperate duel. They had defined him in ways he had never questioned, written his past across his skin in pale lines of proof.

And now, they were gone , As if none of it had ever happened.

Severus inhaled through his nose, his heartbeat hammering too loudly in his ears.

This was not his body.

Or rather—it was, but not the one he had left behind.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he planted his feet onto cool marble. The sensation grounded him, offering a momentary anchor against the overwhelming wrongness of the situation.

His body moved too easily. There was no stiffness in his joints, no dull ache in his lower back, no fatigue lingering in his limbs.

It wasn’t youth—he was still the same age—but this body had never known suffering.

This body was healthy, well-fed, accustomed to comfort.

A noble’s body.

Severus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair—and paused.

It was soft.

His hair—normally an unmanageable disaster—was thicker, smoother, tied back with a silver clasp. He yanked the clasp free, letting the strands fall forward. It was clean, well-maintained, lacking the oily texture he had once considered an unfortunate inevitability of his existence.

It was also longer than it had been before his death.

Severus clenched his jaw.

He needed information. Immediately.

Turning, he took in the room properly.

It was massive.

The four-poster bed sat in the center, its emerald and silver canopy draped with heavy fabric. Across from it, a marble fireplace burned low, casting warm flickers of light along the walls, which were lined with tapestries, paintings, and gilded shelves filled with books.

This was not some ordinary chamber.

This was the room of someone important.

And given that he was the one currently occupying it—

Severus narrowed his eyes.

He stalked forward, his bare feet silent against the polished floor, and headed straight for the large oak desk in the corner. It was covered in neatly stacked documents, sealed letters, and bound ledgers. He scanned them quickly, his fingers ghosting over the wax seals.

And then, he found it.

A letter.

The wax seal was dark green, stamped with a sigil that was unfamiliar but undeniably noble—a serpent coiled around a silver dagger, encircled by thorned vines.

He cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment.

"Lord Severus Noir,
You are expected at the Imperial Court within the month. Your status as a suitor remains unchanged, but given your recent illness, we understand if your participation is limited. Please send word of your condition when possible."

Severus read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, as if the words might somehow rearrange themselves into something less ridiculous.

Because—what?

His fingers tightened around the parchment.

He was a noble. He was expected at court. And—somehow, for reasons unknown—he was a suitor for the Emperor.

Severus exhaled through his nose.

That was a problem for later.

Right now, he had more pressing concerns.

Like figuring out exactly where he was, how this had happened, and whether or not there was any immediate danger.

The next two weeks were spent in quiet, relentless investigation. He prowled the estate’s corridors, examining every wing, every locked door, every faint magical signature. He tested the wards, rifled through every document he could find, and listened to the staff’s careful conversations.

First, he was stupidly wealthy.

The estate—because it certainly wasn’t just a house—was absurdly large. The hallways stretched in seemingly endless corridors, each turn revealing another extravagant sitting room, library, or sunlit courtyard.

The staff—because of course he had a staff—moved effortlessly around him, bowing their heads and continuing their work as if he belonged there.

They weren’t afraid of him.

That was the first unsettling difference.

In fact, they treated him with such unshaken politeness that it was becoming a problem.

“My lord,” one of them greeted him with a deep bow.

Severus scowled. “Stop that.”

“My deepest apologies, Lord Noir,” the servant said, bowing even lower.

Severus considered setting them on fire.

And none of them knew he had just woken up in this body with no idea what was happening.

Severus had spent days mapping out the estate, searching for answers, weaknesses, or traps. Every sign pointed to the same truth—this life was real, and it was his.

But it wasn’t until he found the library that he truly accepted it.

It was two stories of wealth and knowledge, filled with books he had never seen before—rare alchemical texts, ancient magical theories, and obscure potion practices long lost to time. A spiral staircase led to the upper level, where reading nooks lined with emerald velvet overlooked towering shelves of knowledge. Some books contained his own handwriting, notes scribbled in the margins, suggesting that this Severus—this Lord Noir—had already been researching.

Then he found the laboratory, and that was the moment he decided he was staying.

It was perfect.

Shelves lined with rare ingredients, a cooling chamber enchanted to preserve volatile materials, a self-stirring cauldron of the highest quality—everything was meticulously organized, sorted by potency, stability, and refinement.

He stood in the center of the lab, arms crossed, taking it all in.

He could work with this.

And if he was here, he would use every advantage available to him.

The first month was spent learning—absorbing everything this world knew about magic and potions, which, in Severus’s professional opinion, was tragically underdeveloped.

By the second month, he was experimenting, refining formulas, improving existing theories, and ensuring he had full control over his own resources.

By the third month, he had started a business.

And within weeks, it was wildly successful.

His strategy was simple but brilliantly effective:

1. Exploit the nobles. He bottled cheap, easy-to-make potions in ornate crystal vials, added unnecessary gold trim, and marketed them as luxury elixirs for the elite. With an absurd markup, the wealthy clamored to outbid each other for "exclusive" potions, none the wiser that they were paying ten times the actual value.
2. Undercut the healing market. While nobles wasted fortunes, hospitals, clinics, and the poorer communities quietly received high-quality, effective healing potions at a reasonable price. He made sure they were affordable, widely available, and that no one could overcharge or hoard them for personal profit.

By the fourth month, Severus was stupidly rich.

His business had crushed competitors, outpaced healers, and redefined the empire’s potion industry. And best of all—no one knew it was him.

The empire’s nobles were unknowingly funding his efforts to revolutionize healthcare for the lower classes.

It was perfect.

Except for one problem—

The Imperial Court still expected him to participate in the Emperor’s suitor selection.

He had ignored the summons so far, but it was clear that sooner or later, he would have to deal with it.

But that?

That was a problem for future Severus.

Chapter Text

The Victory Ball was not just a celebration.

It was a political tool. A statement. A reminder to the empire that it had triumphed over one of its greatest enemies.

Five years ago, Duke Tom Riddle had been executed for his crimes, and the empire had been reclaimed from his influence. His defeat had marked the end of a long, brutal conflict, and every year since, the nobility gathered in the grand hall of the Imperial Palace to drink, smile, and pretend they had played a significant role in the victory.

It was tradition.

And this year—for the first time—Harry was presiding over it.

He had woken up in this new world, in this new body, four months ago, and it had been nothing short of a nightmare.

Dying had been instantaneous. The last thing he remembered was Voldemort collapsing at his feet, the world a blur of blood, exhaustion, and finality. He had known, in those last moments, that he wouldn’t survive much longer either.

He had expected darkness. Oblivion.

Instead, he had woken up in silk sheets, inside an unfamiliar palace, with people bowing to him and calling him ‘Your Majesty.’

It had taken precisely two days to realize that the previous Hariel Drakonis—the man whose body he now inhabited—had been an absolute disaster of a ruler.

Too soft. Too trusting. A figurehead rather than a leader. Manipulated by corrupt nobles, utterly unprepared for war, and just barely competent enough to hold the empire together.

In short? A disaster.

The first month had been chaos.

The nobility had assumed he would be easy to control. The military had been in shambles. The empire had been on the verge of collapse. Every decision he made had been watched, analyzed, and picked apart for weakness. He had been expected to be the same weak-willed Emperor as before.

They had been very, very wrong.

In the past four months, Harry had worked relentlessly to undo years of negligence.

And yet—despite everything—one problem remained.

Someone had ordered the assassination of the original Hariel.

And until Harry had an answer, until he knew exactly who had tried to kill him, his work was far from done.

Tonight was another test. Another game of control. Every movement, every conversation, every gesture carried weight. A single misstep could shift the balance of power.

So when it came time to choose his first dance partner, he already knew that it was not a decision to take lightly.

"Your Majesty, it is time to choose your first dance partner."

Harry exhaled slowly, scanning the ballroom.

This was not about preference or personal enjoyment.

This was about politics.

Whoever he chose would be the center of court attention for the remainder of the evening. It would be a statement. A power play.

If he chose a political ally, it would reinforce his growing influence over the court.
If he chose a foreign noble, it would signal an interest in diplomacy.
If he chose a suitor, it would shift the focus toward the Imperial Marriage Selection, something he had successfully ignored for the past four months.

He had barely put any thought into it.

Until he saw him.

And everything stopped.

For the first time since arriving in this world, Harry’s mind completely shut down.

Because—what the fuck.

That was definitely Severus Snape.

There was no mistake.

Same sharp, unimpressed gaze. Same arrogantly neutral expression that somehow made everyone around him feel stupid without saying a single word.

But this wasn’t Hogwarts.

Snape—no, Noir, apparently—was standing at the far end of the ballroom, wearing impeccably tailored dark green robes, draped in silks and embroidered silver detailing.

And he looked… good.

Better than Harry had ever seen him. His skin was smoother, his posture relaxed, and—Merlin help him—his hair was actually styled, pulled back with an ornate silver clasp.

It was disturbing.

But what was worse—what sent Harry’s heart thudding painfully against his ribs—was the fact that Severus looked completely at ease.

Like he belonged here.

Like he had always belonged here.

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears.

This isn’t possible.

Was Snape reincarnated too?
Did he remember?
Had he been here this whole time?
Was he—

Before Harry could fully process anything, their eyes met.

Severus looked directly at him.

And then—

He turned away.

Like Harry was a stranger.

Harry felt his entire sense of reality tilt.

Severus had just looked him in the eye and ignored him.

Like they had never met.

Like he hadn’t been one of the most important people in Harry’s past life.

Like none of it had ever happened.

"Your Majesty, who shall be your first dance?"

Harry didn’t hesitate.

"Lord Noir."

Severus stepped into place, his expression perfectly neutral.

Harry locked his jaw.

"You."

Severus blinked politely, as if he had no idea what Harry was talking about.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

Harry’s eye twitched.

"Don’t do this."

Severus tilted his head, feigning mild confusion.

"Do what?"

"Act like you don’t know me."

"I’m afraid I don’t, Your Majesty."

Harry stared at him, barely containing his frustration.

"Severus—"

"Lord Noir," Severus corrected smoothly, his tone unbothered. "I believe you are mistaken, Your Majesty. We have never met."

Harry’s grip on Severus’s hand tightened.

Severus arched a single, impressed eyebrow, as if to say, Oh? Are you actually going to make a scene?

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, barely holding it together.

"You’re lying."

"Am I?"

"You know who I am."

"I know that you are the Emperor, yes."

"You are doing this on purpose."

Severus’s lips curled ever so slightly.

"Doing what, Your Majesty?"

Harry was going to throw him into the nearest lake.

The final note played, signaling the end of the dance.

Severus stepped back, bowed elegantly, and smiled.

"Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty."

Harry was seething.

And then—before Harry could say anything—

Severus was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry had one goal.

Find Snape. Drag him into a private room. Demand answers.

Unfortunately, the gods had decided to be particularly cruel tonight.

The moment Snape had stepped away, the nobility swarmed like vultures.

"Your Majesty, a pleasure—"

"Dance with me, Your Majesty?"

"An honor to be your partner, Your Majesty!"

Harry barely kept his expression neutral, even as frustration burned beneath his skin. He needed to get off this dance floor. Now.

But every time he tried to step away, another partner would seamlessly take the last one’s place. He was forced to smile, nod, move through the motions, all while his mind was completely and utterly consumed by the impossible situation that had just unfolded.

Snape was here.

Alive. Looking exactly like himself, though far too well-rested and smug for Harry’s liking. And, most frustratingly—he was pretending not to know him.

Was it an act?
Had he been reincarnated first?
Had he always been here?

And, perhaps the worst thought of all—

What if Snape was telling the truth?

What if he really didn’t remember?

The thought made something in Harry’s chest tighten unpleasantly.

It wasn’t like they had ever been close, but there had been… something. A history, an understanding forged through war and sacrifice. And even if Snape had hated him in the end, he had died protecting him.

Harry had watched him bleed out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, his body trembling from the venom in his veins.

And now—here he was, sipping wine like he owned the place.

Harry’s gaze snapped to the side, searching for him, and sure enough—there he was.

Snape.

Lounging in a high-backed velvet chair, swirling his wine in slow, lazy circles.

The bastard looked completely at ease.

And then—as if sensing Harry’s stare—he looked up. Their gazes locked.

And Snape smirked.

It was slow, deliberate, and infuriatingly self-satisfied.

Then, as if to fully cement his villainy, he raised his glass slightly, a silent toast to Harry’s suffering.

Harry’s eye twitched violently.

He was going to kill him.

The second the last dance ended, Harry moved.

Before the next noble could trap him in another pointless waltz, he cut through the ballroom, his steps sharp and unyielding.

Severus, still seated, watched his approach with a slow, lazy blink, as though only mildly curious about the Emperor striding toward him with obvious murderous intent.

Harry could see it—the amusement flickering behind those dark eyes. The quiet, patient anticipation of whatever game he was playing.

Harry had no interest in playing along.

Reaching him, Harry grabbed his wrist and yanked him to his feet.

"We need to talk."

Severus blinked, his expression the picture of polite surprise.

"Do we?"

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Now."

A muscle in Severus’s jaw twitched—not in irritation, but something closer to amusement.

How delightful. Harry thought he was in control of this situation.

With an air of indulgent curiosity, Severus allowed himself to be dragged from the ballroom, his mind already spinning through the possibilities.

He had expected a reaction, but this—this was promising.

The door slammed shut behind them, the finality of it echoing through the empty chamber.

Harry turned, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but undeniably tense.

Severus, in contrast, was the picture of effortless ease, standing just inside the doorway, tilting his head slightly as if assessing something mildly interesting.

"Such urgency, Your Majesty," he mused, voice smooth as silk.

Harry exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching in irritation.

"Enough games, Snape. Tell me what the hell is going on."

Severus sighed dramatically, placing a thoughtful hand over his chest.

"I would, but I have no idea what you mean."

Harry’s eye twitched.

"You are literally doing this on purpose."

Severus lifted a single, unimpressed brow.

"Doing what, Your Majesty?"

"Pretending not to know me."

"I don’t know you."

"Severus—"

"Lord Noir," Severus corrected smoothly.

Harry dragged a hand down his face, inhaling deeply as though praying for patience.

"You are Severus Snape."

Severus stilled for just a fraction of a second.

Then—gracefully recovering—he blinked at Harry with polite, measured curiosity.

"Am I?"

"Yes!"

Severus made a soft, considering sound, his fingers tapping against his arm as if indulging a particularly dull theory.

"A bold claim, Your Majesty. Do you often go around assuming people are your long-lost acquaintances?"

Harry’s hands curled into fists.

"You died, Snape."

Severus’s lips twitched.

"Did I?"

"Yes!"

"And yet," Severus said lightly, gesturing vaguely at himself, "here I am."

Harry stared at him. 

Severus considered pushing him further, but there was something in Harry’s eyes—a frustration deeper than mere irritation.

And that was interesting.

More than interesting.

Severus took a step forward.

"Tell me, Your Majesty," he murmured, voice low, smooth, coaxing, "why are you so certain I am this ‘Severus Snape’?"

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"Because I know you."

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

Severus hummed, tilting his head slightly.

"Curious. Because I certainly don’t recall meeting you before."

Harry inhaled sharply.

"You do remember."

"I really don’t."

"You—"

Severus sighed, looking vaguely disappointed.

"Ah, I see. I was right. You have mistaken me for an old lover."

Harry choked on air.

"What—no—"

Severus lifted a thoughtful hand to his chin, tapping it lightly.

"That would explain your reaction, though. The staring. The dramatic tension. The clear frustration—"

Harry made an inhuman noise.

"You are the worst person alive."

Severus smirked.

"And yet, here you are. Approaching me."

Harry’s patience snapped.

But instead of yelling, his expression shifted.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he smirked.

"You will attend every suitor event from now on. Without fail."

Severus paused.
"Is that an order, Your Majesty?"

Harry held his gaze, expression unwavering.
"Yes, it is."

There was a beat of silence.

Then—to Harry’s complete and utter irritation—Severus smirked.

"Well then… it will be as you wish."

Severus held Harry’s gaze, the sharp blue of his eyes bright with satisfaction, and something inside Severus thrummed with anticipation.

Harry thought he had won.

Severus would enjoy proving him wrong.

A slow, contemplative silence stretched between them—just long enough for Harry to believe he had successfully cornered him.

Then, with purposeful slowness, Severus lifted his hand and—

Undid the top button of his robe.

Harry’s smirk faltered.

Severus suppressed the urge to outright grin, instead opting for a measured, deliberate pace as he loosened the fabric at his collar, his fingers grazing the material just enough to let it shift slightly open.

Harry stared.

Fascinating.

Severus continued—his movements lazy, practiced, perfectly controlled—as he lifted one hand to his lips. With deliberate ease, he caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to leave it flushed, red, and utterly distracting.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he brushed his thumb across it, smearing the faintest hint of wine, a final touch to complete the effect.

Harry’s breathing hitched.

Severus’s smirk deepened.

And then—for the final touch—he ran a hand through his hair, tousling it just enough to look effortlessly undone, like he had just been thoroughly and scandalously handled in a locked room with the Emperor.

The moment stretched between them, silent, electric, and unbearably heavy.

Harry’s brain had clearly stopped working.

Severus considered sparing him. Truly, he did.

But then Harry exhaled sharply, and the sound was so frustrated, so irritated, that Severus decided—

No.

He was going to ruin his night.

He stepped back, inclining his head in mocking respect, his dark eyes never once leaving Harry’s.

"I will see you soon, Your Majesty."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned—graceful, effortless, completely at ease—and strode out of the room.

Harry was left behind, still standing rigidly in place, looking angry, scandalized, and—if Severus was not mistaken—slightly overwhelmed.

Severus smirked.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Severus did not need to look back to know Harry was still standing there, fuming.

Nor did he need to check his reflection in any nearby mirrors to know he looked exactly like someone who had just been thoroughly ravished in a secluded room and abandoned to recover.

Which, truly, was an excellent outcome.

With an air of perfect nonchalance, Severus stepped into the ballroom.

And just as planned—everyone saw him.

Conversations stuttered to a halt.

Eyes widened.

And then—the whispers began.

"LOOK AT HIM—"

"THE EMPEROR AND LORD NOIR—ALONE—AND NOW HE LOOKS LIKE THAT—"

"Something happened!"

"Did the Emperor drag him away for that?!"

The sheer delightful madness of it all nearly made Severus laugh.

He did not stop.

Did not pause.

Did not even acknowledge the stunned expressions around him.

Instead, he let them see.

The tousled hair.
The flushed lips.
The partially undone robes.

And, most importantly—his complete and utter lack of explanation.

Every step was measured, deliberate, his posture exuding indifference, as though completely unaware of the absolute destruction he had just unleashed upon the Imperial Court.

It was masterful.

He reached for a passing servant’s tray, plucked up a fresh glass of wine, and—just to make it worse—took a slow, indulgent sip.

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers.

Severus barely concealed his amusement.

He continued forward, his movements smooth, unrushed, weaving through the stunned, whispering nobles. The speculation was already spiraling wildly—a symphony of half-formed theories and deliciously incorrect conclusions.

Exactly as planned.

Harry had taken too long to compose himself.

By the time he stepped back into the ballroom, he was already too late.

The damage had been done.

He knew it instantly.

The shift in the atmosphere was palpable—every noble in the room was whispering, staring, or actively losing their minds.

And then he saw Severus.

And immediately wanted to throw him into the sun.

The bastard was gliding through the ballroom like a specter of pure chaos, his robes still undone, his hair just disheveled enough to cause problems, and his expression one of perfect, serene indifference.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

He barely took two steps before he heard it.

"My gods—"

"They must have fought—"

"Or—"

A noble near him gasped dramatically.

"Or the Emperor chased after him—and got rejected."

Harry’s entire body locked up.

His head snapped toward the whispering nobles, who immediately flinched under his glare.

But it was too late.

The damage was irreversible.

The Imperial Court was now drowning in theories, and the worst part?

Harry couldn’t even deny them without making it worse.

He had dragged Severus away.

He had looked furious.

And now Severus was walking back into the ballroom looking like—

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply.

Merlin, just kill me now.

The moment the carriage door shut behind him, Severus exhaled slowly, letting himself fully relax.

Then, with careful precision, he fixed himself.

First—his hair. A casual pass of fingers through the strands, just enough to restore his usual sleek composure.

Then—his robe. He rebuttoned the top with deliberate slowness, smoothing the fabric as though nothing had happened at all.

Finally—his lips. A quick swipe of his thumb, removing any lingering trace of his earlier performance.

By the time the carriage lurched forward, Severus was once again the epitome of composure.

And yet—he could not stop smirking.

That had gone far better than expected.

Harry had walked straight into his trap.

The court was drowning in deliciously incorrect speculation.

And—perhaps best of all—Severus Noir was now the most talked-about noble in the empire.

He let the satisfaction settle over him.

And before he could stop himself—a low, delighted chuckle escaped.

Then another.

And then—before he knew it—he was laughing.

Soft, rich amusement spilled from his lips, his shoulders shaking slightly as he leaned back against the plush seats.

Because this was utterly ridiculous.

And he was enjoying every second of it.

The noble court was in chaos.

Harry was frustrated beyond reason.

And all it had taken was a smirk, a few undone buttons, and a well-timed exit.

Severus let out one final, breathless chuckle, a wicked grin still lingering on his lips.

Yes.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the banquet.

Two weeks since Severus walked into a private room looking perfectly fine and walked out looking like sin incarnate.

Two weeks since the nobles had collectively decided that Harry was in love with him.

And now, two weeks later, Harry had reached the limit of his patience.

He had endured whispers in every corridor, knowing smirks from advisors, and nobles boldly congratulating him on his ‘passionate reunion.’ He had tolerated over-excited courtiers making wistful comments about ‘destined love’ and ‘rekindled flames.’

He had ignored it all.

But this morning, at breakfast, he had overheard someone call Severus "His Majesty’s Secret Beloved."

And that—that was the final straw.

Which was why, at the crack of dawn, after a sleepless night spent plotting vengeance, he had summoned the Imperial Archives and demanded every single record they had on Severus Noir.

And now, sitting in his private study with stacks of documents before him, Harry was beginning to suspect that fate itself was laughing at him.

"Lord Noir was the weakest of the suitor candidates," the head archivist said, looking as though he felt physically embarrassed to be discussing Severus at all.

Harry blinked slowly. "Weakest?"

The archivist hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "He was barely considered for the position at all, Your Majesty. He was sickly, of no significant lineage, and—" he paused, then cleared his throat awkwardly, "—well, there were… rumors."

Harry’s brow furrowed sharply. "Rumors?"

"That he was cursed."

Harry stared at him. "Cursed?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the archivist continued, flipping through the documents. "His health was fragile from childhood, but as he grew older, it became worse. It was widely believed that his body would not survive another year, let alone a marriage to the throne. Many suspected it was a bloodline curse, others thought it divine punishment. Either way, no one—" the man hesitated again, shifting the papers in his hands.

"No one what?" Harry snapped.

The archivist cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "No one… considered him a serious candidate. He was viewed as a formality, a noble in name only. Some even scorned his appearance, calling him unfit to stand beside the Emperor."

Harry froze mid-motion, a slow, creeping irritation crawling up his spine.

"Unfit?"

The archivist nodded. "Many thought him too severe-looking, too sharp, too—"

"What?" Harry demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously.

The archivist looked increasingly nervous, clearly regretting his life choices. 

"Too—ah—unpleasant to the eye, Your Majesty." Harry snapped the document shut, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached. Because what the actual hell were these people talking about?

 He had seen Severus. And, unfortunately, he had noticed Severus. 

And there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way Severus Noir looked. In fact, that was the goddamn problem. 

Harry closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose, and counted to five. It didn’t help.

 Because now, in addition to dealing with the mystery of their reincarnation, Severus’s ridiculous evasion, and the absolute madness of the court, he now had to process the fact that this world had apparently been collectively blind.

Because his Severus—the one from before, the one Harry had known—had always carried himself like a storm contained in brittle glass, sharp and too thin, dressed in black robes that swallowed him whole. His presence had been intimidating, but his body—tired, worn down, always on the edge of exhaustion—had never matched his commanding voice and razor-edged wit.

But this Severus?

This Severus was healthy, no longer wrapped in perpetual tension or hidden beneath layers of stiff fabric. He wore his indulgence well. He was no longer just a force of will, but a presence that demanded attention the second he walked into a room.

And these idiots had the audacity to call him unpleasant to the eye?

Harry’s irritation sharpened into offense.

Not for himself.

For Severus.

For the man who had already spent a lifetime being dismissed, underestimated, treated as lesser.

He took another slow, measured breath, forcing his mind back to the actual problem at hand.

Severus had been dismissed, mocked, scorned for things he couldn’t control. He had been treated as a joke, expected to die, and then suddenly—he didn’t.

He recovered.

Completely.

"Four months ago?" Harry repeated, his voice too even.

The archivist nodded.

"Yes, Your Majesty. It was quite miraculous. One day, he was at death’s door, and the next—perfect health."

Harry exhaled sharply.

Four months ago.

The exact same time he had woken up in this body.

His mind raced, piecing together the timeline, the patterns, the impossible coincidence that wasn’t a coincidence at all.

He had been sick, weak, dying—until something changed.

Until, just like Harry, he had been restored.

And now, instead of searching for answers, instead of demanding explanations, Severus was living in luxury, running a secret potion business, and absolutely refusing to acknowledge the insanity of their situation.

Harry’s fingers curled into fists.

Noir was Snape.

And if he remembered?

Then Snape was absolutely fucking with him.

But if he didn't?

Then Harry had just dragged a ghost out of its grave.

And either way—he needed to know the truth.

Harry arrived at Severus’s obscenely extravagant home at noon, expecting to be received immediately.

Instead, he was met with disappointment.

And a butler with the unshakable patience of a saint—who, Harry soon discovered, had specific instructions not to let him in.

"His Lordship is currently indisposed, Your Majesty."

Harry frowned sharply. "Indisposed how?"

"Resting, Your Majesty."

Harry stared. "Resting."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

A muscle in his jaw twitched violently. "You mean to tell me that Lord Noir is taking a nap while I, the Emperor, am standing at his doorstep?"

The butler, entirely unbothered, nodded.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Harry’s patience snapped in half.

"Wake him."

"I’m afraid His Lordship left strict instructions not to be disturbed should you arrive, Your Majesty."

Harry inhaled deeply.

"Tell him that I am here. And that if he does not come down within the next five minutes, I will be taking a personal tour of his home."

For the first time, the butler hesitated—just barely, just enough for Harry to recognize the flicker of internal debate.

So. Severus had anticipated this.

Expected him to come here.

And had left specific orders to keep him waiting.

Harry’s irritation simmered into something sharp and unrelenting.

The butler straightened.

"I shall relay your message, Your Majesty."

And then, with an infuriating amount of calm, he turned and left.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

Severus was doing this on purpose.

So, with zero hesitation, Harry began exploring the house.

The library was breathtaking.

Not just in the way of wealth or status, but in the way of carefully cultivated obsession.

Towering shelves, dark oak polished to a gleaming perfection, stretched high above him. A spiral staircase wound up to a private balcony, where an ornate desk sat, surrounded by well-used books, marked and annotated.

Harry ran his fingers along the spines of the books, reading the titles.

Alchemy. Potioneering. Medicine. Theory.

All technical, all useful, all read.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he understood.

Why Severus was so satisfied here.

A quiet, indulgent life—wealth, knowledge, absolute autonomy.

And then—he noticed the door.

It was set into the back wall, almost unassuming, blending too well into the room’s architecture.

Locked.

Harry tilted his head slightly.

A hidden lab.

He barely had to try—one flick of his fingers and the lock gave way, the door swinging open with a soft click.

The moment he stepped inside, he knew.

This wasn’t a noble’s hobby workspace.

Not some idle indulgence of alchemical curiosity.

This was a potions laboratory—and not just any laboratory.

Shelves lined with rare ingredients, some so difficult to obtain that Harry doubted even the imperial palace had access to them. A cooling chamber enchanted for preservation, meticulously labeled drawers, a cauldron of the highest quality, potion formulas and research notes stacked in organized piles.

And then—his eyes landed on the writing desk.

And the notes.

The first few pages were nothing special—basic alchemical theories, calculations on par with a first-year’s work.

Then—suddenly, jarringly—everything changed.

The handwriting remained the same, but the complexity of the work jumped leagues ahead.

Perfectly balanced formulas. Theoretical experiments that rivaled the work of potion masters. Handwritten margins that built upon existing ideas, refined and corrected them, improved them.

It was undeniable.

A timeline laid out in ink.

The work of an amateur—and then, overnight, the mind of a master.

Harry exhaled sharply, realization crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

This wasn’t just Severus Noir.

This was Snape.

Before he could process the full weight of it, before he could calm the thunderous racing of his mind—

A sharp magical pulse shuddered through the air.

An alarm.

Harry barely had time to turn before footsteps thundered down the stairs.

The door slammed open.

Harry turned, already prepared for some level of confrontation.

He was not prepared for this.

Severus stood in the doorway, barefoot, robe barely tied, hair a mess, looking like he had just woken up and had been dragged down here by sheer force of magic alone.

The robe was thin, dangerously so, the deep green silk hanging loose against his frame, slipping off one shoulder just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his collarbone.

Harry’s brain stopped functioning.

Because for the first time, he truly saw Severus Noir.

Not as a professor draped in layers of stiff black fabric, not as a shadowed figure lurking behind a desk or a battlefield.

This was not Severus Snape in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

This was a man who had embraced every luxury available to him, and it showed.

Harry, against all reason and logic, found himself momentarily, utterly thrown.

Severus, blinking sleepily, ran a hand through his hair, utterly oblivious to the crisis unfolding in Harry’s mind.

Then, his eyes landed on the notes in Harry’s hand.

And just like that—he was awake.

His expression froze, irritation morphing into sharp focus in an instant.

"your—"

Harry, forcibly shoving his thoughts back into place, took a slow step forward, his voice calm, edged with something unreadable.

"I see why you’re so satisfied here."

Severus said nothing, but his shoulders tensed slightly.

Harry gestured toward the library, the lab, everything Severus had built.

"Is this his?" he asked, his voice pointed. "Or did you build it for yourself, Professor?"

Severus’s jaw tightened just slightly, but his face remained carefully neutral.

Then—slowly, lazily—he smirked.

"I hardly see how that concerns you, Your Majesty."

Harry’s fingers clenched slightly around the parchment.

Because now, finally, they were getting somewhere.

"Because it confirms everything." His voice was low, dangerous.

Severus tilted his head slightly, gaze flickering toward the scattered research notes still in Harry’s grip.

"Does it?"

Harry took a step forward, closing the space between them just slightly.

"You were dying," he said.
"And then, four months ago, you weren’t."

Severus’s shoulders were too still.

"You were an amateur," Harry continued, eyes burning into him.
"And then, suddenly, you weren’t."

Nothing.

Not a twitch. Not a blink.

Then—the faintest shift of fingers, curling slightly into silk fabric.

Harry’s pulse hammered.

"You remember."

The words hung heavy in the air.

And for a moment—just one—Severus hesitated.

It was there, flickering in the shadows of his expression.

And then—it was gone.

Replaced with an infuriating smirk.

"I have no idea what you mean, Your Majesty."

Harry’s patience snapped.

"Severus—"

"Lord Noir," Severus corrected smoothly, voice silk-smooth, absolutely unbothered.

Harry inhaled sharply, his breath coming out too fast, his frustration curling too tight inside his chest.

He had never been good at hiding emotion, and Severus—the bastard—could see every inch of it.

"You can deny it all you want," Harry muttered, voice sharp, rough around the edges.
"But I know the truth now."

Severus hummed, mockingly thoughtful.

"Do you?"

Harry took another step forward, the air thick, too close, too charged—

And for the first time, he saw it.

The moment Severus registered something different.

Not just anger.

Not just frustration.

But something closer to betrayal.

Harry had expected many things from this confrontation—resistance, amusement, exasperation.

But not this.

Not this unreadable thing sitting in Severus’s gaze.

Not this silent, unspoken weight between them.

"Why?" Harry finally asked, voice quieter than before.

Severus stilled.

"Why are you pretending?"

A beat.

A long, tense, unbearable beat.

Severus watched him too carefully, something flickering behind his unreadable expression, something Harry couldn’t name—

And then—

Severus smirked.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about, Your Majesty."

The words were smooth, effortless. But his eyes—just for a moment—were not. There was something there, something sharp and fleeting, buried before Harry could grasp it. A hesitation? No—a refusal.

And then, before Harry could say another word—

Severus turned on his heel and left.

Harry did not stop him.

He did not move.

He did not breathe.

Because for the first time since waking up in this world, Harry realized—

Severus was lying.

But not for the reason Harry thought.

Not even close.

And Harry, standing there, fists clenched, heart pounding, was more determined than ever to get the truth.

Chapter Text

Severus had been having a perfectly pleasant afternoon.

He was seated in his study, surrounded by quiet, a glass of wine in hand, meticulously cataloging newly acquired potion ingredients. The estate had been blessedly peaceful all day, and he had been content to work in silence, undisturbed.

Then, the first package arrived.

It was set before him with the utmost care, a polished black box, wrapped in emerald silk, an Imperial crest subtly pressed into the wax seal.

Severus stared at it.

Matthias, standing beside the desk, cleared his throat. “A gift from His Majesty, my Lord.”

Severus blinked slowly.

Then, just as slowly, he looked up at his assistant.

Matthias, ever-unshakable, simply met his gaze.

Severus exhaled through his nose and, with the utmost reluctance, unfolded the wax seal and pulled back the silk.

Inside was a robe.

Severus frowned.

Not just any robe—an exact replica of the ones he used to wear.

High-collared, black, buttoned from throat to hem in a row of familiar, stiff fastenings. The material, however, was different—better. A luxurious enchanted weave, undoubtedly worth a small fortune.

Severus touched the fabric, fingers brushing against the sleeve.

It was precise.

He set the robe aside, expression unreadable.

The next day, a second package arrived.

Inside: A book.

Severus paused.

Not just any book—a first edition of Theories of Transmutation and Arcane Matter.

It had been impossible to find in his old life. He had once spent years searching, and now—here it was, unwrapped before him.

Severus said nothing.

On the third day, a chess set.

On the fourth day, a silver pocket watch, its engravings too deliberately familiar for his liking.

Severus, for four consecutive days, pretended not to notice.

Then, on the fifth day, the final package arrived.

Severus did not need to open it.

The moment the sickly sweet scent reached him, he knew.

White lilies.

Wrapped in emerald ribbon.

Severus, very calmly, picked up his wine glass.

Took a slow sip.

Then, very, very carefully, set it down.

Matthias, now fully aware that he was witnessing a moment of profound historical importance, remained silent.

Severus stared at the bouquet.

Matthias, professionally detached, announced, “His Majesty has sent—”

“I know what he has sent, Matthias.”

Silence.

Severus’s eye twitched.

Matthias waited.

Severus, very carefully, inhaled deeply.

And exhaled slowly.

Then, in a voice far too even, he said, “Take it back.”

Matthias did not move.

“…My Lord?”

Severus’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest. His tone remained calm—but now there was a thread of pure, undiluted irritation woven beneath it.

“Take. It. Back.”

Matthias, impossibly neutral, remained still.

Severus exhaled, forcing himself to remain composed.

“No.” He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “In fact, you are going to walk into the palace, find the Emperor, and throw them at his face.”

Matthias blinked once.

“…My Lord, I cannot possibly—”Severus turned, his expression neutral, his voice velvet-smooth but carrying the weight of absolute conviction.

“Tell him that if he so much as touches a single hair on your head, I will burn his palace down.”

Matthias, after a long pause, straightened his cuffs.

“…Very well.”

Severus allowed himself the smallest smirk.

“Good. Channel your anger. Remember he is about make both of our life significantly harder”

Alric had been having a perfectly normal day.

He was seated at his usual place beside the Emperor’s desk, meticulously reviewing diplomatic documents, a cup of perfectly steeped tea in hand, listening to the familiar sound of his Emperor pacing across the room.

Harry had been muttering under his breath for the past ten minutes, a sure sign that his thoughts were once again occupied by one specific person.

Severus Noir.

Alric sipped his tea.

Then—the doors swung open.

Lord noir’s assistant entered. With purpose.

And before Alric could fully process what was happening, the bouquet of lilies was airborne.

It struck the Emperor square in the face.

Several petals broke free from the bouquet, drifting through the air like tiny, delicate soldiers sacrificing themselves for the cause.

One particularly bold petal landed directly in Harry’s tea.

Alric blinked.

The room fell into absolute silence.

Harry, mid-signature, did not move.

Matthias, standing calmly before them, clasped his hands behind his back, utterly unshaken.

“His Lordship declines your most generous offering, Your Majesty.”

Alric, on pure instinct, took a sip of his now-ruined tea to keep himself from grinning.

Harry, still motionless, reached up very slowly and plucked a petal from his hair.

Flicked it aside.

Matthias, ever composed, continued in the same measured tone.

“Additionally, Lord Noir wishes to inform Your Majesty that should you lay a single hand on me, he will personally ensure your palace is reduced to ash.”

Alric was vibrating with delight.

This was, without question, the single greatest moment of his professional career.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, slow and measured, and then, with deliberate precision, snatched a fresh piece of parchment.

Alric took another sip of his petal-infused tea.

Oh.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Matthias placed a neatly folded letter onto Severus’s desk.

Severus, glancing up briefly, noted the faintest hint of satisfaction in his assistant’s expression.

Matthias, with just the right amount of smugness, said, “A response, my Lord.”

Severus, curious but composed, unfolded the letter, eyes skimming the bold, confident handwriting.

"I had forgotten how dramatic you are. You do remember, don’t you?"

Silence.

Severus’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Matthias waited.

Then—Severus smirked.

“You can go now.”

Matthias tilted his head slightly. “ My lord?”

Severus folded the letter with careful precision. “He doesn't need an answer .”

Matthias raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe His Majesty will simply let it go, do you?”

Severus exhaled, leaning back in his chair, exuding an air of absolute nonchalance.

“Let him stew in silence for a while.”

Matthias, flatly, “I don’t believe His Majesty stews, my Lord.”

Severus’s smirk deepened.

“Then he’ll learn.”

Later that night…

Alric placed his quill down and stared at the parchment before him.

The words sat there, neat and deliberate, betraying nothing of the impulse that had driven him to write them.

He should throw it into the fire.

Instead, he reached for his seal.

With the precise, measured movements of a man who had never once acted without calculation, he pressed his personal emblem into the wax and set the letter aside.

A slow breath in. A slower breath out.

This was not reckless.

This was not indulgent.

This was simply a necessary diplomatic exchange between two professionals caught in the whirlwind of their respective lords’ ongoing absurdities.

Absolutely.

Nothing.

Else.

And yet—

Alric found himself smirking as he called for an owl.

That had been a very, very good throw.

Across the city…

Matthias did not flinch when the owl slammed into his window.

Nor did he flinch when it tapped louder, as if personally offended that he had yet to acknowledge its presence.

With the grace of a man who had endured far worse than an impatient bird, he finished signing off on the final estate records before rising from his desk.

The owl, utterly unbothered by his slow pace, flicked its feathers as he unlatched the window.

Matthias took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment.

His expression did not change.

His grip, however, tightened ever so slightly.

"Matthias,
I find myself rather intrigued by your efficiency. Would you care to discuss tactics over tea sometime? No lilies involved, I assure you."

A single, slow blink.

Then another.

For a moment, he simply stared at the words, as if attempting to process the exact sequence of events that had led to this moment.

Then, very calmly, he placed the letter onto his desk, pressed his fingers to his temples, and exhaled.

Of course.

Of course, this was happening.

The universe had already blessed him with a dramatic, vengeful, and absurdly difficult nobleman to serve. Why not also entangle him with the only man in the Empire who likely suffered as much as he did?

He should ignore it.

He should burn it.

He should—

Matthias’s fingers traced the edge of the parchment.

The wording was careful. Measured. A test.

Alric was playing his own game. A man who had stood beside the Emperor, watched his master be pelted with a bouquet of lilies, and had done nothing to stop it.

A man who, apparently, enjoyed it.

Matthias exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

He would respond.

But on his own time.

For now, he would endure the rest of the evening as he always did—in complete and utter exhaustion.

Chapter Text

Harry had made a mistake.

He had approached Severus as Harry—as the person he had been before, as the man who had fought a war at his side, who had mourned him, who had spent years knowing exactly who and what Severus Snape was.

And for what?

To be ignored?

To be dismissed?

No.

That was over.

He was done asking.

Severus had made it clear that he did not care about Harry.

Fine.

Then Harry would stop being Harry.

Then he would handle this as Hariel.

As the Emperor.

Harry exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back, adjusting his grip on his pen as he stared at the empty parchment before him.

For seven days, he had been waiting. Seven days of no response, no acknowledgment, not even an insult delivered via proxy.

Severus had simply refused to engage.

And Harry—current Emperor of the Drakonis Empire, absolute ruler of millions, conqueror of the greatest Dark Lord in history—had spent those seven days behaving like a man completely and utterly unbothered.

He was not obsessing over Severus Noir.

He was not checking every letter that arrived with ridiculous anticipation.

He was not waiting for Matthias to appear with some sarcastic, dismissive response.

He was completely, entirely, absolutely—fine.

…Except that he had tried everything.

He had sent letters—ignored.

He had sent gifts—snubbed.

He had personally delivered a message under the pretense of “state matters,” only for Matthias to, with all the poise of a man who knew his master was the single most infuriating person alive, politely inform him that Lord Noir was indisposed and unable to receive visitors at this time.

Indisposed.

Indisposed.

That bastard was avoiding him.

On purpose.

And Harry had been waiting.

Like a fool.

Alric, of course, had been deeply amused by the entire ordeal.

"Your Majesty," Alric had said at one point, voice neutral, expression not neutral, "if I may be so bold, your persistence is… impressive."

Harry had scowled at him. "It’s not persistence, it’s—"

"Desperation?"

Harry had thrown his quill at him.

Alric had dodged.

And now, after seven days of this—after an entire week of letting Severus dictate the game, of letting him refuse to engage, of letting him pretend as if Harry didn’t exist—

Harry was done.

"If he won’t come to me," Harry muttered, tapping his fingers against his desk, "then he’ll have to see me at court. Set up a ball Alric "

Alric blinked. "A ball, Your Majesty?"

"Yes, a small one," Harry said dismissively, already reaching for parchment. "Nothing extravagant, just an intimate gathering. Exclusive. Just the suitors, a few key nobles—something to reinforce the political necessity of the selection."

Alric stared at him for a long moment, then very deliberately folded his hands behind his back.

"A small ball," he repeated slowly. "Just to reinforce the selection process. Not for any personal reasons."

Harry’s grip on his quill tightened.

"It’s a political move," he said firmly.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Alric said smoothly, expression unreadable in the way that suggested he was trying very hard not to smirk. "Shall I also make special arrangements for Lord Noir’s presence?"

Harry pointedly did not react.

"Just send the invitations, Alric."

"As you command, Your Majesty."

The grand ballroom was filled with suitors.

All preening. All vying for attention.

All utterly insignificant.

Harry barely registered any of them.

Because across the ballroom—

Severus walked in.

And Harry’s entire soul left his body.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair at all.

Severus Snape had always been imposing, a presence that could command a room even while lurking in the shadows, a perpetual storm cloud of snide remarks and disappointment.

But Severus Noir?

Severus Noir was magnificent.

He wore power like a second skin, exuding the same untouchable arrogance as before—except now, instead of harsh black robes and a permanent scowl, he was adorned in elegance.

Instead of his usual oppressive black robes, he wore a high-collared midnight blue coat, woven with delicate silver embroidery that curled like starlight along the fabric. Dark, fitted trousers fastened with silver buttons ran down his legs, disappearing into polished black boots that only added to his infuriating presence.

A cloak, black and lined with deep sapphire silk, flowed elegantly behind him—not quite billowing, but moving like liquid shadow, catching the light just enough to remind everyone that he was, in fact, expensive.

Even his hair was wrong. Sleek, longer, neatly styled—falling in effortless waves over his shoulders, yet still wild enough to frame his face.

It was foreign. Unfamiliar.

Harry hated it.

But more than anything—more than the rich fabric, more than the unfamiliar air of nobility Severus now wore so effortlessly—Harry hated the feeling in his chest.

Because this wasn’t the Severus he had known.

That Severus had been harsh. Tired. A man worn down by war, duty, and endless sacrifice.

This Severus?

This Severus had never suffered.

And Harry didn’t know what to do with that.

Everyone else had noticed, too, of course. Because of him.

Weeks of gifts, whispers, and rumors had done their job, and now, every single suitor in the room wanted to talk to Severus Noir.

Harry stood at the top of the ballroom steps, watching as noble after noble flocked to Severus, eager to charm him, to claim even a fraction of his attention. They crowded around him like vultures circling a prize.

It wasn’t just about Noir.

It was about who Noir was.

Harry had spent years with Severus Snape. Had fought beside him. Had battled against him.

Had watched him die.

And now, after everything—after waking up in this world, after weeks of Severus ignoring him—he was supposed to stand here and do nothing while some smug noble tried to flirt with Severus right in front of him?

Absolutely not.

And then—

The final insult.

Because Severus, because he was the absolute worst, chose to humor the most insufferable noble in attendance.

Count Adrien Sinclair.

Tall. Blond. Smug. A walking caricature of every Malfoy Harry had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Adrien leaned in, voice smooth with the kind of aristocratic arrogance that made Harry’s teeth grind together. His hand ghosted over Severus’s sleeve, far too familiar, far too comfortable.

And Severus snape smirked. smirked 

Oh, that was it.

“Oh, Count Adrien,” Severus murmured, his voice silk and sharp edges, “your words are far too kind. His Majesty would surely disapprove…”

Disapprove?

Harry’s vision blurred with irritation.

It wasn’t about disapproval.

It wasn’t about the gifts, or the rumors, or even the way Severus was so clearly playing into it.

It was about the fact that Noir was Snape.

No matter if he said it or not, no matter how he behaved—the clothes, the hair, the looks—Noir was his Snape.

Snape didn’t belong to this world.

Snape belonged to Harry’s story.

Snape belonged to Harry.

Noir could talk to whomever he wanted. Do whatever he wants. 

But Snape? Snape could not. 

And yet he had. 

Severus had spent the last week ignoring him.

Had refused to engage.

Had acted as though their past meant nothing.

And now, here he was, letting some arrogant noble lean in too close, letting him brush fingers along his sleeve, letting him smile as if—

As if he belonged here.

Harry’s fingers curled into a fist.

He hadn’t spent years fighting a war, hadn’t watched Severus die for him, hadn’t been dragged into this new world—just to stand here and watch this happen.

Severus should not be standing in a ballroom, dressed in noble finery, accepting courtly praise as if it were his birthright.

He should not be letting anyone else stand that close.

Harry barely registered Alric shifting beside him, greeting a passing noble with a polite smile even as his voice lowered.

"Your Majesty," Alric murmured, carefully measured, the tone of a man attempting to prevent a disaster before it occurred. He hesitated, then added, too knowingly, too resigned:
"Please do not cause another scandal… that does not involve your apparent love life with Lord Noir."

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Severus still hadn’t noticed him.

He was too busy indulging Adrien Sinclair, tilting his head just slightly, lips curling at something the count had said—the same way he had once smirked at Harry, just before making his life miserable.

Harry saw red.

His feet moved before his brain had even caught up.

And then—

He was already across the room.

By the time Harry closed the distance, Count Adrien was still smirking, leaning far too close, whispering something to Severus with the confident ease of a man who had no idea he was about to die.

Severus, in turn, had not moved away.

Which was unacceptable.

Harry didn’t think—he acted.

He stepped between them, seamlessly inserting himself into the conversation like he belonged there—like he had been invited.

He had not been invited.

Count Adrien stiffened, instinctively stepping back, but Severus… Severus did not. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Harry with a knowing glint in his dark eyes. His lips curved—not quite a smirk, but something dangerously close.

"Your Majesty," Severus drawled, voice perfectly polite, perfectly measured. "What an honor."

Harry ignored him.

Instead, he turned to Count Adrien, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You don’t need to speak with him," he said, tone flat, leaving no room for argument.

The Count blinked, clearly thrown. "I—"

Severus made a thoughtful sound, the faintest hum of amusement. "Oh? But Count Adrien was simply being polite, weren’t you, Count?"

Harry’s jaw tightened.

Severus continued smoothly, a picture of relaxed indifference. "We were just discussing—"

"No, you weren’t," Harry interrupted, sharper this time.

Count Adrien’s expression flickered between irritation and uncertainty, his hands twitching at his sides, like he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or start looking for an escape route.

"Your Majesty," he tried, a shade more cautious now, "surely it is within my rights to engage in pleasant conversation with—"

"It isn’t," Harry cut in again.

Silence.

A long, tense moment stretched between them before the count, with the wisdom of a man who recognized an impending disaster, dipped into a stiff, shallow bow. Then, with a last glance at Severus, he turned and strode away, his shoulders set with false dignity.

Harry exhaled, satisfied.

Then—

"Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Your Majesty."

Harry froze.

Slowly, he turned back toward Severus, who was now watching him with an expression that could only be described as deliberately entertained.

"Excuse me?"

Severus didn’t answer right away, only studying Harry like he was the most fascinating thing in the room. A moment later, he spoke, voice mild, even pleasant.

"It was just a friendly conversation," he mused, tilting his head in consideration, gaze sharp and dissecting. "No need to look so…" He let the word hang in the air before delivering it with careful precision. "Possessive."

Possessive.

Harry’s brain stalled.

"I wasn’t—" he started, then stopped, because what exactly was he supposed to say? That Severus was being ridiculous? That Count Adrien was clearly an opportunistic little parasite? That Severus didn’t belong among the scheming nobles because he wasn’t like them?

Because he was—

Harry shut that thought down immediately.

Instead, he flicked his gaze toward the retreating figure of Count Adrien, grasping onto the single most petty argument available.

"Didn’t realize you had such a fondness for Malfoy knock-offs," he drawled, tone far too casual to be believable.

Severus blinked once, then let out a slow, measured breath through his nose, as though forcing patience upon himself.

"Malfoy?" he repeated, voice flat, like Harry had just suggested something profoundly offensive at a state function.

Harry lifted an eyebrow, folding his arms. "Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Blond. Smug. Radiating unearned superiority." He gestured vaguely at the count’s retreating form. "He’s practically Lucius’s less interesting, less terrifying cousin."

Severus exhaled sharply, the kind of sigh that came from knowing Harry Potter far too well for his own peace of mind.

"Your Majesty," he said at last, voice edged with something dangerously close to amusement, "I assure you, my interest in Count Adrien was purely—" He paused, considering, as if carefully selecting the exact phrasing that would most annoy Harry.

"—academic."

Harry’s fingers twitched at his sides. Academic. Right. As if Severus had any reason to be academically interested in some vain, pompous noble with all the depth of a teaspoon.

Severus, entirely too pleased with himself, raised an eyebrow. “Something the matter, Your Majesty?”

Harry inhaled sharply, steadying himself. He would not rise to this. He would not stand here, in the middle of his own palace, in front of dozens of nobles, and let Severus goad him into another petty, completely justified argument.

But then—Severus moved.

He shifted, subtly adjusting his sleeves, as if preparing to leave. As if this conversation was over.

Like he was done here.

And Harry—acting purely on instinct, definitely not on anything else—reacted before he could think better of it.

His hand shot out, fingers closing around Severus’s wrist in a firm grip.

Severus stilled.

It was brief—just a second of hesitation—but Harry felt it.

Severus turned back, gaze flickering from Harry’s hand to his face, dark eyes cool and unreadable.

“Your Majesty,” Severus said slowly, voice even, polite, detached.

Harry’s pulse beat a little too fast. He should let go. He should step back, release his grip, allow Severus to leave—

He didn’t.

Instead, he lifted his chin, squaring his shoulders. “Dance with me.”

Chapter Text

Severus had spent years being despised.

It was familiar. Expected. Comfortable.

He had been feared by students, hated by colleagues, mistrusted by both sides of a war that demanded his loyalty but never granted him safety. He had been the man no one wanted to be around, the bitter, unlikable presence tolerated only because he was useful.

And yet—

Harry Potter was standing in front of him, fingers curled around his wrist, gaze burning with something too intense to be ignored.

Severus did not know why.

This wasn’t Hogwarts. This wasn’t the war.

This was an entirely new world—one where they were not enemies, where there was no reason for Harry Potter to care.

And yet, the Emperor of the Drakonis Empire was looking at him like he mattered.

Severus had no interest in playing this game.

So he would end it.

He did not pull away just yet. Instead, he held Harry’s gaze, voice perfectly even. "If this is an attempt at civility, Your Majesty, it is both excessive and unnecessary."

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Civility?"

"You have been rather insistent on my presence," Severus remarked lightly. "Dare I assume your imperial agenda hinges upon a singular noble’s attention?"

Harry exhaled sharply, something irritated flashing across his expression. "Stop talking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like we don’t know each other."

Severus gave him a pointed look. "We don’t."

Harry’s fingers flexed slightly against his wrist before releasing him, though he did not step away. "You’re avoiding the question."

"Not at all," Severus countered smoothly. "I am simply pointing out that you seem far too invested in a man they called the cursed suitor."

Harry did not deny it.

Which was concerning.

Severus studied him carefully, noting the way Harry’s shoulders were tense, how his breathing was just slightly uneven, as though holding back something he couldn’t yet name.

Harry Potter had never been subtle, but this—this persistence—was something else entirely.

"Why are you doing this?" Severus asked, voice quieter, sharper.

Harry’s jaw clenched. "Because I need to."

That was not an answer.

Severus narrowed his eyes, unwilling to let it go. "Elaborate."

Harry hesitated. "I—" He stopped, exhaling roughly. "You were there."

Severus raised a brow. "Fascinating observation."

"You were there when I—" Harry paused again, struggling, visibly frustrated with himself. "You were there at the end."

Ah.

Understanding settled in.

Severus did not need to ask what Harry meant.

He had been there when Harry Potter had walked to his death. He had been there when the war had reached its final moments, when everything had burned, when the world had nearly ended.

And apparently, Harry had not forgotten.

Severus inhaled slowly. "And?"

Harry’s fingers curled into fists. "And then I woke up in a world where you were alive."

The weight of it settled between them.

Severus did not look away. "So you believe fate is playing tricks on you?"

Harry’s expression was unreadable. "I believe I’m not supposed to be here alone."

The words hit deeper than they should have.

Severus did not flinch, did not react, did not acknowledge the way something unwelcome curled inside his chest. Instead, he exhaled slowly, measured and composed, before shaking his head.

"You are mistaken, Your Majesty," he said quietly, evenly. "I am not the Severus Snape you knew."

Harry’s eyes darkened. "You’re lying."

Severus forced a smirk, even though his patience was wearing thin. "And yet, here I am."

Harry’s frustration pulsed in the space between them. "Four months ago, you were dying. And then, suddenly, you weren’t."

Severus’s expression did not change. "Yes , you told me two week ago."

"You were not this." Harry gestured to him, voice tight. "You were different."

"People change," Severus said simply.

"Not like this," Harry muttered.

Severus tilted his head. "You never knew me ,  Your Majesty. I was the cursed suitor , a hermit and a recluse"

"Or maybe you’re avoiding the truth."

Severus had had enough.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to something quiet, something final.

"The truth," he murmured, "is that I am not yours."

Harry’s breath caught.

Severus did not let the moment linger.

The music had slowed. The dance was ending.

Severus exhaled, tone polite, detached. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe we have sufficiently fulfilled whatever spectacle you were hoping to achieve."

Harry’s grip shifted. It was not demanding.

It was asking.

"Not here," he said, voice softer.

Severus stared at him.

Harry wasn’t playing games anymore.

He was asking for something real.

Severus hated it.

And for the briefest moment, he almost—almost—gave in.

But then he remembered.

This world was better.

This world did not need Harry Potter in it.

And Severus did not need to be dragged back into the past.

He pulled his arm free, the motion deliberate, controlled.

"I seem to recall what happened the last time I allowed you to speak with me in private," Severus said smoothly. "Shall we repeat history, Your Majesty?"

Harry’s face shuttered.

Severus didn’t wait for a response.

He turned, stepping away with every ounce of grace afforded to him by his ridiculous noble status.

Harry did not follow.

Good.

Let it stay that way.

Because Severus was not going to let himself fall back into that life.

He had already left it behind.

And he intended to keep it that way.

Matthias had long since learned that working for Lord Noir required a keen sense of observation.

It wasn’t that his master was difficult—on the contrary, Severus Noir was one of the easiest nobles to serve. He was efficient, decisive, and did not waste time on unnecessary formalities. He paid well, managed his affairs with ruthless precision, and only rarely did he deliberately make Matthias’s life complicated.

More importantly, he was generous.

With Lord Noir’s sudden surge of wealth, Matthias found himself one of the best-paid assistants in the empire, afforded luxuries he had never expected. A comfortable residence, fine clothing, a salary that ensured he would never want for anything. And unlike other noble lords, Severus treated him with respect.

No unnecessary orders. No degrading tasks. No games.

It was a dream position.

Which was why, despite his master’s current predicament, Matthias had no complaints.

Even if that predicament happened to involve the Emperor of the Drakonis Empire.

For the past ten minutes, he had been watching what could only be described as the most emotionally charged dance in the history of court politics.

It was absurd.

The Emperor, stiff and determined, leading with far too much intensity. Lord Noir, effortlessly poised, his every movement calculated, his expression a masterclass in carefully veiled disinterest.

Except—

Except it wasn’t disinterest.

Not really.

Matthias knew Lord Noir well enough by now.

Knew that his master’s too-perfect composure only meant he was choosing to remain indifferent.

Which, in turn, meant he was choosing to care.

Beside him, Alric let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, swirling his wine in his glass with far too much amusement.

"Say," Alric drawled, voice thick with interest, "wasn’t Lord Noir dying four months ago?"

Matthias did not take his eyes off his master. "He was."

"And then, suddenly, he wasn’t."

Matthias exhaled. "Yes."

Alric hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Curious, isn’t it?"

Matthias remained silent.

Alric leaned in, voice lower now. "Like His Majesty."

Matthias stiffened slightly.

Alric, clearly pleased by the reaction, smirked. "I am very sure I have seen His Majesty before."

Matthias finally turned to look at him, expression carefully neutral. "And?"

"And," Alric continued, his gaze sharp, "I am very sure these are not the same people."

Matthias said nothing.

Instead, he looked back toward the ballroom, gaze settling on his master—who had just pulled away from the Emperor with the kind of slow, deliberate motion that suggested retreat.

The Emperor did not follow.

But he was watching.

Fiercely.

Matthias tapped his fingers against his wrist. "I understand what you mean," he murmured.

Alric grinned. "Possession, maybe?"

Matthias let out a soft breath, shaking his head. "Perhaps."

Alric tilted his head, studying him. "You’re oddly calm about this."

Matthias raised a brow. "I do not mind my work, Lord Alric."

Alric’s smirk widened. "Even when it involves whatever this is?"

Matthias followed his gaze, back to the Emperor and his master—one still standing stiffly in the center of the ballroom, the other retreating toward the shadows.

"Especially then," Matthias said.

Alric chuckled, stepping closer. "You’re an intriguing man, Matthias."

Matthias gave him a sidelong glance. "Are you flirting with me, Lord Alric?"

Alric took a slow sip of his wine, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Would it bother you if I was?"

Matthias considered him for a long moment, then turned his attention back to Severus.

"It would take more than that to bother me," he said simply.

Alric grinned, leaning in slightly. "Is that an invitation to try harder?"

Matthias exhaled sharply through his nose, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

"You sound like His Majesty," he remarked dryly.

Alric paused mid-sip, then burst out laughing.

"Flattering," he said. "I do pride myself on persistence."

Matthias shook his head, amused, before turning back toward his master—who had just disappeared through the ballroom’s side exit.

Severus Noir was not supposed to care about the Emperor.

But something had just changed.

And Matthias was beginning to suspect—

That whatever had just happened in that dance was only the beginning.

Severus was not angry.

No.

Anger was too strong a word, too volatile, too emotional.

He was… irritated.

Yes. That was the word.

Seated at his desk, he swirled the wine in his glass, watching the deep red liquid coat the sides before taking a slow, measured sip. The study was quiet—blissfully so—except for the faint crackle of the fireplace and the ever-present sensation of being watched.

He lifted his gaze.

Matthias stood by the bookshelf, arms folded, patient and waiting.

Severus exhaled slowly. "Say whatever it is you’re dying to say."

Matthias tilted his head slightly. "I was merely waiting, my lord."

"For what?"

"For you to admit that His Majesty has thoroughly unsettled you."

Severus’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass.

"Unsettled," he repeated flatly.

Matthias inclined his head in silent confirmation.

Severus scoffed, placing his glass down with careful precision. "Hardly. His Majesty is young, impulsive, and prone to dramatics. I am neither surprised nor particularly interested in whatever game he thinks he’s playing."

Matthias made a thoughtful noise. "And yet, he is rather… persistent."

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, well, he was always an insufferable brat. That much has not changed."

Matthias said nothing, merely watching as Severus picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and promptly did not write a single word.

Severus inhaled sharply, tapping the quill once against the parchment before setting it down. "He was easier to scare when he was a child."

Matthias did not react, but Severus knew him well enough to sense the slight shift in attention.

"You speak as though you knew him before," Matthias said, voice perfectly neutral.

Severus stilled.

Just slightly. Just for a fraction of a second.

And then—he exhaled. "You are imagining things."

Matthias hummed.

Severus did not like that hum.

It was the kind of sound Matthias made when he already knew the answer but was waiting for Severus to admit it himself.

After a moment, Matthias spoke again. "If I may, my lord—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "—is His Majesty… related to the other life?"

Severus’s fingers stilled against the desk.

Matthias was still watching him, his expression as unreadable as ever, but Severus could feel the weight of his scrutiny.

He should have expected this.

Slowly, he turned his gaze toward his assistant, scrutinizing him with a sharpness that could have cut glass.

Matthias did not flinch.

"Explain," Severus said, voice smooth, measured.

Matthias exhaled, adjusting his cuffs. "I have been serving Lord Noir since I was ten," he said simply. "He was fifteen."

Severus did not react.

Matthias continued, as if stating an irrefutable fact. "I knew him better than most. And the man before me now, while similar, is not the same."

Severus remained silent.

Matthias lifted an eyebrow slightly. "You are aware that I know, correct?"

Severus took another sip of wine. "That I am not Lord Noir?"

"That you are not my Lord Noir," Matthias corrected.

Severus swirled his glass, watching the wine coat the sides before he sighed. "And?"

Matthias shrugged. "And nothing. You treat me well, I am well-compensated, and you have made significant improvements to the estate." He inclined his head slightly. "It would be unprofessional to complain about a superior who has, quite frankly, made my life easier."

Severus blinked.

Matthias, unfazed, continued. "That being said, I do find your current predicament rather… amusing."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Which predicament?"

Matthias gave the smallest, most infuriatingly neutral smile. "His Majesty’s attention."

Severus set his wine down. "It is not attention," he said flatly. "It is an annoyance."

Matthias did not argue, which was somehow worse.

Severus hated when Matthias let him hear the argument in his silence.

He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "He is… young."

Matthias inclined his head. "You said he was annoying."

"He is that too," Severus muttered, reaching for his glass again.

Matthias leaned slightly against the bookshelf, studying him. "Is it the age that bothers you, my lord?"

Severus scowled into his wine. "I do not appreciate him being in a position of power now."

Matthias’s eyes gleamed with interest. "You were close then?"

Severus exhaled through his nose. "I was his professor. Twenty years his senior. And now, he is using… these events to push his agenda."

Matthias raised an eyebrow. "And what is that agenda, exactly?"

Severus scoffed. "That is precisely what I would like to know."

Matthias said nothing for a moment, watching as Severus downed the rest of his wine with a slow, measured sip.

Then, with an air of thoughtful calculation, he spoke.

"Perhaps, if His Majesty’s interest is an issue, you should make yourself… unappealing to him."

Severus lifted an unimpressed brow. "By doing what, exactly?"

Matthias gave a slow, deliberate smile. "Acting infatuated."

Severus stared.

Matthias remained perfectly composed. "If you were his professor, and your relationship was not one to lend itself in that direction, perhaps his air of mystery is only making him more fond."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "So, your grand strategy is flirtation."

Matthias nodded once, utterly confident. "Precisely."

Severus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he lifted his glass again. "You are a terrible person."

Matthias’s lips twitched. "I rise to the occasion, my lord."

Severus sighed, taking a long sip of wine.

This was going to be an absolute disaster.

But making Potter squirm?

Now that, at least, sounded fun.

Chapter Text

After a month of silence, Harry had prepared for many things—arguments, avoidance, even reluctant conversation.

What he had not prepared for was Severus Noir in a suit.

The moment he saw him, Harry stopped.

Not obviously. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. But inside, something in his brain stuttered, paused, and promptly short-circuited.

Because Severus—in a suit—was a problem.

It wasn’t just that he looked good. That would have been manageable.

No—it was that Harry had never really looked at him before.

Not like this.

Severus had always been an imposing presence—sweeping robes and sharpness, a dark, glowering specter in the background of Harry’s life. But now—now, he wasn’t just present. He was seen.

The suit was tailored—midnight blue, dark enough to almost be black, with silver embroidery catching the light, tracing elegant lines along the fabric. It fit obscenely well, accentuating broad shoulders, cinching at the waist, draping just so around long legs that Harry had absolutely never noticed before.

The high collar framed the sharp cut of his jaw, and his hair—longer now—was neatly braided, with one strand deliberately loose at his temple, drawing attention to the pale column of his throat.

And—of course—they were matching.

Harry had chosen his own attire absentmindedly, a deep navy with silver trim, meant to be subtly regal. But now, standing across the room from Severus, he saw it—the similar rich fabric, the similar silver details.

The only difference was the ribbon tied around Severus’s braid—bright blue.

Not green.

Not his green.

Hariel’s blue.

His breath hitched, something curling tight in his chest.

And Harry… Harry had an inexplicable urge to bite and mark the same space Nagini had. To dig his nails into his arms, his back, his waist—anywhere—just to leave something behind. Something to anchor him. Something to hold onto.

Because every time he saw Noir, Snape slipped further and further away.

The entire court was watching.

Because Lord Noir was not overlooked.

Not after weeks of rumors. Weeks of whispered conversations. Weeks of speculation about whether the Emperor’s blatant favoritism was intentional, or if His Majesty was simply very bad at hiding his preferences.

There had been no formal announcement. No grand declaration.

But there didn’t need to be.

The Emperor had danced with only one suitor.
The Emperor had publicly interacted with only one suitor.
And now—the Emperor had sought out only one suitor.

Fans fluttered in unison. Nobles leaned toward each other, exchanging glances that were far too knowing for Harry’s liking.

The luncheon had been meant as a simple political gathering. A place for suitors to posture, engage in meaningless pleasantries, and remind everyone how deeply, profoundly unqualified they were to marry him.

Instead—the entire room was watching him.

Watching him move toward Noir.

Which was fine.
Perfectly fine.
Harry was not about to let the stares affect him.

He had spent his entire life in the public eye. He had fought wars, led armies, faced down actual Dark Lords—

—so why did this feel more dangerous?

Choosing to ignore whatever that thought was, he straightened his spine and kept moving.

"Lord Noir," he greeted smoothly, stopping just short of Severus’s personal space. (Barely.)

Severus turned too slowly. Purposeful. Measured. His expression unreadable.

But there was something in the way he looked at Harry—something assessing, considering, amused.

He lifted his wine glass, slow and deliberate, as if taking his time to fully process the moment.

Then—just as calculated, just as infuriating—he smiled.

Faint. Polite. Unreadable.

"Your Majesty," Severus murmured.

Harry ignored the entire court collectively inhaling.

Severus did not step away.

Instead—he stepped closer.

It was subtle, barely perceptible. A shift in weight, a tilt of his head, the lightest brush of fabric as he adjusted his sleeve. But it was deliberate. A choice.

Harry registered the closeness immediately.

Which was new.

For weeks, Severus had kept his distance, maintaining that perfect, untouchable veneer of civility. But now? Now, he was meeting him head-on.

Fine.

If Severus wanted to play, Harry would win.

"I see you’ve been attending more court events lately," Harry remarked, tone deliberately casual.

Severus lifted his glass to his lips, gaze steady. “Ah… well, since His Majesty was otherwise occupied…” He let the words linger, just a touch too suggestive. “I had to find ways to… entertain myself.”

Harry smirked. “Entertain yourself?”

Severus hummed. “Mmm. The court can be quite lively, when one knows where to look.”

"How scandalous," Harry murmured, tilting his head just slightly. “And here I was, thinking I was the only one allowed to amuse you.”

Severus let out a soft exhale, a slow, almost indulgent shake of his head.

"How terribly possessive," he mused. "I had no idea His Majesty felt so strongly about my leisure time."

Harry placed a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “Are you implying I don’t allow my suitors any freedom?”

Severus smiled—too knowing. “Oh, I would never imply such a thing.”

Harry lifted a brow. “Would you say it outright, then?”

Severus took another sip of wine. “Absolutely.”

A beat.

Then Harry laughed.

And Severus had the audacity to look pleased.

Harry exhaled, gaze sweeping over him, taking his time. “It does seem unfair,” he mused.

Severus lifted an eyebrow. “Unfair?”

"That everyone else gets to enjoy your company," Harry said smoothly, “while I have to chase you down.”

Severus made a show of considering. “Ah. A tragedy, truly.”

"Utterly devastating."

"You must be beside yourself."

"I’m inconsolable."

Severus gave a mock-sympathetic nod. “How very cruel of me.”

Harry leaned in just a fraction. “Unforgivable, really.”

A pause.

Severus tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Tell me,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “does His Majesty always go to such lengths to chase after things that don’t wish to be caught?”

Harry didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.

"Oh?" he murmured, smiling. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Running?”

Severus’s fingers twitched around his glass.

Harry smirked. “Because from where I’m standing, Lord Noir, you don’t seem to be running at all.”

Severus exhaled slowly, gaze flickering to the space—the very little space—between them.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he took another slow, deliberate sip of wine.

And damn it, Harry enjoyed this far too much.

Severus lowered his glass, the movement smooth, practiced—controlled. He tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, considering.

"My, my," he murmured, voice carrying that precise blend of indifference and amusement that set Harry’s teeth on edge. “His Majesty does seem to have taken quite the interest in me.”

"Is that surprising?" he asked, gaze sweeping over Severus with intentional slowness.

Severus made a thoughtful noise, the sound rolling smooth and slow, like he was savoring the moment. “Only in that you’ve never struck me as the type to enjoy courting resistance.”

Harry smirked. “Who says I’m courting anything?”

Severus stilled.

It was barely noticeable. A fraction of a pause. A blink that lasted just a heartbeat longer than it should have.

Harry caught it.

And oh—that was satisfying.

Severus exhaled through his nose, recovering quickly, but not quickly enough.

"How bold," he mused, tilting his head, the sharp gleam in his eyes not quite as relaxed as before. “His Majesty must enjoy making his nobles flustered.”

"Do you feel flustered, Lord Noir?"

"Oh, terribly," he deadpanned, letting his voice drop just enough to suggest something else. "I am absolutely beside myself."

Harry’s grip tightened around his own glass.

"That bad, is it?" he murmured, trying—trying—to keep his tone casual.

Severus sighed dramatically, the picture of tragic resignation. “It’s unbearable.”

He tilted his head, watching Harry with far too much enjoyment. “To be the object of His Majesty’s affections, to endure such relentless pursuit, such attention—” He exhaled, deep and pained, fingers brushing absently along the collar of his coat, drawing attention to the bare skin of his throat.

Severus, unrelenting, continued, “And yet, what am I to do? His Majesty is terribly persistent.”

"Terribly," Harry muttered, still drinking.

"Insatiable, even," Severus mused, tapping a finger idly against his glass. “Though I suppose such determination is to be expected of an Emperor.”

Harry choked on his wine.

Just slightly.

Not enough for anyone to notice.

Except Severus.

Who absolutely noticed.

And smirked.

Harry cleared his throat, very deliberately setting down his glass, and narrowed his eyes. "Are you enjoying yourself, Lord Noir?"

Severus lifted a single eyebrow, all amusement. “Oh? Am I not supposed to?”

"You seem awfully comfortable playing the devoted suitor," Harry said, crossing his arms, tone light but pointed.

Severus took a step forward , now standing shoulder to shoulder . 

"Ah, but Your Majesty," he murmured, soft, amused, too close, "who says I am playing?"

Harry froze.

For the first time in this entire interaction—he hesitated.

Severus leaned in just slightly, close enough that Harry could catch the faintest trace of something expensive on his collar.

"Perhaps I should surrender to my fate," Severus mused, voice just above a whisper, thoughtful. "If I am to be so thoroughly pursued, should I not simply… yield?"

Harry’s breath hitched.

Severus tilted his head.

Then—a slow, knowing smirk.

He stepped back. "Something to consider."

And with that—he walked away.

Leaving Harry standing there, re-evaluating all of his life choices.

Alric, standing casually beside Matthias once again, swirled the wine in his glass as he watched history unfold.

"Mm, Lord Noir seems to be winning, Once again" he murmured, grinning as he spoke quietly.

Matthias, arms folded, exhaled a soft chuckle. "Indeed. The matching clothes were a touch of genius, though, so I suppose I can't take all the credit."

Alric tilted his head, smirking. "But you started it, so I can take even less credit, can’t I?"

Matthias lifted a brow, clearly amused. "I did, didn’t I?"

Alric hummed, leaning just a little closer, voice dropping to something too smooth to be innocent. "That makes twice now I owe you something. You're keeping count, aren't you?"

Matthias, unruffled, grinned—the first real grin Alric had seen from him that wasn’t carefully measured or politely neutral. "I do like to keep track of my successes."

Alric chuckled, sipping his wine. "I’ll have to find some way to repay you, then. Perhaps over dinner?"

Matthias didn’t hesitate. "Same time next week?"

"Mmm. Keep this up, and people will start to talk."

"Oh?" Matthias lifted a brow. "And here I thought you enjoyed giving the court something to whisper about."

Alric grinned. Gods, he liked this one.

"How could I refuse?" he murmured. "I’ll be there."

Matthias gave a satisfied nod, smoothing out his cuffs before seamlessly falling into step behind Severus, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Alric watched him go, exhaling slowly, amusement flickering in his gaze.

Yes, this job was proving to be very entertaining.

Chapter Text

Severus had no intention of sending a gift out of goodwill.

No, this was an attack.

A petty, well-calculated, deeply annoying attack.

Because Potter had not squirmed.

Because Potter had the audacity to flirt back.

Matthias, standing by the desk, observed as Severus carefully selected each item.

First—the robes.

Heavy, obnoxiously regal, embroidered with far too much silver detailing. Rich enough that Harry would be obligated to wear them at some point, but tailored just wrong enough to be stiff and maddeningly uncomfortable.

Then—the book.

Severus ran his fingers along the spine of a particularly dense alchemy text, written in an archaic dialect so obscure that no one outside of obsessive potion scholars would bother learning it.

Matthias, already seeing where this was going, exhaled.

“My lord,” he began, far too patient, “may I ask what message you are attempting to send?”

Severus smirked. “Why, nothing at all.”

Matthias gave him a look.

Severus ignored him and continued.

Lastly—a bottle of ink.

Not just any ink. A rare, highly expensive blend that smudged horribly on official documents, rendering it nearly useless.

Matthias sighed, arms crossed. “A stunning selection, my lord.”

Severus nodded. “I thought so.”

“You do realize His Majesty will retaliate.”

Severus’s smirk widened. “I’m counting on it.”

Matthias exhaled. “I assume I am to ensure this is delivered with all the proper flourishes?”

“Of course,” Severus said smoothly, “and do remind the court exactly who sent it.”

Matthias, ever the professional, nodded once before leaving the study.

Severus leaned back in his chair, feeling immensely satisfied.

There.

That would annoy him.

That would be the end of it.

At least, that was the assumption.

Unfortunately—Harry Potter had never known when to let things go.

Severus had been expecting a response.

What he had not been expecting was for the Emperor himself to show up at his doorstep, in full regalia, standing there like an impatient courier about to deliver his own summons.

Severus, still seated in his study, stared.

Matthias, standing at his side, did not bother hiding his amusement.

Severus exhaled slowly, setting down his quill.

"Your Majesty," he said dryly, rising to his feet with deliberate precision. "To what do I owe this… unexpected honor?"

Harry crossed his arms, eyes sharp and far too smug for Severus’s liking.

"You’re coming with me."

Severus blinked. “Am I?”

Harry, clearly having anticipated an argument, nodded once. Firm. Unbothered. Absolutely impossible.

Matthias, now very much enjoying himself, murmured, "I believe His Majesty is extending an invitation, my lord."

Severus did not like that phrasing.

Matthias had a very specific tone when he was being intentionally vague.

Severus’s gaze flickered between the two of them, lingering on Harry’s expectant expression.

Something about this was off.

Harry had ignored him for a week after receiving the gift, after the clear insult of the book, after Severus had—perhaps—pushed things a little too far.

And now?

Now, he was seeking him out.

Severus tilted his head slightly. “Dare I ask why?”

Harry smirked. “Because you sent me a gift.”

Severus, slowly, very slowly, arched an eyebrow.

Harry continued, voice deceptively smooth. “And I refuse to let you get the last word.”

Ah.

So that was it.

Severus exhaled through his nose. "How very predictable of you."

Harry lifted a brow. "Shall I return the gift, then?"

Severus sighed. "That would be wasteful."

"Good," Harry said cheerfully, already turning on his heel. "Come along, then."

Matthias, standing just a little too smugly behind him, cleared his throat.

"My lord," he said, far too innocent.

Severus inhaled sharply through his nose and followed.

This was going to be a disaster.

This was going to be a disaster.

Lunch, to Severus’s mild surprise, was not unbearable.

Which was a shame , because Severus had fully intended to be insufferable.

Yet, somehow, here he was—midway through lunch, not actively trying to make Harry’s life miserable.

Which was concerning.

Because instead of baiting him into frustration, instead of answering in clipped, dismissive tones, instead of making this as tedious as possible—he was... amused.

Which was worse.

"You're rather bold," Harry said suddenly, setting his glass down with an audible clink.

Severus lifted an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"You send me a book I can't read, robes that nearly strangled me, and an ink bottle that bled through every official document I signed last week."

Severus took a slow sip of wine. "How unfortunate."

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. "You do realize that was an attack."

"An attack?" Severus repeated, all faux innocence. "Merely a thoughtful gesture."

Harry scoffed. "You sent a potion manuscript written in a dialect no one alive understands."

Severus smirked. "Then perhaps you should brush up on your studies, Your Majesty."

Harry’s eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes. Because you've always been such an advocate for my academic success."

Severus hummed, far too pleased. " I have never had the ... honor to. Though, if I were to guess , you would be a rather unteachable student."

Harry leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping against the table. “And yet, you spent so much time grading my essays.”

Severus took a measured sip of wine, gaze steady. “A professor grades everyone's essays , no ? so much ego to think that is any form of attention. ”

Harry smirked. “Ah, mine were particularly brilliant, I assume.”

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, the Severus-equivalent of a laugh. “Yes, whatever your majesty thinks.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry drawled, grinning. “You paid me so much attention, after all. Always hovering, always watching. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were obsessed.”

Severus took a slow sip of wine, exhaling through his nose. “You have a very fortunate ability to see past just how annoying you happen to be at any given time.”

Harry laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, admit it. You liked me.”

“You’re quite determined,” Severus mused, voice deceptively casual. “Tell me, Your Majesty—why exactly are you so insistent? Do you want him to be here that badly?” He tilted his head slightly, voice dipping just enough to sound almost teasing. “Is he your lover? Is that why you’re looking for him?”

Harry inhaled sharply.

Severus savored the moment.

Because Harry had pushed.

And Severus had pushed back.

Hard.

It was only fair.

A flicker of something crossed Harry’s face—something unreadable, something caught between surprise and something else Severus did not wish to acknowledge.

Then—Harry laughed.

It was low, warm, edged with something dangerously close to delight.

Severus narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry murmured, shaking his head, lips curled in amusement. “You almost had me there.”

Severus lifted a brow. “Almost?”

Harry leaned forward just slightly, voice low. “You wouldn’t have said that if you didn’t remember.”

Severus took another sip of wine, considering.

Then—he sighed, as if deeply put upon. “Perhaps I simply wanted to see your reaction.”

Harry smirked. “And did you enjoy it?”

Severus tilted his head. “Moderately.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

Severus cleared his throat . " just like the chances of your being good student , I am sure. ”

One moment, Harry was smirking, glass raised to his lips.

The next—he slumped backward.

His goblet slipped from his fingers, tumbling to the ground with a soft clink.

Severus’s chest locked.

For a fraction of a second, everything stopped.

The world blurred. Tilted. A sharp, cold spike shot through his spine, a feeling so abrupt, so primal that it ripped the breath from his lungs.

His body moved before his mind could catch up.

His chair scraped against the stone as he lunged forward, catching Harry by the front of his robes before he could hit the ground.

No . no . no . Not again.

Not again.

“Harry—”

A beat. A long, horrible, suffocating beat.

Then—one of Harry’s eyes cracked open.

Severus exhaled sharply.

Without thinking, without giving himself a chance to process the overwhelming, gut-wrenching panic still coiling in his stomach, he flicked Harry’s forehead.

Harry blinked. “Ow.”

Severus did not smile. But the tension coiled tight in his chest loosened—just slightly.

He flicked his fingers in a sharp, dismissive motion. “Idiot.”

Harry huffed, rubbing his forehead. “Overreact much?”

Severus inhaled slowly, willing his heartbeat to settle, the last remnants of tension still curling at the edges of his spine. His hands had stopped shaking, but the cold panic still lingered, buried beneath layers of practiced control.

He met Harry’s gaze, dark eyes sharp, voice low and unimpressed. “Shut up. I would throttle you if it wasn’t considered treason.” He glared, voice edged with something dangerously close to exasperated relief.

Then, with deliberate precision, he crouched down to grab the goblet, only intending to pick it up—perhaps to throw it at Potter—but the moment his fingers touched the metal, he stilled.

Something was wrong.

The way the wine clung to the metal. The way it shifted slightly, too thick, too slow…

Severus’s stomach dropped again.

Harry, still standing above him, finally seemed to notice the sudden shift in Severus’s expression. The humor faded from his eyes, the last trace of his easy smirk slipping away.

“…Severus?”

Severus’s wand flicked, voice smooth, practiced—too smooth.

The liquid inside curled and darkened, shifting iridescent green-black.

A slow, creeping poison. Designed to linger undetected. Designed to kill before symptoms ever showed.

Severus stared at it. At what could have happened. At how close Harry had come.

His fingers tightened around the goblet before he summoned a handkerchief and handed it to Matthias. “It’s poisoned. Handle it carefully.”

Harry, ever insufferable, sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Oh, come on, Severus. No need to try to get me back right awa—”

Severus didn’t let him finish. He was already checking him, eyes sharp, searching for signs of ingestion. “Did you drink any wine from that goblet?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “W-what? No, I dropped it before—”

He froze. Looked at Severus.

And then—

“…Oh,” Harry murmured, quieter this time. “It was actually poisoned, wasn’t it?”

Severus’s jaw clenched.

He forced himself to breathe. To keep his voice smooth. Steady.

“I rarely joke about murder, Your Majesty.”

The moment the words left Severus’s mouth, the room erupted.

Guards moved instantly, hands gripping weapons, eyes scanning the room for threats. Servants scrambled to clear untouched goblets, their faces pale with fear.

Alric was already standing, his expression cool, assessing. He had his hands clasped behind his back, but the slight tension in his stance betrayed his vigilance.

Matthias, standing a few feet away, was staring at the goblet in his hands with a dark, unreadable expression.

Severus ignored the chaos.

Instead, he turned back to Harry.

Who was still looking at him.

Not at the poisoned wine. Not at the guards swarming the room.

At him.

And the realization hit Severus in a way that sent another sharp chill down his spine.

Harry hadn’t been worried about the poison.

He had been watching Severus react to it.

Severus inhaled sharply, controlling his expression. 

Not now.

“Sit. Down.” His voice came out sharp, clipped.

Harry, to his credit, actually obeyed. He sank into his chair, his usual smirk gone, replaced with something unreadable.

Alric approached, his voice low but steady. “I’ll handle the investigation,” he murmured, his eyes still scanning the crowd. His usual ease had been replaced by something far more serious, his posture taut with focus. “Matthias, see to Lord Noir’s and his majesty’s departure .”

Matthias didn’t respond immediately.

His gaze was still on the goblet in his gloved hands.

“…Of course,” he said after a moment, voice even.

Harry exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Another attempt? Honestly, I’m starting to feel neglected.”

Severus’s jaw clenched.

Harry was joking. Again.

And Severus—Severus was still feeling that icy panic creeping up his spine, wrapping itself tight around his throat, pressing down on something buried deep in his chest.

Without thinking, he grabbed Harry’s wrist.

Harry startled slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his.

Severus didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He just pulled Harry up from his seat, turned sharply on his heel, and began marching toward the exit.

Harry let out a breathless chuckle, recovering from his surprise far too quickly. “Kidnapping me, Lord Noir?” he teased, his voice lighter than it should have been. “I thought you weren’t the romantic type.”

Severus did not dignify that with a response.

He was too busy reminding himself that murdering the Emperor was technically treason.

Even if the Emperor deeply, profoundly, undeniably deserved it.

Matthias followed immediately.

Alric, watching the scene unfold, let out a slow breath.

“Do try not to commit treason, Lord Noir.” His voice was light, but his gaze was sharp, wary. “His Majesty is rather difficult to replace.”

Harry grinned, despite the tension still lingering in his shoulders. “You hear that? I’m irreplaceable.”

Severus did not turn. “Don’t tempt me, Your Majesty. And  if I do , I will write you a letter to tell you you can take the throne , Alric. i am sure you do all this work anyway ”

Harry sputtered indignantly, but Severus ignored him.

He had far bigger concerns

The doors had barely swung shut before the whispers turned deafening.

Servants scrambled to clear away all untouched drinks, and the guards looked tense, still on high alert.

Alric remained standing, rolling his shoulders before exhaling slowly.

Matthias, still holding the poisoned goblet with a handkerchief, had not moved.

Alric tilted his head slightly. "You're worried."

Matthias did not look at him. "Of course, I am."

Alric hummed thoughtfully. "Because of His Majesty’s safety?"

Matthias let out a slow breath, tilting the goblet just slightly in the light. The dark stain clung to the metal unnaturally, slow-moving, viscous.

“No,” Matthias said finally, voice quiet. “Because His Majesty stole Lord Noir’s goblet.”

Alric’s smirk faded.

Matthias turned his head, gaze steady. "The attempt wasn’t meant for His Majesty."

A pause.

Alric blinked once. "...Oh."

Another pause.

Alric sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ah, well. That complicates things.”

Matthias exhaled sharply. “Yes.”

Chapter Text

By the time they arrived at Severus’s estate, Harry had recovered most of his composure.

Which was impressive, considering Severus had all but dragged him here.

The entire ride had been silent. Not the comfortable kind, either—the kind that carried weight, the kind that made Harry acutely aware that Severus was fuming. His grip on Harry’s wrist had been firm, his jaw set, and his shoulders so tense they might as well have been carved from stone.

Now, standing in the grand foyer, Harry exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Well. That was dramatic.”

Severus shot him a flat look and turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

Harry blinked. “No warm welcome? No tea and biscuits?”

Severus ignored him entirely, already striding down the corridor.

Harry snorted, shaking his head before following.

The estate was absurdly extravagant, but Harry had seen it before. High ceilings, polished marble, the overwhelming display of wealth that was undoubtedly curated for maximum effect. But for all its opulence, it was eerily private.

Severus led him through the grand library, past a hidden door, and into his laboratory.

The moment they entered, Severus released Harry’s wrist and immediately went to work. Sleeves rolled up, movements precise, he began gathering ingredients, his hands already moving with methodical efficiency.

Harry leaned against a table, watching as he measured out powdered silver root. “You’re making an antidote.?”

Severus didn’t look up. “I am taking a precaution. You claim you did not ingest the poison, but given your history of reckless behavior, I find it prudent to assume you’re mistaken.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, arms crossed. “You know me too well.”

Severus did not dignify him with a response.

Instead, he gestured sharply to a nearby chair. “Sit.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Are you—”

Severus shot him a glare, and Harry sighed, holding his hands up in surrender before perching on the chair.

Severus pressed his fingers against Harry’s pulse point, counting silently, before tilting his chin up and examining his pupils. The coolness of his touch was familiar in a way Harry hadn’t realized he missed. Hogwarts had been a different lifetime, but some things never changed.

When Severus finally pulled back, his frown had deepened. “No immediate signs of poisoning.”

Harry smirked. “See? I’m fine.”

Severus gave him a pointed look. “You are fine until you are not. The poison was slow-acting. Until I confirm that you are unaffected, you will remain here.”

Harry blinked. “You’re keeping me here?”

Severus turned back to the cauldron. “You can leave when I am satisfied that you will not die on my property.”

Harry sighed. “Well, at least you care.”

Severus hummed. “I simply have no desire to be known as the man who killed the beloved Emperor.”

While Severus worked, Harry wandered the lab, trying not to hover too obviously. His fingers trailed along the edges of the polished wooden tables, eyes drifting over the various ingredients and research notes. Everything was immaculately organized—precise rows of labeled vials, meticulously arranged tools, and a near-spotless workstation.

It was familiar. Methodical. Controlled.

And yet, something about seeing it here, in this world, unsettled him.

Harry wasn’t sure why, at first. Maybe because it made Severus seem more like himself—like the Severus he’d known, the one he’d lost, the one he’d… dragged into something he hadn’t asked for. It was easy to picture this place as a sanctuary, a place Severus had built for himself in a life where no one expected him to be a spy, a war hero, or anything but what he chose to be.

And he had chosen this.

Harry swallowed hard, pushing the thought away as he wandered further.

Then his gaze landed on the crates in the corner.

At first glance, they seemed ordinary—stacked neatly, labeled in Severus’s usual precise handwriting. But as he stepped closer, something in his chest tightened.

He recognized the names.

Low-cost healing potions. Marked for distribution.

Harry frowned, tilting his head. He ran his fingers over the edge of the nearest crate, his mind slowly catching up to what he was seeing. These weren’t just standard potion stockpiles—these were already packed, labeled, and ready to be sent somewhere.

But where?

The name of the clinic was familiar. Too familiar.

A quiet, uneasy feeling settled in his chest.

He had seen these before.

Weeks ago, he had walked through the slums in disguise, visiting underfunded clinics, speaking with the healers who struggled to provide care with dwindling resources. He had seen the injured, the sick, the desperate, and he had heard the whispers. A mysterious supplier had been flooding the poorest districts with high-quality healing potions—potions that should have cost small fortunes, yet were being sold for mere coppers.

No one knew where they had come from. No one knew who was behind it.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the crate.

“…You’re the supplier,” he murmured.

Severus didn’t pause his work. “You were bound to find out eventually.”

Harry’s throat felt dry. He turned back to the labels, scanning the details more carefully this time. This wasn’t a one-time effort. These shipments were regular. Tracked. Organized.

How long had this been going on?

“How many?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Severus stirred the potion in his cauldron with slow, methodical movements. “A few dozen clinics. More when possible.”

Harry exhaled. The sheer scale of it was staggering. This wasn’t just a secret project. It was an entire operation.

And Severus had done it alone.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to process it. “You’re ridiculous. You’re making the world better again, and you don’t even want credit for it.”

Severus’s hand stilled for just a second before he resumed stirring. “I do my part"

Harry let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. He had spent weeks searching for the answer to this, all the while assuming Severus had been lounging around in luxury, doing nothing but revel in his wealth.

He’d been wrong.

The thought stung. He hadn’t just assumed the worst—he had acted on it. He’d spent all this time chasing Severus, demanding answers, demanding his attention, when Severus had already been doing something worthwhile.

Harry’s stomach twisted. “I—I’ve been—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’ve been an idiot.”

Severus hummed. “At last, we agree on something.”

Harry shot him a look, but the humor didn’t reach his chest. He had been an idiot. He’d been angry at Severus, frustrated, but he hadn’t stopped to ask why Severus seemed at peace in this world. Why he had been content to build a life for himself, to let things be.

Because Severus was doing something.

Harry exhaled, still struggling to wrap his head around it. He glanced at the sheer number of crates stacked neatly in the corner, the shipments labeled for multiple clinics, and the potions meticulously prepared for distribution. This wasn’t just a personal project—it was an entire operation.

Which only raised another question.

"Why didn’t you ask for help?" Harry asked, turning back to Severus. "With the treasury, I mean. Surely, keeping up with the sheer demand isn’t easy?"

Severus didn’t even glance up from his cauldron. “Not really. Most people here don’t understand the value of potion ingredients, so they’re cheap.” He smirked faintly. “And besides, I am rich.”

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not rich enough to fund all of this on your own. Not for months.”

Severus arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.

Harry sighed, crossing his arms. “I had Alric investigate after I first saw you at the ball.”

That got a reaction. Severus let out a low, amused chuckle before finally looking up. “Oh?” His smirk widened, and he gestured toward something Harry hadn’t noticed yet. “Then I’m disappointed in his investigative skills.”

Harry frowned. “What—?”

Severus pointed to a second set of crates stacked just beside the first.

Harry hadn’t paid them much attention earlier, his focus entirely on the ones marked for clinic distribution. But now, as he took a closer look, realization dawned.

Unlike the simple wooden boxes of the low-cost healing potions, these were far more refined. Dark-stained oak, polished to perfection, the insignia of House Noir elegantly engraved on the side. The bottles within were ornate—thick glass, gilded caps, and labels that screamed wealth and excess.

Harry blinked. “What…?”

Severus leaned against his workstation, watching his reaction with open amusement. “That,” he said smoothly, “is how I’ve been funding them.”

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You—You’re scamming them.”

Severus tilted his head. “Scamming? No. Your aristocrats pay an obscene amount for ‘exclusive’ elixirs bottled in crystal and sealed with gold leaf, under the assumption that expensive means superior.” He smirked. “I simply allow them to indulge in their delusions.”

Harry stared. Then let out a bark of laughter. "God. I mean this with all the respect, but I want to marry you."

Severus didn’t even blink. “ You are already my greatest source of stress. I don't need to keep you closer”

Harry groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

Severus hummed, already turning back to his cauldron. “And yet, somehow, I remain more effective at aiding your people than the entire imperial treasury.”

Harry didn’t even bother arguing.

Because, once again, Severus was right.

And Harry had no idea what to do with that.

It wasn’t until much later, when the potion had cooled and Severus was certain Harry wasn’t going to drop dead, that the real conversation began.

The lab was quiet, the candlelight flickering against the glass bottles lining the walls. The cauldron had stopped bubbling, the last wisps of steam curling into the air, filling the space with the faint scent of crushed herbs and alchemical fire.

Severus sat across from him, swirling his wine glass in one hand, his posture relaxed in that infuriatingly effortless way.

And for the first time since they had met again in this world, Harry had no idea what to say.

Then, Severus broke the silence.

“Did we win?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The war.” Severus’s voice was quiet, measured, almost indifferent. “Did we win?”

Harry hesitated.

The past was not something Harry expected Severus to return to. The push and pull, the avoiding, skirting around the edges—pretending that this second life had wiped the slate clean. But now, in the stillness of the laboratory, the question sat between them—heavy, immovable.

Harry exhaled, nodding. “Yeah,” he said. “We won.”

Severus hummed, taking a slow sip of his wine before nodding slightly. “Good.”

That was it. No follow-up, no lingering emotions, no expression of relief or regret. Just quiet confirmation.

For Harry, the answer carried weight. A weight he still hadn’t figured out how to set down.

Silence stretched between them.

And then—

“You keep calling me Severus Snape,” Severus observed, his voice mild but pointed.

Harry frowned. “Because that’s who you are.”

Severus finally looked at him, meeting his gaze, dark eyes steady and unreadable.

“No,” he said. “I have his memories. I know his burdens, his suffering, his regrets. But I am not him.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Because this wasn’t an offhand remark. It was a decision.

Severus had chosen to let go.

To be someone else.

To leave it all behind.
Harry, meanwhile—

Harry had never let go.

Harry’s fingers curled against the wooden armrest, pressing into the grain as he exhaled slowly.

“So that’s it, then?” His voice was quieter than he meant it to be, but he couldn’t help it. “You want me to forget Snape ever existed?”

Severus, sitting across from him, didn’t flinch. “I want you to stop remembering him as though he still does.”

Harry’s breath hitched, something unsteady curling in his chest. He should have expected that answer. Of course he should have. And yet—

“I can’t just stop remembering,” he admitted, voice rougher now, more raw. He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall limply to his lap. “I don’t get to forget, Severus. You might have let go of the past, but I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I woke up in a world that wasn’t mine. And I’ve spent every damn day trying to make it feel like one.”

Severus was quiet. He wasn’t the kind of man to fill silences with empty words.

Harry swallowed hard. “It was like a prison, you know. This place. The moment I arrived, I was Emperor. Just like that. No preparation, no transition. Just figure it out, Harry, and don’t get yourself killed in the process.” His jaw clenched. “And I did. I adapted. Because that’s what I always do.”

He finally looked at Severus again. The dim candlelight flickered across his face, casting long shadows against the sharp lines of his cheekbones. He was still unreadable, still composed in that maddening way that had once driven Harry up the wall.

“But then I saw you,” Harry whispered. “And suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore.”

Severus’s expression didn’t shift, but Harry could see something in his eyes. Something listening.

Harry let out a slow breath. “I was selfish,” he admitted. “I wanted you to still be him. I wanted you to be the same bitter, impossible, stubborn man I knew because it meant that at least something in this world was still mine.”

Severus finally set his wine glass down with deliberate care. “I am not Severus Snape.”

The words weren’t cold, but they weren’t gentle either. They were simply true.

Harry forced out a short laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. “Yeah. I got that.”

Severus studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice quieter this time. “You have spent so much effort trying to make me fit into a life I no longer belong to. But you—you are still here, Harry. And I suspect you have not let yourself belong to it.”

Harry’s throat felt tight. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Severus he was wrong. That he had found his footing, that he had carved out his place in this world and that he was fine.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was fine. Not drowning. Not suffering. Not broken.

Just… existing.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, then forced himself to meet Severus’s gaze again. “And what if I don’t want to let go?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Severus inhaled, slow and measured. “Then you will spend your life chasing ghosts.”

The words should have hurt. But they didn’t.

Because Severus wasn’t saying them to be cruel. He was saying them because he had already lived it.

A long silence stretched between them before Severus finally exhaled, breaking the stillness. His gaze flickered downward, contemplative, before returning to Harry’s.

“I will not be Snape for you,” he said simply. “That name belongs to a man I have left behind. I will not pick it up again, not even for you.”

Harry swallowed. He had known that. Had always known that. But hearing it aloud made it real in a way he wasn’t ready for.

Then—softer—Severus continued. “But I will always remember Harry Potter.”

Harry’s breath caught.

“And if the days feel too heavy to bear… if you find yourself lost beneath them—” Severus’s lips curled faintly, something knowing in his expression. “I will always be just a city away.”

The words settled deep in Harry’s chest, warm and grounding.

A compromise.

Severus wouldn’t give him the past. But he was giving him something else. Something real. Something now.

Harry exhaled slowly, tilting his head. “Yeah… I guess my chances of seducing you as Harry Potter would’ve been pretty low.”

Severus snorted, the spell of the moment breaking just slightly. “Your chances of anything with me were , and are nonexistent. Stop talking nonsense”

Harry’s lips curled, eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey! aren't I handsome now ? I am even older . we are only 14 years apart now ”

Severus gave him a long, unimpressed look before taking a slow sip of his wine. “And yet you are no  less insufferable.”

Harry grinned. “Oh come on you love me .”

Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should have let you die from potential poisoning.”

Harry laughed, leaning back. “But then who would you have to argue with over wine?”

Severus exhaled, muttering something under his breath that Harry was pretty sure wasn’t flattering.

But he didn’t deny it.

And that, Harry decided, was a victory.

Chapter Text

Severus sat in his library a few weeks later, a book in one hand and a wholly insufferable emperor lounging about in his sitting room.

Why?

Severus had no idea.

Why was this overgrown lion hanging about like some spoiled housecat by the fire, sprawled across the chaise as if he had nowhere else to be? Surely, there were wars to win, councils to endure, paperwork to drown in. Yet here he was.

Severus sighed.

He had long since abandoned the illusion that his life would remain peaceful. Ever since he had acknowledged their past ,  Harry had taken it upon himself to invade his space at every opportunity. There was no clear pattern to it—sometimes he arrived with documents, other times with nonsense, most times simply to irritate Severus for sport.

Today, it seemed to be the latter.

The staff were nervous, of course. They always were when the emperor deigned to visit. The only one entirely unfazed was Matthias of course—though, to be fair, Matthias was missing.

Severus frowned.

How long could tea possibly take?

The door creaked open, and Severus glanced up—only for his mild irritation to deepen.

It was not Matthias who entered.

It was Alric.

And he was carrying a large stack of documents.

Alric crossed the room without hesitation, setting the documents down onto Severus’s desk with practiced ease. He didn’t even glance at Harry, who remained sprawled lazily on the chaise, most likely trying  to ignore the work that was coming his way for as long as he could . Severus almost felt bad when he saw the size of the stack . Almost. 

“Your Majesty,” Alric greeted, tone brisk. “We have a situation.”

Harry sat up properly now, though he still seemed to want to go back to lazing about. “What kind of situation?”

Alric exhaled, flipping open the topmost folder. “There are reports of Noble-backed uprisings in the western provinces.”

Severus stopped for a second , a little surprised but then barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

Why was his house the meeting point for national emergency? 

Harry, for his part, leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His earlier laziness had evaporated entirely now , replaced by the sharp, analytical focus Severus was surprised to see on him.

Severus might not have been an expert in imperial politics, but even he could recognize the signs of a significant disturbance.

"Which nobles?" he asked.

Alric shook his head. "Still unknown. The uprisings are small but coordinated. At first, it seemed like scattered banditry, but the pattern is too precise. Someone is organizing this."

Harry frowned, already scanning the documents Alric pushed towards him. "Local garrisons have managed containment so far, but if this continues—”

“It will escalate,” Alric finished .

Severus  reached for the report one harry handed it back to alric .  He flipped through it dispassionately, scanning the details. Supply line disruptions. Armed skirmishes. Strategic targeting of minor outposts.

Familiar patterns. Too familiar.

Try as he might , he would never forget the horror he saw , participated or fought against as Snape . He recognized traces of the very same strategies the Death Eaters had once employed. Severus had seen these exact maneuvers during the war—quick, precise strikes meant to destabilize, not conquer. It was a method of testing, of probing for weakness before striking decisively.

Whoever was behind this knew exactly what they were doing.

The door opened, and Severus looked up.

Matthias entered, a tray balanced carefully in his hands, setting it down on the low table with practiced efficiency. He poured tea for everyone, setting Severus’s cup closest to him before finally taking his place near Alric. His movements were smooth, but Severus noted the way his shoulders were just a fraction too stiff, the way his gaze flickered to the Alric , his hands almost reaching out . 

Interesting.

“Imperial business?” he asked lightly, his tone just a little too casual.

 “Mm.” Harry spoke up without looking away from documents I he was reading , then gestured vaguely to the stack of reports before him. “Rebellion.”

Matthias blinked. Then, without missing a beat—

“Ah. So, normal business.”

Severus snorted softly. At least someone else in this room had a sense of perspective.

Harry tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, eyes flicking toward Severus. “Do you recognize any of this?”

Severus raised his eyebrows " is the emperor supposed to be asking me that ?

Harry grinned "Yes, a good emperor is supposed to be able to listen to his subjects . "

Severus rolled his eyes once again. He set down the report, his fingers smoothing over the edges of the parchment, considering. Harry had known, of course, that Severus had been a spy, but had he truly understood the extent of it?

These tactics,” Severus said finally, his voice measured, “are not the work of mere insurgents. They look very precisely planned—strike points chosen deliberately, supply lines cut at key junctures, forces stretched thin just enough to cause instability without outright war.” He tapped the report. “They are testing your army’s response times. Measuring your weaknesses. Whoever is orchestrating this, they are patient. Intelligent.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “But you’ve seen it before then.”

Severus exhaled slowly . “I have.” He met Harry’s gaze. “These are the same strategies the Death Eaters used during the first war.”

Harry looked at him for a second and then nodded .

" First war? " Matthias frowned, glancing between them. “I thought you were a professor?”

Harry barked a laugh. “Is that what he told you ? He was a double agent, a professor, a potion master, and I’m sure I don’t know the half of it.”

Matthias turned his gaze back to Severus, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “That explains a lot.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “How very astute of you.”

Matthias looked amused but didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward, rubbing his chin. “Alright, so you know these tactics. you think they’re trying to bait us?”

Severus considered it. “Possibly. Or they are waiting for the right moment to escalate. Either way, they are not amateurs.”

Alric frowned, his fingers drumming against the table. “Then we need to respond carefully. If we move too quickly, we risk exposing our own vulnerabilities.”

Harry nodded slowly . “Which means we need more information before we make our move.”

Severus tilted his head slightly, considering the situation. “Not rushing headfirst into battle? How uncharacteristically wise of you,” he remarked dryly.

Harry shot him a flat look. “I do occasionally think before acting.”

Alric snorted. “Debatable.”

Severus ignored them both and leaned back in his chair. “I can recognize the method, but obviously, I am the least familiar with the current political landscape of this empire. So, you two may discuss your options, and I will answer any questions as needed.”

Harry smirked for a second . " Not going to tell us to take this back to palace and leave you alone ? How uncharacteristically generous of you " 

Severus narrowed his eyes " watch your tongue you majesty . you might find it stuck to your roof after the next meal" 

Alric gave harry a look of amusement once he started to pout before he began speaking . “We have a few options for immediate response. First, we could increase military presence in the affected regions, but that might force them into direct confrontation before we’re ready. The second option is to let them think they are operating undetected while we gather more information and identify their true backers.”

Harry tapped his fingers against the reports. “Sending more troops right away could provoke them. But doing nothing gives them more time to prepare.”

They both seemed to weight their choices before Matthias spoke up . "I can't tell if you two are ever serious or not. We were just talking about Lord Noir being a spy. Just send your intelligence officers and spies ahead to gather information without escalating things. Then, reinforce your strongholds quietly. That way, if they do try to strike, you'll be prepared."

Severus smiled slightly as Harry and Alric looked a bit embarrassed at not having thought of that.

"So, a trap?" Harry asked.

Alric hummed. "More of a safeguard. We're not baiting them—just making sure they don't catch us unprepared."

Severus inclined his head. “Sensible. But that still leaves the question of when you intend to intervene directly.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing his temple. “We’ll give it a few weeks. Let our people assess the situation, track supply chains, and see if we can identify their funding. Then if we need to we can actually gather troops  and go” 

Severus observed him closely. Despite the playfulness from earlier, there was still a  steel beneath Harry’s words—the kind that did not waver once a decision had been made.  The same resolve the defiantly too young harry had during the war, he saw now. 

“You’re planning to go personally, then?” He asked.

Harry nodded. “It’ll be easiest for me to go and end it quickly. Plus, I’m still relatively fresh off a war—I’m not rusty yet.” He grinned.

Alric and Matthias raised their eyebrow.

Severus responded this time, his tone flat. “We both died at the end of the second war.”

Alric hummed. “Well, at least you weren’t fighting at eighteen"

Harry grinned. “No… I had two whole months left before I turned eighteen. Then…. straight to twenty-one.! “ 

Alric and Matthias exchanged a look, both equally perplexed.

Finally, Alric sighed, shaking his head. “Then I’ll begin preparations—for you and me.”

Matthias spoke up quickly . “Then I’m going too.”

Severus turned to him, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you think you’ll accomplish on a battlefield?”

Matthias straightened his posture. “I can help.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “You are my assistant, not a soldier.”

Matthias crossed his arms. “You’re letting your eighteen-year-old, apparently still-learning, student go to war. I want to help too.”

Severus snorted. “He trained for eight years beforehand, fought in a war at seventeen, and managed to survive purely through an infuriating combination of skill, recklessness, and ridiculous amounts of luck.”

Harry grinned. “And charm.”

Severus shot him a look. “No.”

Matthias huffed, unfazed. “Still. I refuse to sit on the sidelines when I could be useful.”

Alric studied him for a long moment before sighing. “You do realize this isn’t just an adventure, don’t you?”

Matthias nodded firmly. “That’s why I need to start preparing now.”

Severus exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But if you insist on this foolishness, you will not go untrained.”

Matthias brightened. “You’re going to train me?”

Severus nodded, already bracing himself for the month ahead. “In offense, defense, and healing. I refuse to send an idiot onto a battlefield who cannot at least mend a flesh wound.”

Harry perked up now. “Alric and I might need refreshers too.”

Severus turned his gaze to him, eyes dark with amusement. “I assume you still remember what kind of professor I was . are you hoping I will go easy on the emperor ?”

Harry grinned . “Every curse, hex, and counter-curse. And Others , even if I could never pick up on it . Also  I am infact hoping lord Nior will remember that I very likely need to make it to battle to fight . 

Severus scoffed. “Then you can teach defense. I will handle offense and healing.” 

Matthias crossed his arms. “Alright then. Give me a month, and I’ll prove you wrong.”

Severus laughed at that openly. “Give me a month, and you are never going to want to work with me again. Ask Po—Harry.”

Harry, seated beside him, beamed. “Oh, absolutely.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Hariel is a stupid name. And I refuse to use your title while teaching.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely stupid. Harry is the best.”

The month of training was, in a word, brutal. For Severus, however, it was also highly entertaining.

From the very first session, he took immense pleasure in reminding everyone just how unprepared they were—especially Matthias. The assistant-turned-student had confidently stepped onto the training field, expecting a structured, methodical approach. Instead, he was immediately hexed off his feet before he could so much as lift his wand. “Lesson one,” Severus said dryly as Matthias groaned from the ground. “You cannot heal yourself if you’re already dead.”

Harry, of course, was enjoying every second of it. “Welcome to the Snape Training Experience,” he called from the sidelines, shielding himself lazily from a half-hearted hex Matthias threw in retaliation. Severus, unimpressed, added another spell for good measure, sending Matthias sprawling again.

Alric, for his part, handled the training with grim determination. He had been in battles before, but Severus’s methods were… different. Unlike standard military drills, which focused on repetition and endurance, Severus forced them to think. There was no routine, no pattern—only an unrelenting, unpredictable barrage of spells designed to break them down and rebuild them stronger.

Harry, however, had no illusions about what was coming. He had been through this before, and this time, Severus wasn’t treating him like a student—he was treating him like an opponent. Unlike in the war, where Severus had mostly taught him defense, he now delighted in attacking Harry whenever possible, taking every opportunity to hex him into the dirt.

“You seem to be enjoying this,” Harry accused after dodging yet another spell meant to trip him.

Severus smirked. “Oh, immensely.”

The next hex hit.

The spells only got nastier from there. Sectumsempra, Muffliato, Levicorpus—magic no one in this world would be expecting. The day Severus demonstrated Sectumsempra in full force was, frankly, a day of glee for him.

Matthias and Alric stood frozen, eyes locked on the conjured dummy that had been perfectly intact mere moments ago. Now, it was missing half its torso, the severed remnants vanishing into nothingness. Bloodless, clean—deadly.

Matthias let out a slow breath, something dangerously close to awe flickering across his face. “That is—” He hesitated. “Horrifying.”

Severus smirked. “Isn’t it?”

Harry, standing beside him, gave him a look. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I did not spend my youth inventing spells to not enjoy them.”

Matthias, still staring at the mangled dummy, was nearly vibrating with curiosity. “You invented these?” he asked, voice hushed but brimming with intrigue.

Severus flicked his wand lazily, sending Alric upside-down with a casual wave. “Some,” he admitted. “Others, I improved upon.”

Alric, hanging midair, groaned. “Improved is one way to put it.”

Matthias was taking notes, his quill scratching furiously. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “Do not get on Lord Noir’s bad side.”

Harry grinned. “Bit late for that. He thinks we’re his absolute annoyances.”

Matthias, of course, wanted to learn all of them immediately. The moment Severus had demonstrated a spell, he was already attempting it, his enthusiasm bordering on reckless. Severus, at first, was skeptical—Matthias was competent, yes, but battle magic required more than curiosity. However, to his surprise, Matthias had a knack for silent casting. His precision in spellwork far exceeded his general combat skills, his ability to weave hexes without uttering a word setting him apart. It was the one area where he truly showed promise, so Severus, begrudgingly, gave him more to work with.

Alric, on the other hand, was far more measured, treating battle like a game of strategy rather than raw power. He quickly found a role as a shield—literally—positioning himself as a defensive caster while Matthias became the unexpected attacker. The two of them, working together, became annoyingly effective. Severus would launch a barrage of spells, and Alric would deflect, buying Matthias time to circle around and strike from an unguarded angle.

Harry loved it.

“Well, that’s irritating,” he commented one afternoon as Alric blocked a particularly well-placed Stupefy while Matthias retaliated with a non-verbal Expulso, narrowly missing Harry’s ribs. He grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “They actually listen to instructions.”

Severus smirked. “Unlike you.”

Harry, of course, took special joy in teasing Severus during training. He would deliberately shield against harmless hexes at the last possible second, just to watch Severus’s expression darken in irritation. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he grinned, easily blocking a fast-moving Incarcerous and sidestepping another spell as if it were nothing.

Severus’s eyes narrowed.

Five minutes later, Harry was on the ground, limbs tangled, face-down in the dirt. His hair was filled with debris, his robes in absolute disarray, and Matthias and Alric were watching with barely-contained amusement.

“I might have deserved that,” Harry admitted, spitting out a mouthful of grass.

Severus folded his arms, smug as ever. “You absolutely deserved that.”

Matthias hummed. “What was that spell? He went down fast.”

Severus tilted his head. “Reducto—adjusted, of course, for maximum effectiveness.”

Harry groaned, rolling onto his back. “That is a load of nonsense.”

Alric smirked. “Sounds like you were outmatched, Your Majesty.”

Harry pointed a finger at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Matthias, looking far too entertained, turned to Severus. “Alright. Teach me that one.”

By the second week, Matthias and Alric had stopped questioning why the training was so vicious. There was no half-measure in war, and Severus made sure they understood that fully. Healing was not an option—it was mandatory. And if they had any illusions about only learning the basics, Severus shattered them swiftly. Every training session left its mark, and no one walked away unscathed. If someone did, Severus considered it an oversight and corrected it immediately.

Matthias, especially, suffered. He was quick, yes, but Severus had no patience for hesitation. Whenever Matthias made a mistake—too slow on a shield, too sloppy in a counter-curse—Severus ensured he felt the consequences. There was no soft mercy here, no gentle corrections. He would rather Matthias bleed in training than fall in battle. “Again,” Severus would say, standing over him as Matthias groaned from the ground, breathless. “If you hesitate, you die. Try again.”

Alric, ever pragmatic, learned fast. He adapted, recognizing his role as both a shield and strategist, countering Severus’s relentless attacks with sharp efficiency. He rarely made the same mistake twice, and when he did, he accepted the punishment with a stoic nod before adjusting. Although , sometimes he grumbled about stupid emperors and their stupid professors . 

Harry, of course, thrived. He enjoyed the challenge, meeting Severus spell for spell, matching his pace with infuriating ease. But there was one area where he wasn’t ahead—healing.

Severus had never taught him before, and it showed. Harry’s battle magic was brutal, his instincts sharp, but when it came to reversing the damage, he was woefully inadequate.

“You mean to tell me,” Severus said flatly, arms crossed as he watched Harry fail to mend a simple cut on Matthias’s arm, “that you have spent this long fighting, and you still don’t know how to heal properly?”

Harry scowled, wand hovering over the wound, which remained entirely unchanged. “I had Madam Pomfrey for that.”

Severus scoffed. “Did you have Madam Pomfrey when you were on the run for a year? Again.”

Harry muttered something under his breath before trying again. The wound sealed, but sloppily, leaving an uneven scar.

Matthias sighed dramatically, inspecting the mark. “So I’m keeping this, then?”

Harry shot him a glare. “It adds character.”

Severus, unimpressed, flicked his wand and properly healed the wound, leaving no trace behind. Then, without looking at Harry, he repeated the spell on his own hand with effortless precision. “Again.”

And so, Harry learned.

Not because he wanted to, but because Severus refused to let him leave the battlefield unprepared. If Harry was going to play Emperor, if he was going to lead, then he would damn well learn how to save his own people.

By the end of the week, Harry’s healing was passable.

By week three, Matthias finally managed to land a hex on Harry. It was weak—barely a flicker of disruption against Harry’s well-practiced defenses—but it connected. The moment it did, Matthias let out an exhilarated laugh, grinning wide as Harry took half a step back, regaining his footing almost immediately.

“Did you see that?” Matthias gasped, panting as he turned toward Alric, who was watching with mild amusement. “I hit him!”

Harry, entirely unimpressed, dusted off his sleeve. “Do you want a trophy?”

“Maybe,” Matthias shot back, still grinning.

Severus, watching from the sidelines with his arms crossed, sighed. “Your technique was sloppy, but the execution was passable,” he remarked, nodding slightly. “Well done.”

Matthias straightened, eyes brightening at the rare praise. “Oh, I—thank you, my lord,” he said, grinning even wider, his earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Harry blinked.

Then scowled.

“Oh, so he lands one mediocre hex and gets a well done?” Harry scoffed, turning to Severus with an expression of deep offense. “And I’ve been here teaching your assistant while also dealing with you hexing me every other day, but no praise for me?”

Severus arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You expect praise for performing at the bare minimum level required of you?”

Harry gaped at him. “I—excuse me?”

Alric let out a poorly concealed snort, and Matthias, still high on the satisfaction of his barely effective hex, shot Harry a smug look. “Maybe you should work harder,” he said innocently.

Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. “Unbelievable.”

Severus hummed in amusement, then turned back to Matthias. “Again,” he instructed, ignoring Harry’s ongoing grumbling.

Matthias beamed and readied his wand, and Harry, scowling, begrudgingly got back into position.

The final week was the true test. The gauntlet. A relentless sequence of combat scenarios that forced them to fight, defend, and heal under constant, unyielding pressure. Severus had carefully crafted each exercise to push them to their limits, ensuring no moment of respite. It wasn’t just about magic anymore—it was about endurance, adaptability, and sheer willpower.

By now, each of them had mastered something. Alric, already experienced, had refined his shielding to near-perfection, his defense impenetrable when paired with Matthias’s newly honed precision casting. Matthias, to Severus’s mild surprise, had a sharp instinct for ambush tactics. He wasn’t the strongest duelist, but he was clever, fast, and, more importantly, absolutely shameless in fighting dirty. And Harry—well, Harry was Harry. His raw skill and reflexes still put him above the others, but even he had grudgingly learned how to properly heal a wound by now.

It took three full attempts before they finally succeeded in completing the gauntlet without failure.

On the first attempt, they barely made it past the halfway point. Alric’s shields held strong, but Matthias was thrown off balance, and Harry, too focused on keeping the others moving, left himself open long enough for Severus to disarm him. They had lasted all of seven minutes.

The second attempt was an improvement, but exhaustion wore them down too quickly. Matthias had been forced to use a healing spell mid-fight, and though it worked, his hesitation cost them. Severus had swept them aside within ten minutes.

But the third attempt…

The third attempt, they fought ugly.

Severus watched with a mixture of satisfaction and mild irritation as Alric and Matthias, finally putting their combined training to use, played dirty.

They had picked up on tricks Severus had not taught Harry. Spells cast at unexpected angles, feints that disrupted his rhythm, quick, underhanded tactics designed to confuse and disorient. Harry, so used to his tricks, wasn’t prepared for theirs. The duo pressed him hard, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to think.

And for the first time in weeks, Harry lost.

When he hit the ground, panting, Alric and Matthias stood over him, equally exhausted but victorious.

Severus smirked.

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You did not teach me half of that.”

Severus, entirely too pleased, inclined his head. “No. I did not.”

Harry glared. “You gave them secret techniques.”

“They needed the advantage,” Severus said smoothly. “You, unfortunately, have to earn your wins.”

Matthias, still catching his breath, wiped sweat from his forehead and wheezed. “I don’t even want to go anymore.”

Alric, slumped against a tree, let out a weak laugh. “It’s too late for that.”

Severus strolled over, arms crossed, studying them all. They were covered in dirt, panting, exhausted beyond reason—but they had made it through. His gaze flickered to Harry last, assessing. He was stronger now. Better.

Not good enough to beat Severus, of course.

But close.

"If you survive this rebellion," Severus finally said, a hint of dry amusement in his voice, "you might even be competent one day."

Harry groaned from the ground. “One day? That’s all we get?”

Severus smirked. “One day.”

Matthias, still catching his breath, weakly lifted a hand. “I hate you.”

Alric, who had just enough energy to roll onto his side, gave a half-hearted nod. “Agreed.”

Harry, flat on his back, groaned. “Absolutely.”

Severus, watching the three of them lying in a pathetic heap, threw his head back and laughed . It was enough for all three of them to lift their heads, staring at him as though he had lost his mind.

Matthias scowled. “I don’t like that laugh.”

“Me neither,” Alric muttered.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What are you plotting?”

Severus smirked, the corners of his lips curling in clear satisfaction. “Nothing at all.” He turned smoothly on his heel, heading toward the manor. “But as you have all survived my training without dying of sheer incompetence, I have—begrudgingly—prepared a meal.”

Three heads snapped up.

“You cooked?” Matthias blurted.

Harry pushed himself up, suddenly much more alert. “You never cook.”

Alric was already halfway to standing. “This is a trap.”

Severus didn’t stop walking. “Then by all means, feel free to decline.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then, all three of them scrambled to their feet, their exhaustion suddenly forgotten as they hurried after him.

Severus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

At the very least, he knew exactly how to keep them motivated.

The meal was, for once, peaceful.

Which was surprising, considering the month they had just endured.

Severus had cooked—something that had startled Matthias and Alric so much that they had hesitated before even picking up their utensils. Not that Severus blamed them. He had, after all, spent the last four weeks personally hexing them into the ground, pushing them to their limits, and ensuring they left training bruised, exhausted, and occasionally questioning their life choices. That he had, without warning, presented them with a well-prepared meal felt like some cruel trick.

It wasn’t, of course.

Severus simply enjoyed cooking. It was precise, methodical, and an excellent way to channel his energy when he was not brewing.

Still, the suspicion had amused him.

“Eat,” he said dryly, watching as Matthias and Alric exchanged yet another look.

Matthias, to his credit, was the first to recover. He grabbed his fork and took a bite, chewing slowly—testing. After a moment, his eyes widened, and he turned to Alric, nudging him in the ribs. “It’s actually good.”

Alric, clearly still wary, picked up his own fork and tried it. He blinked. Then, after a long pause, nodded approvingly. “Huh.”

Harry grinned, already halfway through his plate. “ I didn't know you could cook.”

Matthias gestured vaguely with his fork. “I mean, no offense, my Lord, but we’ve only ever seen you brew potions. Cooking and not poisoning us is a new experience.”

Severus fixed him with a flat look. “If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn’t have waited until now.”

Matthias laughed but did not seem entirely reassured.

The conversation, as it always did, drifted toward the war—though, this time, it was lighter. Less discussion of strategy and risk, and more an acknowledgment of what they had accomplished.

“I still don’t understand how you’re so fast,” Matthias muttered to Alric, shaking his head. “It’s infuriating.”

Alric smirked slightly, sipping his drink. “You rely too much on prediction. I don’t move where you expect me to.”

Matthias scowled. “Well, it’s cheating.”

Harry snorted. “That’s what I said.”

Severus smirked. “No, you said that their tactics were ‘dirty’ because you failed to counter them.”

Harry shot him a look. “It was dirty. Who goes for the knees and the ribs at the same time?”

Matthias grinned. “Someone who wants to win.”

Harry rolled his eyes but did not argue.

Severus took another sip of his wine, studying the three of them. The camaraderie had built naturally, though it was not something he had expected. Matthias and Alric had formed a seamless partnership—shield and spellcaster, their roles complementing each other almost instinctively. And Harry… well. He had not needed to prove himself, but somehow, he had still done so, meeting every challenge Severus had thrown his way without hesitation.

It reminded Severus, strangely, of a different time. A different trio.

He pushed that thought aside.

It was Harry who spoke next, his voice quieter. “This was good.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “The food?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “That too. But I meant—this.” He gestured vaguely between them. “I needed this.”

Matthias tilted his head, curious. “Needed what?”

Harry hesitated, but only for a moment. “Training. Something real. I felt…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “When I first got here, it felt like I was in a cage. I was just—existing. Trying to figure out how to be an emperor without any real sense of… being.”

Matthias and Alric exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Harry continued. “This helped. Training, fighting, having something to do that wasn’t just politics and posturing.” He shook his head. “It made things easier.”

Severus studied him for a long moment. “You feel more at home.”

Harry exhaled, looking down at his plate. “Yeah. I do.”

Silence stretched across the table, but it was a comfortable one. It was understanding.

Matthias, finally, broke it. “Well, good, because if I got hexed that many times for nothing, I would be furious.”

Alric chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what you took from this?”

Matthias grinned. “Absolutely.”

Harry laughed, and just like that, the tension lifted.

Severus watched them—watched the ease, the way the conversation drifted back to teasing and complaints, the way they all seemed to fit together now. And for the first time since they had arrived, he thought—

This war would not be such a burden after all.

Chapter Text

The first package arrived with the latest dispatch—bundled in thick parchment, sealed with the insignia of House Noir, and carried by one of Severus’s personally trained couriers.

Harry hadn’t expected anything personal.

He had expected the reports—the carefully labeled crates of potions, the sharp, efficient handwriting detailing their effects and dosages, the meticulous tracking of medical supply distribution for the campaign. That was standard. That was Severus.

What he hadn’t expected was the second package, tucked beneath the first. Smaller, wrapped in wax paper and tied off with deep green ribbon.

Alric, ever practical, had already started skimming the official documents, cross-referencing Severus’s notes against their existing supplies. Matthias had been running through their previous stock, double-checking what they had left.

Harry, however, had been staring at the smaller package.

He untied the ribbon carefully, peeling back the paper to reveal three compact kits—each labeled with their names, filled with high-grade personal-use potions and emergency supplies.

There was also a second, less meticulously arranged bundle.

Baked goods.

Harry stared.

Matthias, peering over his shoulder, let out an incredulous noise. “Did he send us pastries?”

Alric frowned, looking up from his reports. “Severus Noir sent pastries?”

Harry reached for the note tucked between the wrappings, flipping it open.

To the Three Idiots Who Insisted on Throwing Themselves into War,

Your personal kits contain essential healing potions, emergency restoratives, and various antidotes. Try not to waste them.

The enclosed food is a test of intelligence. Some of them are safe. Some of them are not. Consider this an extension of your training. If you cannot tell the difference between edible provisions and potential disaster, then you deserve whatever consequences follow.

Lord Noir

P.S. Harry, if you complain about my cooking, I will find a way to make your rations even worse.

Harry groaned.

Matthias immediately looked delighted. “So what I’m hearing is: free food and a challenge.”

“No,” Alric said immediately, reaching to grab the tray before Matthias could touch it.

Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. “I cannot believe he actually sent us booby-trapped pastries.”

“I can,” Alric muttered.

Matthias, however, was already eyeing one of the smaller tarts with interest. “You know, we have magic. We could just test for anything dangerous—”

“That’s not the point,” Alric said exasperatedly.

Harry, against his better judgment, grabbed one of the pastries, weighing it in his palm. It looked fine. Perfectly ordinary. Which, knowing Severus, made it immediately suspicious.

Still, he bit into it.

A long beat of silence.

Then—he scowled.

Matthias leaned forward. “What? What is it?”

Harry chewed slowly. “It’s—bland.”

Matthias looked genuinely offended. “That’s it? I was expecting poison or some kind of dramatic flavor sabotage.”

Harry grimaced. “Oh, I’m sure there’s something more sinister hidden in here. He’s just making me wait for it.”

Alric sighed, taking one of the safer-looking pieces and examining it. “We don’t have time to engage in pastry warfare. We still need to organize troop movements before tomorrow.”

Matthias, however, was already taking out his wand, running mild detection spells over the rest of the selection. “I am going to figure this out.”

Harry exhaled slowly, letting the noise of their minor chaos settle around him.

Matthias, after half an hour of determined spellwork, finally realized that none of them contained anything remotely lethal. Just a spectacular range of culinary misfires.

“Wait.” Harry blinked. “You mean—he just sent us bad food?”

Matthias snorted. “It’s a test of intelligence, remember? He probably wanted to see how long it would take us to figure it out.”

Alric looked genuinely pained. “You’re telling me we wasted all this time—”

“Hey, to be fair,” Harry said, holding up the remains of his unfortunate tart, “it does taste like punishment.”

Matthias plucked a biscuit from the tray, sniffing it cautiously. “This one looks fine.”

Harry and Alric simultaneously reached out to stop him.

Matthias took a bite.

A long pause.

His entire face twisted.

“…This is flour,” he croaked. “This is just flour and despair.”

Harry howled with laughter.

Alric, rubbing his temples, looked like he was reconsidering his entire life. “Severus Noir—the man who has engineered some of the deadliest potions in existence—cannot make a simple biscuit.”

“He can make poisons,” Harry corrected. “Not pastries.”

Matthias, still suffering, swallowed with great difficulty. “I refuse to let this defeat me.”

Harry grinned. “I dare you to eat another one.”

Matthias reached for a scone.

Alric looked to the heavens for patience.

This continued for far too long before Harry finally stopped laughing, brushing crumbs off his uniform. “Alright, enough. We have actual work to do.”

Matthias sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m writing back to tell him his baking is a war crime.”

Harry smirked. “I’m sure he’ll take that well.”

And with that, the ridiculousness faded—but the warmth remained.

Severus had sent them something.

And for a moment, just a moment, the weight on Harry’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

To the Esteemed Lord Noir, Master of Potions, Terror of the Kitchen,

First, I’d like to thank you for the supplies. The potions will be invaluable. The baked goods, however, were… an experience.

I am choosing to believe that the challenge was, in fact, a test of intelligence and not just a cruel joke at our expense. You’ll be delighted to know that it took Matthias half an hour of spellwork to conclude that the true danger lay not in poisons but in your utter failure as a baker. He was devastated. Alric has yet to recover from the betrayal. I suspect you’ll be hearing from Matthias personally about the crime you committed against biscuits.

That said, I appreciate the gesture.

It has been only a few days, and already I can feel the weight of this campaign settling over me. The nobles are restless, the troops are eager but tense, and I am reminded, once again, that wars are rarely won on battlefields alone.

Alric is handling logistics with terrifying efficiency, Matthias is discovering that strategy involves more than reckless bravado, and I—

Well.

I am keeping it all together.

And I find, to my surprise, that I do not feel as out of place as I once did. Perhaps because I’ve spent a month being hexed within an inch of my life. Or perhaps, because, despite everything, I am not alone in this.

Regardless—thank you. For the potions. For the terrible, terrible food. And, I suppose, for everything else.

Try not to enjoy your peace too much without me.

Harry

P.S. If I hear you’ve been using my absence as an excuse to laze about, I will find a way to make your life miserable. Consider that a promise.

-

To His Imperial Majesty, Whose Greatest Talent Lies in Complaining,

Your gratitude is noted, though your blatant disrespect for my culinary expertise is both expected and disappointing. The challenge, as you so rudely suggested, was not a joke—merely an opportunity for you to further develop your survival instincts. That you managed to survive my baking should instill in you a sense of confidence.

That being said, I will admit to a certain satisfaction in knowing that Matthias wasted half an hour of his time attempting to uncover a nonexistent poison. I can only imagine the look on his face when he realized the true horror lay in my failure, not in my intent.

On to more pressing matters.

Your assessment of war is accurate, though I hardly need to tell you that. Battles are fought with blades and wands, but wars are won through patience, politics, and an unrelenting ability to outmaneuver one’s enemies before a single drop of blood is shed. Your presence there will ensure victory, but I suspect it will also remind you of the tedious reality of ruling. I do hope you find it enlightening.

Alric is competent, so I trust that at least half of your operations will not be an unmitigated disaster. Matthias, on the other hand, remains an unpredictable variable. If he does anything catastrophically foolish, I expect a detailed report for my personal amusement.

As for yourself—your reluctance to admit that the training has benefited you is laughable, but I will allow you to pretend otherwise if it soothes your fragile ego.

You are not out of place, Harry. Not anymore.

And though you are far too irritating to miss, I will admit that the silence is… unusual.

Do try not to die. It would be highly inconvenient.

Lord Noir

P.S. If you believe for a second that I have been idle in your absence, you are more delusional than I feared. I have, in fact, doubled my profits. Your ridiculous aristocrats continue to fund my empire with their arrogance. Do try to return before they realize.

To Lord Noir, Who Somehow Manages to Insult Me in Every Letter,

First, I would like to note that if I ever find out that you truly enjoyed the image of Matthias suffering over your baked goods, I will personally ensure that your next shipment of luxury imports mysteriously vanishes.

Second, you are insufferable. But you already knew that.

Now that we’ve established the usual pleasantries—things are progressing. Slowly. Bureaucracy moves at the pace of a dying snail, and I am quickly discovering that no amount of brute force speeds it along. You were right (don’t gloat)—this war isn’t going to be won through sheer military force alone. Every town we pass through has a story, a grudge, or a reason to doubt the Empire, and I can’t say I blame them. But it also means that I can’t just crush this rebellion without looking like a tyrant, which is frankly exhausting.

Alric is, of course, unfazed. Matthias, on the other hand, has become something of a surprise asset. Yes, you heard that correctly.

It turns out your assistant knows more about economic structures, trade routes, and regional grievances than either of us anticipated. I caught him correcting an official’s assessment of tax records and nearly choked on my drink. The official, by the way, was wrong—Matthias was right. Again. I am starting to suspect that he could single handedly out-negotiate half my council if given the chance.

I will never tell him this to his face, obviously.

You were also right about something else (again, shut up)—the training did help. More than I realized at the time. I haven’t felt like myself since we arrived in this world, not entirely. But these past weeks, working, fighting, pushing forward—it’s grounding. The weight of this place doesn’t feel so crushing anymore. It’s still heavy, but at least I can breathe.

You’re insufferable, but you were right about that.

Don’t let it go to your head.

Harry

P.S. The nobles are still lining up to offer me potential consorts. I am convinced this is some kind of prolonged revenge scheme on your part. If it is, well played. If not, you should still find a way to fix it.

P.P.S. Alric says hello in his usual ‘I refuse to engage with this nonsense’ manner. Matthias would send his regards, but he’s busy intimidating another poor quartermaster into rebalancing the supply chains. I might just make him Minister of Logistics when this is over.

-
To the Reckless Emperor,  Who is Somehow Still Alive,

First, let us address the most critical matter at hand: you will not be stealing my luxury imports. Because you cannot.

Now, onto business.

Enclosed, you will find another batch of potions—combat restoratives, blood-replenishing draughts, and antidotes. Use them sparingly. The second package is not for you but for distribution among the underfunded clinics in the western regions. This one bears the seal of House Noir.

Yes, my name.

I assume even you are capable of recognizing what that means.

I cannot be in the field, but I can still affect it. If the people must trust the Empire, they need a reason to believe it is worth trusting. They are more inclined to accept aid when it comes from a noble house rather than the throne itself—less fear, less hesitation. Since my name is already tied to yours, I might as well make use of it. Public goodwill is a currency more valuable than gold, and I have no intention of wasting it.

Additionally, I have sent more food. Some of it is even edible. Try not to let Matthias poison himself out of sheer curiosity.

Speaking of Matthias—he has always been capable, though he does not recognize it in himself. For twenty years, he has been bound to this estate, much like I was bound to Hogwarts. Much like you, I imagine, feel bound to the weight of your throne.

I will admit, I take some satisfaction in seeing him finally step beyond the estate walls. You may not recruit him. I have already grown far too comfortable with his competence, and I refuse to find a replacement.

On a more personal note—I am not surprised that training grounded you. It always has. You were never made for politics alone; war, for all its horrors, at least provides a sense of purpose. The key is ensuring that purpose does not consume you.

Try not to die.

Lord Noir

P.S. I cannot fix your suitor issue, nor would I if I could. I am now using it for the war effort. If I must endure the spectacle, then so must you. Consider it a lesson in patience.

To the Lord of Questionable Morals and Surprisingly Effective Charity,

Well, it turns out putting your actual name on those donations was a brilliant move. You’re not just talk of the town—you’re talk of the entire western front. Soldiers, healers, even local merchants, they’re all more or less welcoming to our side now, just because you have been supplying them long before we got here. Even my troops are seeing the benefits; the people trust us more because they trust you. It’s unsettling, really. I didn’t think I’d ever see the day where your reputation was working in my favor instead of terrifying everyone into compliance.

I also have to admit something rather horrifying—your baking is improving. The bread was edible. The tarts were decent. The shortbread was almost good. Matthias, amazingly, ate some this time and has now requested more, so congratulations, you’ve won over exactly one person. Alric, for his part, still hesitates every time but looks like he wants to ask. I give him another week before he cracks.

Speaking of deeply alarming things, I thought Matthias and Alric were the same age. So did Alric. But apparently, Matthias is thirty. Thirty. I nearly choked when I found out. I assumed they were both in their twenties, but no—Matthias has somehow been thirty this entire time, and I had no idea. Which means Alric has been arguing with him like an annoyed older brother, but he is actually younger. Also, there’s something going on there. Nothing obvious yet, but the way they move, the way they argue—it’s different. Subtle, but there.

Oh, and before I forget—your warning about my purpose consuming me? Duly noted. I can’t promise I’ll be cautious, but I can promise I’m not the same reckless idiot from before. I have a plan, I have control, and I have people at my side. That makes all the difference.

Stay out of trouble, yeah? You might be the talk of the town now, but that means you need to be careful. People are looking at you differently, and that’s not always a good thing. Then again, I doubt there’s anything in this world you can’t handle.

Try to miss me at least a little.

Your Favorite Headache,
Harry

- 

To the Persistent Thorn in My Side,

I am glad the donations are serving their intended purpose. I will continue brewing as fast as production allows and should be able to send another round for your troops specifically. Try not to let them waste it all at once.

Yes, I knew Matthias was thirty. I found out when he asked me if you were related to my other life. He is far more perceptive than he lets on.

It is not surprising that he went to war. I am fairly certain he only did so because Alric was going.

As for my own safety, I assure you that I am well-protected. This world is weaker than ours, thankfully, and my wards remain unbreached. Furthermore, I have discovered that Legilimency is laughably easy here. I suggest you attempt it. If you have learned anything from me, it should come naturally.

Now, since you insist on prying into personal matters—yes, I have thought about war more than I expected to. But I find myself far more forgiving as Noir than I ever was as Snape. I am not the man you knew. And I do not intend to become him again.

And no, I do not miss you.

Lord Noir

P.S. Matthias has requested more of my baking. I have made extra and sent . None for you.

To the Lord,  Who Pretends Not to Care but Absolutely Does,

I know it’s been a while since my last letter. Things have been… harder. We lost men. Not many, not enough to turn the tide of battle, but enough to remind me that war takes even when you do everything right.

I’ve seen death before. That’s nothing new. But watching someone die here, in this world, under my command—it feels different. Maybe because I know their names. Maybe because I remember how they fought, how they stood with me. I remember the way they joked over rations, how they complained about the cold. And then suddenly, they’re gone.

It reminded me of the first time I really felt loss. I think of Remus sometimes. He was steady in a way I didn’t appreciate enough. He wasn’t just my professor—he was a constant, even when he wasn’t around. And Dobby—Merlin, Dobby. I don’t think I ever really told you what he did. He saved my life, and I couldn’t save his. That stays with you. You stayed with me too. 

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. It’s not like you don’t know what loss feels like. Maybe that’s why I am writing to you. You know what it means to keep moving forward, even when it’s senseless.

We burned the bodies with full honors. We don’t leave our own behind.

But I think I’m tired, Severus. Not in the way I used to be—not like when I first woke up in this world, when I felt like I didn’t belong. It’s different now. I’ve settled into being here, into fighting this war, into the choices I’ve made. I just—

I don’t know.

This isn’t my world, but I’m bleeding for it anyway. And it doesn’t feel as wrong as it used to.

You’d tell me that’s foolish. Maybe it is. But I think it’s the only thing I know how to do.

Try not to insult me too much in your response.

Harry

P.S. Send more tarts. Not for me. Matthias and Alric have somehow gotten very invested in their quality. This is entirely your fault. (And yes, fine. Send some for me too.)

- 

To the Stubborn Fool, Who Refuses to Listen to Reason,

My letter is also late, as I was preparing everything. I have sent food, potions, and other necessary provisions. This is not solely my effort—other nobles have contributed, though I suspect they would be less enthusiastic if they knew the source of the funding. As always, it comes from the fortunes of the very people who look down upon the ones they now sustain. Poetic, isn’t it?

You are correct—I would tell you that bleeding for a world not your own is foolish. But that would be a waste of ink, wouldn’t it? You are, unfortunately, you. And you have never known how to do anything by halves.

You have made this your war, so you will see it through. I will not waste breath telling you otherwise.

Loss is inevitable. That is not wisdom—it is fact. You already know this. But knowing does not soften the weight of it.

I will not offer you empty words of comfort. I will not tell you that time dulls it or that moving forward is a cure. You have already learned—some wounds never fully close. We both know this. But I will remind you that moving forward does not mean moving alone.

You are tired. I can see it even in your writing.

I will not tell you to rest. You will not listen.

But I will tell you to remember why you fight. You are not that boy anymore, running on borrowed time, charging headfirst into war because you had no other choice. This war is yours. This world is yours, if you decide to make it so.

Do not let grief make your choices for you.

I have sent more potions. Stronger this time. If your healers complain, tell them I do not take criticism.

I have also found your location, so you will find proper provisions waiting for you. For the rest of your camp, I have sent ingredients to cook with, as well as basic necessities—soap, clothes, and magically enhanced artifacts that should make daily life marginally less insufferable. Do not expect elegance. I am sending them as a necessity, not as a favor.

There is also a separate package for the three of you. One box is specifically for you, Harry. If you cannot recognize what is inside, I will be forced to reconsider the extent of your so-called intelligence.

The other two are for Alric and Matthias—simple meals and baked goods, because apparently, I am now responsible for feeding your entire inner circle.

Lord Noir

P.S would offer you a wager on when they will finally stop their insufferable circling and do something about whatever is brewing between them, but I already know you are a terrible at observation.

To My Lord, Who Pretends He’s Not Worrying About Me,

You’re an arse.

You know that, right?

I wasn’t expecting anything beyond potions, maybe another half-insulting letter, but no—you had to go and send proper supplies for the entire camp. You had to help in a way that actually made a difference. Do you have any idea what kind of reaction this got? The moment the provisions arrived, half the soldiers started acting like it was a damn festival. Clean clothes, actual food, enchanted supplies that we’ve never even seen before in this world—you didn’t just send necessities, Severus. You gave them something to hold on to. Something that makes them believe this war is worth fighting.

I know you’ll deny it, but you understand people better than you let on. I’ve seen it before, and I see it now. You do this quietly, without fanfare, but the impact is undeniable. You keep pretending you don’t care, but your actions say otherwise.

And don’t even get me started on my personal package.

Shepherd’s pie? Really?

I haven’t had that in years. I don’t even remember telling you I liked it, but you knew. Treacle tart and pumpkin juice, too—Merlin, Severus. You can pretend all you want, but this is downright sentimental. You’re slipping.

(And yes, I did appreciate it. Which makes this even more infuriating, because now I have to thank you.)

Alric and Matthias, by the way, are increasingly not subtle about whatever is going on between them. For your information , I can observe that much .  I don’t even think they know what it is. Alric annoys him constantly, and Matthias pretends to be above it, but I’ve caught him watching Alric when he thinks no one’s looking. It’s honestly painful to witness. I almost pity them. Almost.

You were right, by the way. About me being tired. About moving forward not meaning I have to do it alone. 

I think I needed to hear that.

And I think I needed this. Training helped. Writing to you helps. I feel more grounded than I did before. I know where I stand now, and I know what I’m fighting for.

I’m still bleeding for this world, but at least now, it feels like I’m building something, too.

Try not to gloat too much.

In return, I’ve included a few souvenirs for you—consider it a fair exchange.

The first is a book from a ruined archive—filled with odd spells and theories I’m sure you’ll enjoy dismantling. The second is a custom dagger, enchanted for durability, with "Fidelis Umbra" engraved on the guard—because if anyone is a faithful shadow, it’s you.

Your Most Grateful and Most Annoyed Headache,
Harry

P.S. If you ever make shepherd’s pie again, you have to send another. Not as a favor, but as an imperial request.

P.P.S. Don’t pretend you don’t like the dagger.

-

To the Emperor, Who Insists on Assigning Sentiment Where There is None,

I find it increasingly difficult to determine whether corresponding with you is an exercise in patience or a calculated form of suffering. Regardless, here we are again.

Your assessment of my provisions remains as insufferable as ever. If they have improved morale, then good. If they have provided you with the illusion that I am acting out of sentimentality, then clearly, I have failed in maintaining my reputation. A grievous mistake. I will endeavor to be crueler next time.

Now, onto your ‘souvenirs.’

The book, as I suspected, is a disaster of half-baked theories and impractical spellcraft. I have already marked the sections so utterly devoid of logic that I nearly set the entire thing on fire. That being said, I will admit—grudgingly—that some concepts are worth dissecting. If I determine any to be useful, I may, against my better judgment, inform you. You should consider that a privilege.

The dagger is… fine. It is well-crafted. I assume you took great joy in imagining me actually appreciating the gesture. Do not let it go to your head. The engraving was unnecessary, but I suppose I will keep it. If only to ensure I have something sharp on hand should you ever attempt to steal my wine again.

Now, an update from this side of the war—one I believe will amuse you.

I recently discovered some correspondence left rather carelessly in my study. A familiar name caught my attention, so naturally, I investigated further. Imagine my surprise when I found that Matthias and Alric have been exchanging letters—since the day Matthias threw a bouquet in your face.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Alric, apparently, found that moment so utterly entertaining that he decided to seek out a stranger purely for the pleasure of revisiting it in detail. And somehow, from that single act of pettiness, they have continued speaking ever since. I do not know whether to be impressed or concerned.

I confess, I took great satisfaction in this discovery. I do not care for frivolous matters of the heart, but there is something deeply amusing in knowing that their entire correspondence was founded on shared amusement at your expense. 

As for your ongoing war efforts—yes, I know you are bleeding for this world. I knew you would. But you are also building something, and that is not something you have done alone. You are not fighting the way you once did—reckless, desperate, isolated. You have chosen to lead, to inspire, to give these people a future beyond war. That is the difference. Try to remember it.

I have enclosed more of your precious shepherd’s pie. Not as an ‘imperial request,’ but as a means of ensuring you do not collapse from poor dietary habits. More tarts as well, since I assume you will complain otherwise.

Lord Noir

P.S. The dagger is acceptable. Do not expect further acknowledgment.

P.P.S. If you start assigning sentiment to my cooking, I will replace your next shipment with something truly unpalatable. Consider yourself warned.

To My Lord, Who Pretends to Be Emotionless but Keeps Proving Otherwise,

I knew you’d keep the dagger. You can pretend all you like, but I can imagine you examining the craftsmanship with far more appreciation than you’re willing to admit. And as for the engraving—well, you’re stuck with it now. Enjoy your new identity as a faithful shadow.

Also, I did expect further acknowledgment. A grand speech, even. Perhaps a dramatic declaration of loyalty and gratitude. But I suppose I’ll have to make do with your begrudging acceptance.

Now, onto the truly important matter: Alric and Matthias.

You cannot possibly be as entertained by this as I am. Since the bouquet incident? That means Alric took one look at Matthias throwing flowers at me and decided that was someone worth knowing. I don’t know whether to be amused or horrified, but at this point, Matthias and Alric are far too comfortable with each other. It’s past the stage of mild amusement and firmly in the realm of incredibly obvious. Alric barely even annoys him anymore—he just grins whenever Matthias gets flustered, and somehow, instead of telling him off, Matthias just sighs and lets it happen.

You should have seen them last night. They were sitting together, laughing. Laughing, Severus. Do you understand how ridiculous that is?

I brought it up. Directly. I said, and I quote, “So, when’s the wedding?”

Matthias threw a bread roll at my head.

Alric, of course, just smirked.

I am never letting this go.

But, since I know you enjoy this at least as much as I do, I will keep you updated. I expect to win whatever imaginary wager we now have.

Speaking of, I don’t believe for a second that the supplies you sent were purely practical. You know I like shepherd’s pie. You know I like treacle tart. And you know exactly what you’re doing by making sure they keep arriving.

I should be concerned. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually cared.

(And yes, I enjoyed them. But that’s beside the point.)

I don’t have much of an update, beyond the fact that things are moving. The rebellion isn’t done yet, but we’re making progress. Slowly. Some days are harder than others, but I’m holding steady.

You were right about one thing, though. I am leading differently this time.

And maybe—just maybe—that has something to do with the fact that I’m not doing it alone.

Try not to gloat too much.

Your Favorite Headache once again,
Harry

P.S. Don’t you dare send me something inedible just to prove a point. I know you too well.

-

To the Reckless Emperor, Who Fails to See the Obvious,

I see you are still under the impression that I owe you further acknowledgment for the dagger. Let me correct that delusion—I do not. You sent a weapon to a man who specializes in them. Of course, I appreciate quality craftsmanship. Of course, I kept it. That does not warrant a speech. You should be grateful I acknowledged it at all.

Now, regarding the true source of your amusement—your insufferable subordinates.

Yes, I found it thoroughly entertaining that Alric took one glance at Matthias throwing a bouquet at your head and decided this was a person worth knowing. It speaks to his sense of humor, if nothing else. And no, I am not surprised that Matthias entertained the attention. He would rather endure Alric’s presence than admit he enjoys it.

Your direct approach, while unsubtle, was effective. A bread roll to the head is as good as a confession, in my opinion.

Regardless, I trust you will keep me informed. I would hate to miss the inevitable moment Matthias realizes he is doomed.

As for your ridiculous suspicions about my intentions—you should be grateful I am ensuring your survival through edible means. But, since you insist on dramatics, I will admit that I find it mildly satisfying to know you enjoyed the food. This is not an admission of sentimentality. It is simply practical reinforcement. You will eat, and I will ensure that it is at least tolerable.

Now, onto matters of actual importance.

Your last report suggested prolonged sieges may be required in some of the fortified cities. If that is the case, you need to account for sustained supply lines. Ensure your scouts are mapping alternate routes—destroying enemy resources is only useful if you do not cut yourself off in the process. If the locals have not fully aligned with your forces, secure their favor first. You already know how. Food. Medicine. Stability.

Use the goodwill I have built with House Noir’s donations if you must. If you claim to dislike relying on me, then at least learn to use what I have given you effectively.

And since you seem so determined to pry confessions from me, here is one: I would rather continue receiving your letters than deal with the inevitable disaster your silence would suggest.

Try not to get yourself killed. It would be inconvenient.

Lord Noir

P.S. Your paranoia regarding inedible food is unwarranted. However, since you insist on tempting fate, I may feel inclined to remind you why that fear is justified. Consider this your warning.

To My Lord, Who Has Probably Decided I’m Dead by Now,

I know it’s been a while. Longer than I intended. My apologies , Severus. 

Things have been—complicated. The war is dragging on. Longer than any of us thought it would. We’ve taken ground, but not enough. It’s a slow, grinding thing, and every day feels like a test of endurance. We’re winning—I think. But it doesn’t feel like it. Not yet.

I received your supplies. I know you’ve been sending them, even without my responses. I don’t think I ever said it outright, but thank you. Not just for the provisions, but for knowing that I’d need them before I could even ask.

I won’t lie—this past month has been hell. The silence didn’t help. It’s strange, really. I never thought I’d need to hear from you, but I did. Every day that passed without one of your letters, I felt it. I don’t know what that says about me, but there it is.

I’d ask if you missed me, but I can already imagine your response. Something scathing and dismissive. But I think, maybe, I’d recognize the truth beneath it now.

We’re pushing forward soon. A final campaign, if all goes well. One last push before we end this.

I’ll write again when I can.

Try not to be too relieved.

Harry

P.S. You will be pleased to know that Matthias and Alric are just as insufferable as ever. At this point, I think they’d be married if they weren’t both stubborn fools. So at least something remains predictable.

- 

To My the Idiot,  Who Took a Month to Write Back,

You should know that your prolonged silence was not appreciated.

For weeks, I was forced to consider several unappealing possibilities: that you had died, that you had done something so catastrophically reckless that even you couldn’t recover from it, or that you had finally run out of things to say to me—which, frankly, seemed the least likely scenario.

At the very least, I knew you could count on my rations to keep you alive. But knowing you weren’t starving was little reassurance when I had no word from you. Next time, I suggest you make an effort to prioritize your correspondence, unless you want me to assume the worst.

I am—begrudgingly—glad to hear that the war may finally be drawing to a close. Do not mistake that for optimism. I have no illusions that you will emerge from this entirely unscathed. However, your continued absence has resulted in me suffering through an increasing number of insipid court dealings, and I refuse to endure their idiocy any longer than necessary. It would be far more convenient if you returned and handled the mess you left behind.

Speaking of which, you owe me for the absolute waste of my time that was this last month. Certain palace affairs required intervention, and as the unfortunate favorite of the absent emperor, I was forced to take over. It was intolerable. They were attempting to slip their little power plays past me—an insultingly transparent endeavor—but I used their previous scandals to ensure they will not attempt such idiocy again.

I do not care for court politics. However, I do care about ensuring that those simpering cretins do not undo what stability you have managed to maintain in your absence. In short, your court remains as painfully incompetent as ever, but at least they now know better than to test my patience.

As for your idiot companions—I have sent another round of provisions, though this time, Alric and Matthias will have to share. After finally gathering sufficient evidence, I have determined that the ‘matching outfits’ incident was, in fact, not a coincidence. At this point, I suspect they deserve each other, which is an impressive feat considering how insufferable they both are. Feel free to inform them of my support—or don’t. Either way, I will be entertained.

I expect another letter soon.

Do not keep me waiting again.

Lord Noir

P.S. If you ever disappear on me like that again, i will poison your food i send next time. 

To My Lord,  Who Threatens Me with Food-Based Revenge,

Apologies for the late reply—things have been busy. In a good way, mostly.

We finally have all the nobles involved in this mess pinned down. It’s taken months of careful maneuvering, but we’re nearly there. The fighting has lessened, and I’ll admit… our casualties have been far fewer than expected. I’m sure part of that is luck, part of it is planning, but I also can’t ignore the effect of your potions. They’ve made their way into every corner of this war, and so has the knowledge of who they’re coming from.

I don’t know how exactly the rumor started, but by the time we reached the last stronghold, everyone seemed to know that House Noir was backing the Empire. That you—you—were most likely the Emperor’s favorite. The way they talk about you, Severus, it’s… impressive. The men trust you without having even met you. There are even jokes now—half of them seem convinced you’re orchestrating things from the capital like some omnipotent warlord. (A sentiment I imagine you enjoy far too much.)

But since I’m being honest, I’ll admit something else—when I first saw you at court, back when this mess of a life began, I didn’t really look at you. Not the way I should have. I was too caught up in my own confusion, too fixated on who I thought you were to see who you actually are.

And then came that evening.

The palace luncheon. You strode in wearing that suit, and suddenly everyone , including me in the room looked like they had forgotten how to breathe. Well probably not Alric . He better not have anyway. 

For the sake of fairness, I have decided to take pity on Alric and Matthias. It is truly unfair how well you pull that look off. Robes may have their elegance, but they have nothing on you when you wear a suit. There. I said it. Feel free to gloat.

Also—and this is the strangest thing—I caught myself talking about our past to Alric the other night, and I called you Noir. Without thinking. And then I laughed. Because that’s who you are now. I’m not even sure when it happened, but I’ve stopped thinking of you as Snape entirely.

It’s funny, isn’t it?

I spent so much time trying to reconcile my memories with the man in front of me. Turns out, I didn’t need to.

You are who you’ve always been. And yet, you are not the same.

And for the first time, I think I truly see you.

Try not to let that get to your head.

Yours ,
Harry

P.S. Tell me, is that suit custom-made? If it isn’t, I refuse to believe there’s a tailor in this world that competent.

- 

To the Emperor, Who Should Be Fighting a War Instead of Gossiping,

I do not want to be famous. Nor do I have the patience for the level of idiocy that would require. I have spent my entire life ensuring that I am not a political figure, and yet somehow, despite my best efforts, I am now an integral part of your ridiculous war.

Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?

When I came to this world, I made a decision—I would live in luxury, free from war, obligation, and all the tedious matters of state that plagued my former life. And yet here I am, orchestrating politics, supplying armies, and apparently being viewed as some shadow power behind the Empire. (Though I will admit—treason does sound mildly entertaining.)

Your people may have taken to calling me your favorite, but let me be perfectly clear: if this leads to any expectation that I must continue handling imperial affairs, I will poison your morning tea. Do not test me.

As for your observations about my attire—I will tolerate exactly one thing. Any and all commentary you insist on making regarding my person must refer to Noir and Noir alone. If you dare bring Snape into it, I will personally find a way to send you back to our old world, just to watch you suffer through another war without my assistance.

And while we are on the subject of appearances, do not think I haven’t noticed the irony here. You, too, have been fitted in the luxuries that come with your position. Your robes are tailored, your boots are made to order, and I strongly suspect that even your armor is lined with something unreasonably extravagant. You have the audacity to comment on my wardrobe while parading about in custom imperial finery? Truly, you are a hypocrite of the highest order.

Now, instead of wasting your time gossiping with your advisors—whose duties I am also covering—you should hurry up and return home. I am not your regent, and I do not intend to continue doing your job.

Lord Noir

P.S. Do not make me keep writing letters like this. Come back already so I can insult you properly.

-

To my Impressive Regent, 

I am deeply sorry that a few of my nobles have decided to rebel, forcing me to be indisposed while I deal with them instead of keeping you properly entertained with my letters. A heinous crime, truly. One that I will surely pay for in full when I return and have to endure the full extent of your irritation. I can already imagine the unimpressed glare you are directing at this letter.

The good news is that this rebellion is finally unraveling. We have the last strongholds in our sights, and morale is high—partly because your supplies have ensured that our casualties remain minimal. Between your potions, your enchanted artifacts, and the simple fact that half the empire now views you as my unquestioned favorite, our soldiers are moving through towns with more support than we ever anticipated. We’re no longer seen as conquerors but as something worth fighting for. It makes a difference.

It also means that, if things continue at this pace, I will be home in a month.

I’m holding onto that thought.

Now, back to the truly pressing matters—like your completely futile attempt to avoid being a political figure.

I say this with all the respect in the world: that ship has sailed. You may insist that you want to live in luxury, unbothered by imperial matters, but we both know that’s a lie. You are already entrenched in it, and you are thriving. You can fight it, you can grumble about it, you can threaten my tea supply all you like—but you have power, and you are using it.

And since we are apparently sharing entirely unnecessary truths about personal observations, I feel compelled to inform you that if you knew exactly what went through my mind when I saw you at that palace luncheon, you would never touch me with a six-foot pole again.

Please understand that this did not happen back in our world. However, I did, unfortunately, have a massive crush on the Half-Blood Prince at age sixteen. Yes, that crush died a horrible, violent death the moment I realized it was you.

And yet, here we are.

You are doing a wonderful job as regent—better than you will ever admit—and I am trying to return as fast as I can. Hopefully, before you decide to follow through on your threats and actually start poisoning my tea.

Also, the wardrobe upgrade was forced on me, and I am not sure it does me as much justice as you claim. I feel like a Malfoy sometimes.

Lastly—and this is the most serious part of this letter—I haven’t had your cooking in a while, and it is becoming a problem. You set a standard, Severus. A very annoying one. Now I can’t eat anything without comparing it, and unfortunately, you remain undefeated.

Yours in Imperial Suffering,
Harry

-

To my useless Emperor, Who Refuses to Suffer in Silence,

Your sarcasm is noted. And ignored.

If you expect me to feel sympathy for your suffering, you are sorely mistaken. You ran off to war and left me to deal with your incompetent nobles. That was your decision. Now, you must live with the consequences.

Your return is, however, noted. I expect you back in one piece. Preferably without any more reckless injuries. And if you do not return on schedule, I will ensure that your first week back consists of nothing but tedious court meetings with the most insufferable members of the nobility. Consider that your incentive.

Regarding your latest ridiculous claim—I am not thriving. I am enduring. If your nobles were not so incompetent, I would not have to involve myself at all. But, as you so keenly pointed out, I have apparently become too useful to ignore. I loathe it. I had plans, Harry. Leisurely mornings, luxury, a life of excess. Instead, I am balancing your war, my business empire, and now, apparently, I am playing regent as well.

Once this is over, I am going on a month-long vacation—without you.

You owe me for this.

Now, onto far worse offenses—your absurd observations.

I am choosing to pretend that you did not write those words about the palace luncheon. That you did not experience whatever appalling thoughts you claim to have had. That none of this ever happened. This is my reality now. You will not take it from me.

Furthermore, the fact that you—of all people—had a crush on the Half-Blood Prince is a crime against nature. An offense so egregious that I refuse to dignify it with further comment.

(That said, I do find it hilarious that your crush immediately died upon discovering it was me. It is the only reasonable thing you have ever done.)

And yet, as you so graciously put it—here we are.

Your complaints about your wardrobe are equally insufferable. You are the Emperor. You are required to look the part , yes. If you do not wish to resemble a Malfoy, you can simply have better clothes fitted. 

And lastly—your incessant complaints about my cooking. You left. Had you stayed, you would be eating well. Instead, you have spent months surviving on rations, and now you have the audacity to demand my food.

Unbelievable.

…It will be waiting when you return.

Do not be late.

Lord Noir

P.S. Since you are apparently incapable of enduring another month without my food, you will find several meals enclosed. This is a favor, not an expectation. Do not make a habit of it. I have also enclosed meals for the other two, though why I am indulging them is beyond me.

P.P.S. On a less entertaining note—someone attempted to poison me. Again. You remember the incident months ago—the one we assumed was targeting you? Well we were wrong . 
Yes, I survived. Yes, I identified the culprit. And no, I do not require you launching yourself back here in some dramatic display of vengeance. I have dealt with it. Apparently, my refusal to be bought, flattered, or controlled has begun to grate on certain members of your court. . I am sure your misplaced attention at times—and my very public alignment with your side in this war—has not helped. 

To My dearest Lord, Who Will Absolutely Regret Threatening My Wardrobe,

If I return to find that you’ve transformed my closet into a shrine to Malfoy fashion, I will personally start referring to you as "Sevy" in court. I will make sure it sticks. I will commission paintings. Do not test me.

Also—you’re going on vacation without me? That’s just cruel. After everything I’ve suffered, after months of war and bureaucracy, you’re telling me I won’t even get to bask in your misery while you try (and fail) to pretend you aren’t secretly enjoying your own importance? Unbelievable.

I do hope you enjoy the peace, though. For as long as it lasts. Which, knowing you, won’t be very long. You’ve already made yourself indispensable, Severus. You might as well accept your fate. Besides—if you disappear for a month, who will I have to argue with? Who else will keep my attention for hours with sharp insults and the occasional bout of reluctant wisdom? Who else will send me food just to shut me up?

...I think I might miss you the most. (But don’t get smug about it. That would be unbearable.)

That said, you are right. I do owe you for all of this. I haven’t forgotten that. I doubt I ever will.

Two more weeks.

The war is nearly over. The last of the resistance is crumbling. I think the nobles backing it finally realized they’re fighting a losing battle. Soon, this will just be another footnote in history.

I should be relieved. And I am, in some ways. But part of me is already thinking about what comes after.

I remember wondering what it would be like after the war back home. The silence. The shift from fighting every day to suddenly... nothing. But I never really got to go home after it, not properly. I stepped out of one war and straight into another kind of battlefield. I had to keep moving. I didn’t know how to stop. I think I still don’t.

And now—I’ve just fought off something I shouldn’t have been able to fight off. A spell. Something ancient, But very much like Imperius . The moment it hit, I could feel it trying to take over. I almost let it. It would’ve been easier. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not after your last letter.

You didn’t even tell me, not really. You made it sound like an inconvenience—another annoyance in a long list of burdens you didn’t ask for. But I read it again, Severus. I saw the truth buried underneath your irritation.

Someone tried to poison you.

They meant to poison you.

And months ago, when we thought that first attempt was aimed at me—it wasn’t, was it?

You were the target. And I didn’t even know.

I’ve been marching through battlefields thinking I was the one in danger while you’ve been playing regent with a knife at your back, and I—I think that’s what really set me off. Not the spell. Not the pressure. That.

I was so angry. And terrified. And I didn’t know where to put it.

So when that magic came for me, I lashed out. I shoved it off like it was nothing, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of my soldiers, laughing like a madman and declaring I was placed here by God.

Not exactly my finest moment. And now? The rumors are spreading like wildfire.

I already know you’re going to mock me into the grave for this, but I swear—it wasn’t intentional. This time.

Still—this is happening. And I don’t even have time to care.

I’ve spent so much of my life fighting. Now I have to figure out what it means to live.
But—at least this time, I have people to return to.
You included.

See you soon. 

Yours truly, 

Harry

P.S. The food was perfect. Obviously. But I have to pretend it wasn’t, just to keep you humble.

P.P.S. If you do not address the ridiculous ‘child of God’ situation in your next letter, I will be disappointed. I know you have something cutting and vicious waiting. Don’t let me down.

P.P.P.S. Alric and Matthias are painfully obvious now. I caught Alric sneaking extra sugar into Matthias’s tea the other day, and Matthias let him. I expect wedding bells by the time I return.
-

To my Insufferable Emperor, Who Cannot Survive Without My Cooking,

If you attempt to call me ‘Sevy in court, I will retaliate. And you will suffer for it. Do not test me.

As for my so-called importance—I am merely cleaning up the disaster you left behind. This was not my choice, nor my intention. But it seems fate has decided that I must endure it. Along with benefits of Poisoning I suppose . However, I will take my vacation, and no, you are not invited. I have spent months ensuring your empire does not crumble in your absence—I deserve a month of peace.

Though, if I am being honest, I doubt it will be peaceful at all. Not if my reputation continues to precede me. Thanks to you, I am now the subject of ridiculous speculation, unwanted admiration, and a thoroughly maddening level of influence.

And yet—Your absence has been noticed. I have noticed.

Which is, frankly, unacceptable. I have built my life around not forming unnecessary attachments. Yet here I am, writing to you as if your thoughts—your presence—matters. It is absurd. It is illogical. And yet, it is a fact.

And speaking of facts—I have now had to endure court officials whispering about your divine destiny. I knew you were reckless, but this is a new level of absurd. I am dying to know how you managed to get an entire front of soldiers convinced that you are the chosen ruler of gods themselves. Truly, I did not think you could possibly inflate your already unbearable ego more than it already is—and yet, here we are.

You know, most people subjected to one of the Unforgivables do not respond by declaring divine appointment in front of an army. However , I am begging you: when you return, do not make this worse. I refuse to live in a world where people look at you with religious reverence.

One more week.

You are nearly finished. The war is nearly over. You have spent your life fighting, and now—for the first time—you must learn how to stop. That, I suspect, will be the real battle.

But you are not alone in it.And despite your many, many flaws... I do not believe you will lose.

I did not believe peace was possible for me. Not truly. Even in this world, free of past burdens, I had no intention of seeking it. I assumed I would exist as I always had—on the edges of things. Unbothered. Untouched. Apart.

And yet, somehow, without meaning to, I found it. Perhaps you will, too.

You will return. I expect you to come back in one piece. And when you do—perhaps you should consider what you actually want. Because I suspect you already know.

Lord Noir

P.S. The next meal I make for you will be terrible, just to see your reaction. You have been warned.
P.P.S. …And yet, you will eat it anyway.

To My Lord,  Who Always Knows What to Say,

I read your letter twice.

I’m not sure why. Maybe I needed to hear it more than once. Maybe I needed to remind myself that I’m not alone. That even if I don’t know exactly how to move forward, I won’t have to do it by myself.

I’m coming home, Severus.

See you soon.

Harry

P.S. You’re right. I am expecting another meal when I get back. I consider it my rightful reward for not dying.

The candle on Harry’s desk flickered as he sealed the letter, pressing the wax down with firm finality. He exhaled slowly, watching the molten edges cool before setting the parchment aside.

It was done.

The war was over.

And yet, all he felt was an overwhelming desire to sleep for three days straight and then maybe eat an entire meal without interruption. Preferably something not made of dried rations.

The tent flap rustled behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“We’re packing up,” Matthias announced, stepping inside with entirely too much energy for someone who had also been through four months of war. He eyed the sealed letter. “That for Noir?”

Harry huffed a tired laugh. “Who else?”

Matthias smirked. “Yeah, figured. Alric’s outside, making sure everything’s accounted for. He’s fussing over inventory like we’re running a merchant caravan instead of an army.”

From outside, Alric’s voice floated through the tent. “I heard that.”

Matthias grinned unapologetically, then leaned against the table. “We leave at dawn. If the weather holds, we’ll reach the estate by tomorrow evening.”

Harry blinked. “That soon?”

Matthias gave him a look. “Yes, Your Majesty. We’ve crushed the rebellion, your divine mission is complete, and your humble followers would very much like to go home.”

Harry groaned. One poorly timed joke—one half-delirious, adrenaline-fueled proclamation—and he was never living it down. “I am never saying anything in the middle of battle again.”

Matthias grinned. “It was a moment, Harry. A legend was born.”

Alric, now standing in the doorway, snorted. “You realize the rumor has already reached the capital, right? People are saying you were placed by the heavens to guide the Empire.”

Harry dropped his head onto the desk with a loud thud.

Matthias patted his shoulder. “We’ll get you a ceremonial staff when we get back. Maybe a halo.”

Harry groaned into the wood. “I hate you both.”

“You know you love us.”

“I will have you both excommunicated.”

Alric rolled his eyes. " Oh no , we are shaking in our boots. Come on , let's go .  Your things are already packed.”

Harry lifted his head. “What?”

Alric crossed his arms. “You were busy. I handled it.”

Matthias smirked. “Which means you’re not allowed to complain when you find your clothes actually folded instead of looking like you stuffed them in your trunk like a wild animal.”

Harry scowled. “I do not—”

“You shove them in there and call it organized chaos,” Alric deadpanned.

Harry groaned. “Why am I even arguing with you?”

Matthias shrugged. “You tell us, Your Majesty.”

Harry pointed at both of them. “I swear—”

Matthias clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Your Majesty. Time to get you back to your faithful shadow.”

Harry exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he grabbed his cloak. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they would be home. To Severus. 

Chapter Text

Severus had spent four months pretending.

Pretending that Harry’s absence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Pretending the letters were an obligation rather than something he found himself waiting for. Pretending that he had not, in some ridiculous way, grown accustomed to Harry’s presence in his life.

But the moment he found out— really found out—was the moment everything changed.

It wasn’t in the way Harry spoke to him, nor in the banter that had become their shared language. It wasn’t even in the letters, which had shifted from infuriating to… something else entirely.

It was the confession. Tucked into a sentence, tossed as if it meant nothing.

“If you knew exactly what went through my mind when I saw you at that palace luncheon, you would never touch me with a six-foot pole again.”

There had been humor in the delivery, of course. There always was. But the sentiment underneath—that had been genuine. That was the moment Severus realized Harry might have been looking at him differently for months. Long before Severus had ever dared consider the possibility himself.

And the worst part?
Once he knew, he couldn’t unsee it.

The letters changed. Or maybe they hadn’t changed at all, and he was only now noticing—the teasing, the pointed compliments, the way Harry’s words always lingered just a little too long when they landed on him .

That should have been the end of it.

He could have ignored it. Dismissed it. Should have. But then came the final letter, the one before Harry’s return.

“You included.”

Harry wasn’t just coming back to a throne, to a war won, to an empire reclaimed. He was coming back to Severus . And somehow—impossibly—Severus had found that he was waiting .

He wouldn’t admit to what for. Wouldn’t name it. Wouldn’t even let himself dwell on what it meant, that he had paced the estate like a man too tightly wound, that the rooms had begun to feel empty, not just silent.

Hariel had already been different from Harry—taller, hair longer, wilder, messier. The face was still familiar in shape, but without the scar, without the haunted green eyes, without the weight of a boy who had been marked by war.

No—Hariel was someone else entirely.

And Severus was a hypocrite. Because Hariel being Harry was the only reason he’d allowed that first conversation to stretch into hundreds. The only reason he’d answered that first letter, and every one after.

And yet—Hariel’s unfamiliarity had made it easier. Easier to separate him from the past. Easier to believe this was a new man, in a new world, untouched by everything Severus had once hated in himself.

But this ?

This was something else entirely.

The Victory Ball was an extravagant affair, as expected—an endless spectacle of glittering gowns, polished armor, and an insufferable amount of self-congratulation. The nobility thrived on nights like this, where they could sip expensive wine, whisper behind gilded fans, and pretend they’d been instrumental in the Empire’s success.

Severus rolled his eyes as he sank into a chair, nursing a glass of wine and glaring into it like it had personally offended him. Stupid emperor. Stupid never-ending duties.

He hadn’t seen Harry in two weeks. Two entire, infuriating, echoing weeks. Once Severus had ensured the idiot was bathed, fed, and medically checked over, Harry and Alric had been pulled away immediately. Imperial business, they said. Like he hadn’t been running the damn country for the last six months.

Still, Severus had assumed—stupidly—that it would only take a few days. He hadn’t left the affairs a mess, and he was still available to help. That Harry would return—grinning like a fool, knocking on his study door, demanding food or company or an argument. Like always.

Instead, he’d received notice that the western clinics were facing shortages again. So he’d brewed through the nights. Doubled shipments. Sat through meetings. Filled the silence with function.

All to distract himself from the silence. From the echoing, idiotic hope that maybe, maybe Harry was just busy. That he would come around.

And yet—here he was. Two weeks later. At the Victory Ball.

Surrounded by crystal chandeliers, gilded balconies, and glittering silks. A night meant to celebrate the Emperor’s return, the Empire’s triumph, the hard-won peace. And yet all Severus could see were fawning sycophants around him. Overambitious noblewomen and men eyeing him like a prize. Like proximity to him meant proximity to the throne.

Still, no Harry. Not a glimpse. Not a word.

Severus—who had helped plan half the damn event, who had overseen the guest list, who had personally approved the menu—stood alone, drinking something expensive and utterly ineffective.

At least Matthias looked similarly annoyed, tucked into a corner and clearly suffering. Apparently, Alric had barely written or visited, as well. It was mildly comforting—suffering was better when shared.

Severus was just about to give up, to stalk through the palace and drag the Emperor out by his ridiculous collar , when a noblewoman approached. 

The noblewoman—one of the more persistent, ambitious ones—approached Severus, her silk gown flowing behind her as she dipped into a perfect curtsy.

“Lord Noir,” she purred, voice smooth. “You are a vision tonight.”

Severus arched an unimpressed brow over his wine glass. “Am I.”

Harry already hated this.

The noblewoman didn’t falter. She stepped closer, her perfectly calculated smile unwavering. “It is only fitting that a man of your stature take part in the evening’s festivities. Would you grant me a dance?”

At that exact moment, however, he looked up to see Harry—who had just come out. Harry, in a matching suit, down to the cuff being matched to each other’s eyes.

And Severus had to confess—his brain froze.
Just—shut down.
It set him back, sent him straight into the mindset of a polished, uncaring noble before he even knew what had happened. His mask slipped into place before he could stop it, and the next thing he knew—

“Very well,” he muttered, and regretted it the second he saw the triumph flicker in her eyes—smug and anticipatory.

It lasted all of five seconds, though, as he heard a murmur and looked up to see Harry cutting through the ballroom with the kind of purpose that made people stop and stare. Conversations hushed, the music seemed to falter, and then—

He reached them.

Before he could think, before he could question it, before he could process— Harry had grabbed him. And dragged him out. 

 And Severus—Severus let him.

Severus barely had time to register the moonlight, the cool night air, the distant sound of music still playing inside—before his back hit the closed door. 

 And then Harry kissed him.

It was not the slow, calculated kind of kiss that came from careful deliberation. No, it was the kind born of frustration, of unchecked impulse, of the kind of reckless certainty that only Harry Potter could achieve.

And Severus—Severus, who had spent months trying not to think about this, who had carefully buried every inconvenient realization beneath layers of logic—was entirely unprepared for it.

Harry’s hands were on his waist, gripping with an almost painful intensity, like he was staking a claim.

Severus froze.

His mind screamed at him to move, to stop, to react—to do something.

And then—he did.

He pulled Harry in.

His hands fisted in Harry’s suit, dragging him closer, fingers curling into the fine fabric with a desperation he hadn’t even realized was there. His other hand slid up, tangling in Harry’s hair, anchoring him in place, confirming that yes, this was real, that yes, Harry had actually done this.

The kiss was searing—overwhelming—like stepping too close to a fire and knowing full well he should move away—but not wanting to.

Harry growled against his lips, deepening the kiss, and Severus barely had time to register his own reaction—the way his pulse was hammering, the way his body was burning, the way he had never been kissed before—before Harry pushed him harder against the door.

“Is this what you wanted to do last time?” Severus rasped when Harry finally pulled back, just enough to let them breathe.

Harry laughed—low, dark, satisfied.

His lips were red, his breath was uneven, and his eyes were blown wide with something feral. He moved lower, lips dragging against Severus’s jaw, down to his throat.

“Absolutely not,” he murmured.

And then—his teeth sank into Severus’s neck.

Severus’s breath hitched—his head tilting back automatically, his body reacting before his mind could even process why.

Harry felt it.

He chuckled against Severus’s skin, slow and delighted.

"I was so angry everyone was looking at you," he confessed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the bite. "I wanted to mark you all over so you could never ignore me again."

Severus felt himself heat all the way to his ears.

His grip on Harry’s suit tightened involuntarily—as if that would stop the way his body was betraying him.

And then—as if he wasn’t already suffering enough—Harry bit down again. Harder.

Severus made a sound. Something deep in his throat, something involuntary.

And then—he smacked a hand over his mouth.

Harry laughed.

Low. Dangerous. Unbearably satisfied.

Severus wanted to die.

Or hex him.

Or—do something—because this was not how this night was supposed to go.

He had never been kissed before. He had never been touched like this before. He had never—

Severus, red to the tips of his ears, smacked Harry across the chest.

Not hard—not nearly hard enough for the absolute menace grinning up at him. But just enough to punish him for the audacity of existing.

Harry laughed, low and pleased, absolutely unbearable in his triumph.

"You’re—you’re red," he murmured, delighted.

Severus smacked him again.

"Couldn’t you have asked, you brute?!" he hissed, glaring down at him.

Harry arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unrepentant. “Oh, you mean like the way you asked before agreeing to dance with someone else?”

Severus’s glare sharpened. “I—"

But Harry wasn’t finished.

His hands, warm and unapologetic, slid beneath Severus’s jacket , lingering at his waist, pressing firmly against him. Severus swatted at him , but Harry didn’t pull away.

Instead, he took a deliberate step closer, caging Severus against the door once more, his body heat unmistakable.

His expression had shifted—the teasing still there, but something else underneath. Something sharp. Something sure.

Severus paused, feeling that shift like the drop before a storm.

"You saw me," Harry said, voice quiet but steady. “You saw me wear matching clothes. After we spent six months exchanging letters—letters, Severus. The kind of letters that no one who isn’t thinking about someone that way writes. You read every single one of them, knew exactly what I was saying. You, with all your brilliance, understood all of that—and still, you accepted the first dance with someone else.”

Severus swallowed.

Harry’s eyes, brighter than ever, locked onto his.

"And you know what that means in this world."

Severus did know.

“If you wanted to dance so badly,” Severus drawled, forcing himself to sound unimpressed, “you could have simply dragged me to the floor like a civilized person instead of making a scene.”

Harry chuckled, his breath ghosting against Severus’s cheek as he leaned in just slightly, his weight unmistakable.

“Would that have gotten your attention?” Harry asked, voice low, teasing.

Severus’s breath caught.

Harry’s fingers curled against his waist, gentler now, less demanding but no less present.

And Severus—

Severus leaned into it.

Just a little.

His eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment, his body betraying him before his mind could catch up.

Harry must have felt it—must have sensed that tiny, damning moment of weakness—because his grip tightened, and his voice, when he spoke, was quietly triumphant.

"Do you think I won’t hex you for this?” Severus muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

Harry laughed, tilting his head, mouth brushing against Severus’s jawline as he did.

"Go ahead. Try," he murmured, pressing closer.

The knock at the door was loud, insistent, and thoroughly unwelcome.

Harry groaned, forehead dropping against Severus’s shoulder for the briefest second before pulling back, visibly irritated. His hands were still on Severus’s waist, fingers curling like he had no intention of letting go.

Severus, for his part, sighed as though the weight of the world had just been dumped on him. “For Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, then pressed a firm hand against Harry’s chest, shoving him back just enough to breathe.

Harry resisted—only slightly, his smirk still lingering at the edges of his lips. “We don’t have to go,” he murmured, 

Severus shot him a flat glare. “And let them assume I’ve been murdered? No, Your Majesty.” He tugged at his own collar, his sleeves, his jacket—anything to distract himself from the heat still lingering on his skin. “We are going.”

Harry watched him, eyes flickering over his flushed face, his unsteady hands. And then, to Severus’s horror, Harry grinned.

“You’re blushing.”

Severus smacked him again.

Harry laughed, reaching up to rub his arm. “Oh, come on,” he said, voice warm, teasing, utterly unrepentant. “That’s hardly fair.”

“What’s unfair,” Severus snapped, turning his attention to fixing Harry’s suit instead of acknowledging the undeniable heat in his face, “is that now I will not hear the end of this any time soon . we are going to be a spectacle in ball and i want to strang-”

Harry spoke, slow and infuriating. “ you liked it though” 

Severus smacked his hand this time that was reaching for severus’s waist again, sharply. “You are lucky I am only smacking you.”

Harry chuckled, leaning in just slightly. “Wouldn’t you rather—”

Severus covered his mouth.

Harry’s eyes gleamed with pure amusement.

Severus exhaled, slow and measured, forcing his expression back into something resembling composure.

Another knock. More impatient this time.

“Your Majesty, My lord, the ball awaits,” Matthias’s voice filtered through, dry and pointed.

Severus sighed again, resigning himself to his fate, and pulled the door open.

The ballroom was far too loud.

Or perhaps, Severus thought grimly, it was merely his own paranoia screaming at him.

It started the moment they stepped inside. A shift in the air, a subtle flicker of glances, the kind of suppressed amusement that could only mean something had happened—and Severus, Regent of the Empire, feared by nobles and generals alike, was apparently the last to realize what it was.

Matthias, to his credit, said nothing. He had looked at Severus once, blinked very slowly, and then immediately turned away as if his own survival depended on it.

Alric, however, was less merciful.

As they passed him, Alric had paused mid-conversation, eyes flickering over Severus's face—then lower—before a slow, knowing grin stretched across his face.

Severus’s stomach dropped.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

And then—it hit him.

Oh.

Severus’s spine went rigid.

Because he remembered.

The balcony.
The way Harry had kissed him.
The way Severus had let him.
The way he had leaned his head back—Merlin, like an idiot—and let Harry bite his neck.

And now—now, the reaction made sense.

Severus, with every ounce of dignity he had left, very calmly turned to Harry and said, in the coldest, most even voice imaginable:

“ Potter i swear to merlin that the bite has better be covered-”

Harry, unrepentant, utterly pleased with himself, merely smiled. Sweet. Innocent. A lie.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Severus considered murder.

But, as fate would have it, he had no time to commit murder, because at that very moment, the orchestra swelled, the floor cleared, and the first dance of the evening began.

And, because he was cursed, it was Harry who extended a hand to him.

Severus stared at it. Stared at him.

A choice.

He could refuse. Could ignore the ridiculous amusement in the room, the quiet glances, the absolute certainty that if he stepped onto that dance floor, this night would be cemented in the minds of every person here.

But then he looked at Harry—still smug, but beneath it, there was something else. A challenge, an expectation. A certainty.

As if Severus had already decided.

And perhaps… he had.

Severus exhaled sharply, took Harry’s hand, and stepped forward.

The ballroom held its breath.

They moved.

And if, during that dance, Severus made sure to step on Harry’s foot as much as possible, then that was entirely justified.

Chapter Text

The day Matthias threw a bouquet straight into the Emperor’s face was the day Alric realized he might actually be alive again.

Not just breathing. Not just functioning.
But alive.

The change had certainly started earlier—a slow, creeping thing, slipping in through the cracks of routine and duty. Alric had been a typical advisor, a man buried beneath the weight of the throne, sharing the impossible burden of a barely competent emperor who was pulled in too many directions, drowning in responsibility.

On top of that, the young emperor had begun to rebel.

He had started listening to too many voices, acting like the weapon he had been raised to be, not a ruler with a mind of his own. It had been frustrating to watch—infuriating, even.

Then, everything changed.

Alric had known, from the moment it happened, that the emperor before him was not the same man.

Because Alric knew the old one had died.

He had checked himself. Just a few hours earlier, he had walked into that room, into the mess of a dying empire, and seen the lifeless form of the young ruler he had served for years. But he had not slept in four days, had been delirious from exhaustion, and in the end, he had simply let it be.

What was the point of making a fuss? The man was dead anyway.

Then, hours later—he woke up.

The emperor had opened his eyes, looking at Alric with an intensity he had not seen in five years—not since the night the old one had ridden off to battle, never the same again.

Alric had made a decision in that moment.

He went along with it.

He continued as if nothing had changed—because for the first time in years, something had.

And to his absolute shock, this new emperor was not nearly as incompetent at all. Even with his nervous hands, his restless movements, his occasional hesitation, he was capable. He listened. He treated Alric with a quiet sort of respect, and for the first time in his career, Alric had found himself wanting to help—not just as an obligation, not just for the sake of the empire, but because he wanted to.

And then Matthias happened.

Matthias, who was supposed to be just another assistant, who was supposed to be a minor detail in the grand mess of war and politics. Matthias, who threw a bouquet at the Emperor’s head and changed everything.

Alric had not laughed in years.

Not truly.

But that day—watching the Emperor sputter, watching Matthias barely hide his amusement, watching the way Matthias stood there, entirely unrepentant—something cracked.

And before Alric knew it, he was seeking him out.

They started meeting weekly.

It wasn’t planned at first. It wasn’t even friendly, not really—more like civil sparring.

Fiery jabs over shared bottles of wine, delivered after ridiculous letters and even more ridiculous gifts that never made any sense. They mocked their respective employers behind their backs, laughed over the Emperor’s absolute inability to let go of anything related to Lord Noir, argued over which noble was the worst, traded court gossip like currency.

Then, one night, Matthias had complained he couldn’t get a reservation at a restaurant he was dying to try.

And Alric—without thinking, without pausing—had promised to make it happen. And he did. Perks of being the Emperor’s advisor.

After that, it became a ritual. Every week. Always a different place. Sometimes picked by Matthias. Sometimes by Alric. Sometimes they just wandered until something caught their interest—arguing the entire way.

It was always some tucked-away corner. A quiet booth or back patio.
A space where duty didn’t weigh so heavily.

And at some point—without ever naming it, without needing to—it became something. Something tethered. Something true.  Not quite love. Not yet.

But it was starting to feel dangerously close.

Alric didn’t notice Matthias all at once. It crept in—the quiet charm of his hazel eyes, the way his small braid always lay just right, how his voice sped up when he was trying not to smile. He had fair skin, the kind that glowed under firelight, and a laugh that wasn’t polite—it was real.

Matthias’s nose crinkled, eyes alight with mischief as he outlined his plan to “accidentally” coordinate outfits for Harry and Severus. He looked utterly delighted, explaining how he would subtly convince both men to wear navy with silver trim. Alric had watched him, amused, admiring the flush of excitement in his cheeks, the ease with which he plotted chaos.

He also noticed how Matthias leaned forward when he was excited.  That night, Alric had bought him a gift. A silver drop earring. Sleek. Elegant. Just enough to draw the eye when Matthias turned his head.

And when Matthias wore it to the banquet—without saying a word, just a tiny, pleased smile playing on his lips—Alric had not stopped smiling all evening. 

When they started training, everything Alric thought about these people changed.

The Emperor became Harry.
The Lord Noir, unremarkable at first glance, became a demon.
And the man he had thought was brilliant, admirable, but ultimately passive—turned into a soldier.

It had been some time since Alric had fought, but given that these people had once been wizards, he thought he had a sense of what to expect.

He didn’t.

The eighteen-year-old menace and the demon at his side threw Matthias at him on the very first day—and Alric had never stopped being surprised after that.

He listened to Harry speak of their other world, of war waged in a different time, under different rules. He watched Matthias absorb every word with such fascination that it irritated him, just a little.

He watched Matthias learn. Fast.

Matthias took to spells like he had been waiting his entire life for them, using himself as a shield, throwing himself against Harry without reserve, without hesitation, getting up no matter how many times he fell.

He watched Severus watch Harry.

There was something sharp in it, something satisfied—like a craftsman admiring his own work—as Harry dodged most of his hexes and held his own against Severus himself.

That, more than anything, had made Alric respect him.

Especially when he had seen what Severus’s magic was truly capable of.

He had watched a spell take a limb clean off a training dummy. He had learned Severus’s nasty, vicious hexes. He had watched Matthias master them just as quickly.

Alric had always been the epitome of a noble warrior. Honorable. Proper. Restrained.

But Severus beat that out of him. And by the end of the month, when they finally sat down to eat after a grueling day, Alric realized something strange.

He didn’t remember ever enjoying a meal more.

The war was a test—not just of strategy and survival, but of them.

Alric had fought wars before, but never beside a ruler like Harry, who refused to stand behind the lines, or Severus, whose potions , provisions  and letters never failed, or Matthias, who should have been on the sidelines but refused to be.

Matthias had been a mind, not a soldier—but war changed him.

The moment he shielded Alric from a hex meant for him, reckless and unthinking, Alric knew Matthias wasn’t just keeping up—he was thriving.

But that didn't make the dread any softer . He had lost so much , he could not lose these people . He could not lose Matthias. 

By the second month, battle became routine—Harry ensured their safety, Severus kept them alive, and Alric found himself reading letters from someone who actually cared if he survived.

Matthias, frustrating and brilliant, learned spells too fast, fought too hard, and threw himself into the fray like he had always belonged there.

He tried to hold him back. Tried to warn him.

"You’re going to get yourself killed."

Matthias rolled his eyes. "You’re not the only one allowed to be brave."

They fought. Loudly. 

Yet Matthias's didn't avoid him. 

He always made sure Alric ate , as he called him controlling. 

He always left space beside him at the fire , as he told him he hated men with stupid ego . 

And Alric shut up . because he noticed how Matthias fought . 

He fought—not just to win, but to make sure they survived, too.

One brutal battle, and everything snapped.

Alric hadn’t even seen the hex until it was too late. One second, he was issuing orders, watching the lines hold—barely—and the next, Matthias was in front of him.

A shield charm flared. Shattered.

Matthias crumpled.

Alric didn’t remember moving.

He didn’t remember shouting either—but later, his throat would ache from it.

He remembered blood. The wrong kind. Matthias’s blood.

"Stay with me," Alric kept saying. "Don’t you dare—Matthias, keep your eyes open."

He didn’t remember making it back to camp.

But he remembered the silence that followed.

Matthias lay on a bed, pale and too still, with Alric crouched beside him, fingers trembling as he applied Severus's potions and muttered healing spells like prayers. Severus would have been more efficient. More precise. But Severus wasn’t there.

So Alric did what he could.

"You idiot," he whispered hoarsely, brushing blood-matted hair from Matthias’s face. "You absolute fool."

Matthias didn’t answer. Didn’t open his eyes.

Alric sat there long after the battle had ended, long after the medics had checked in and left. He sat, arms wrapped tightly around Matthias’s limp body, and refused to move. He didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat.

He just… stayed.

At some point, maybe hours later—maybe more—Matthias stirred.

His eyes cracked open, hazel and unfocused, but still too sharp. Still too Matthias.

Alric’s breath caught.

"You’re awake," he breathed.

Matthias blinked, slow. Then—smiled.

A crooked, exhausted smile. Soft around the edges.

"Stop worrying," he rasped. "I told you I was brave."

And Alric—who had nearly shattered from the weight of fear—let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. His hands fisted in Matthias’s collar, dragging him upright with far more care than his expression suggested.

"You’re an idiot," he muttered again.

Matthias chuckled—breathy, weak. "Yeah. But I’m your idiot."

And then, before Alric could say something cutting—something deflective, something safe—Matthias leaned in and kissed him.

And Alric kissed him back.

Because it had taken him far too long.

And there was no way in hell he was letting go now.

Now, as he sat in front of the ones who should have been his family but were nothing more than strangers, reading through yet another list of suitable matches, Alric realized he had never been more done in his life.

The noblewoman across from him was droning on, something about duty and alliances, and Alric barely heard a word of it. He stared at the paper in front of him, at the carefully curated names, and thought, This is ridiculous.

He set the list down.

He stood up.

And with the same cool detachment that had carried him through war, he said, “Don’t bother writing. Don’t visit me at the palace. Don’t contact me again.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he left.

By the time Alric reached Noir Estate, the sun had begun to dip low on the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the garden and gilding the stone walls in warm light. He walked with purpose—shoulders squared, posture composed—bouquet balanced in one hand, the ring box secure in his pocket.

And yet, for the first time in a very long time, he felt... nervous.

Not the sharp, controlled alertness of politics. Not the razor-edge awareness of battle.

No, this was something far more inconvenient.

Anticipation.

Stupid, ridiculous, fluttering anticipation that had no place in his life and yet made his fingers tighten slightly around the stems of the bouquet.

He knocked on the door and waited.

The seconds stretched.

Then—it opened.

Matthias stood there, half-dressed for travel, bag slung over one shoulder, brow arched with that familiar blend of exasperation and amusement that had become a constant in Alric’s life. He looked exactly as he always did—and yet, somehow, it still made Alric’s breath catch.

And for once—Matthias didn’t speak.

He just stared.

Because there was Alric. Stoic, pragmatic, long-suffering Alric—standing on the front step with a ring in one hand and flowers in the other.

Matthias blinked. Then blinked again.

Alric exhaled slowly, steadying himself like he was about to step into a war council.

Then, without ceremony—because ceremony would only make it harder—he popped the box open.

Matthias’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable for one breathless beat.

Alric held his ground. “We don’t have time for drawn-out courtship,” he said. His voice was flat, practical. The only way he knew how to say it without faltering. “We both know that the second we return, someone will try to arrange my future for me. And I’m not letting that happen.”

Matthias made a noise—quiet, half-laugh, half-stunned protest—but said nothing.

Alric gave a crooked smile, sharp at the edges. “Eloping is the practical choice,” he continued, matter-of-fact, as he handed over the bouquet. “You’re already leaving for a week—so let’s go.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Matthias, finally finding his voice, let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. He reached for the bouquet he'd just been handed—and promptly smacked Alric on the head with it, scattering a few petals across the doorstep.

"Propose properly, you annoying man," he muttered, fondness bleeding into every syllable. "We only get this chance once."

Alric blinked.

Then laughed—quiet, breathless.

“When I saw you throw that bouquet,” he said, and his voice was softer now. “Back then, I didn’t think we could ever get here. I hadn't ever dreamed of ... well all this .”

He stepped forward, slowly. Matthias didn’t move, just watched him—wide-eyed and unreadable.

“But I was wrong,” Alric continued. “Because that day… I think I started falling in love with you.”

Matthias let out a breath—shaky, disbelieving.

“I just didn’t realize it then. I didn’t realize it when you laughed like a man who didn’t know how to be afraid. Or when you memorized hexes just to throw them at annoying nobles. Or when you kept leaving space for me beside you , wherever you went . 

He paused, then smiled, small and helpless.

“I should have known when I stopped watching the Emperor and started watching you.”

And because he had to—because this moment deserved everything—Alric dropped to one knee.

Matthias groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Oh, now you’re just showing off—”

“Shut up,” Alric said fondly, taking his hand—warm, steady, grounding. “You said we only get this once. So let me do this properly.”

He looked up—really looked up—at the man who had undone him with every laugh, every glance, every impossible show of reckless brilliance.

“You’ve ruined me, you know,” he murmured, thumb brushing over Matthias’s fingers. “I used to be composed. Collected. And now I lose sleep when you’re injured, I rearrange court schedules just to eat with you, and I keep noticing stupid things like how your braid always falls the same way.”

Matthias’s eyes shimmered, hazel catching the light, but he didn’t interrupt.

Alric smiled, crooked and sincere. “I should’ve asked you a long time ago. But I’m asking now.”

A breath. A heartbeat.

“Marry me.”

Matthias didn’t speak right away. His fingers tightened, just slightly, around Alric’s. He looked down—at Alric, at the ring, at the ridiculous bouquet cradled in one arm.

Then, voice just above a whisper, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Alric exhaled, laughter spilling out of him like relief. He rose to his feet, slipped the ring onto Matthias’s finger, slow and careful, and then—

Matthias grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into a kiss.

No preamble. No hesitation.

Just certainty.

And Alric, who had spent far too long being too blind, too careful, too late—kissed him back like it was the only thing he’d ever been sure of.

Because it was.

Harry arrived at Noir Estate with a purpose.

It was barely midday, and he had ridden straight from the palace, barely stopping to let his horse rest. Severus, of course, had no idea he was coming—not that it would have changed anything.

When Harry stormed into the estate (again), he was met with a flat stare from the butler.

“In the study,” the man said without being asked.

Harry grinned and saluted as he strode past.

By now, the staff knew him.

Which meant, by now, they also knew that whenever the Emperor showed up unannounced, something ridiculous was about to happen.

And ridiculous it was.

Harry threw open the doors of the study, found Severus exactly where he expected—seated in a grand chair, tea steaming beside him, book in hand, expression utterly unimpressed.

Harry didn’t waste time.

“"Let's Elope."

Severus blinked.

Then, without missing a beat, he turned the page of his book.

"No."

Harry stared.

Severus sipped his tea.

Harry took a deep breath. “No?”

“No,” Severus repeated, setting his cup down with infuriating calm.

Harry crossed his arms. “That’s it? Just no?”

Severus finally looked up, gaze assessing, as if trying to determine whether Harry had actually lost his mind. “You are the Emperor,” he said dryly. “You do not elope.”

Harry stepped closer, hands on his hips. “I could elope.”

Severus tilted his head. “You should not.”

“But I could.”

Severus exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are infuriating.”

Harry grinned. “And yet, here you are, not throwing me out.”

Severus set his book aside, crossing the room with quiet purpose until he stood directly in front of Harry, close enough for their breaths to mingle.

“Harry,” he said calmly, “if you wish to marry me, you will do it properly.”

Harry blinked. “You want a wedding?”

“I want a public ceremony,” Severus clarified, arching a brow. “One that leaves no room for doubt. And more importantly—” his lips curled into a slow, smug smile “—I want to watch you suffer through the planning.”

Harry squinted at him. “Isn’t the bride usually the one who handles that?”

Severus didn’t miss a beat. “Yes. But I don’t want to.”

Harry pointed a finger at him, appalled. “You can’t offload your work onto me!”

“I can,” Severus said mildly, “and I will.”

“You’re evil.”

Severus’s expression softened into something dangerously close to fond amusement. “I’m looking forward to the wedding.”

And just like that, the matter was settled.

Chapter Text

The wedding was, of course, a spectacle.

It had to be.

The empire demanded nothing less than grandeur, and grandeur was what they were given. The streets of the capital were overflowing with celebration, banners of emerald and gold draped across every building, petals raining down in waves as the procession made its way to the palace.

The entire nobility had gathered, as had representatives from every region, every trade guild, every faction that had once warred against each other but now stood as one. Commoners flooded the streets, clamoring to catch even a glimpse of their Emperor and his consort, the pair who had spent the last decade terrifying the aristocracy and elevating the people.

And, at the heart of it all, was Severus.

Draped in silk so fine it shimmered with every step, robes woven with threads of deep green and onyx, he looked like something out of legend.

The nobles had expected him to wear black. Instead, he had worn color, his sheer audacity gleaming in the light of a hundred enchanted lanterns.

("You look ridiculous," Harry had whispered when he first saw him, equal parts horrified and awed.)

("You look at me like that a second longer and we’ll scandalize the entire empire before we’re even wed," Severus had murmured back, smirking as Harry promptly flushed scarlet.)

And so, under a sky painted in sunset gold, before the entirety of their empire, they stood.

The ceremony was long—Severus had expected as much—but it was the moment the priest bid them speak their vows that the world seemed to still.

It was not tradition for the Emperor to make his own vows. But Harry had never been one for tradition.

And so, before anyone could protest, he turned to Severus and said, simply, quietly, undeniably:

"I choose you."

A murmur ran through the court, but Harry ignored them. His gaze was steady, unwavering, as if this was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I choose you," he said again. "Not for prophecy. Not for politics. But because no one else has ever stood beside me the way you have. And because no one else ever will."

Severus’s breath caught.

Because what did one say to that?

What words could possibly match the weight of that certainty, of the years of war and fire and laughter and fights and something unbreakable that had grown between them?

So, he did not try to match it.

Instead, he lifted his chin, arched a brow, and smirked.

"Then try to keep up, Your Majesty."

And then, before Harry could fully process the challenge in his tone, Severus pulled him down by the collar and kissed him.

The empire erupted.

The streets exploded into cheers, the nobles gasped, the officiant barely managed to keep from dropping his ceremonial staff. Magic surged in the air, ancient and binding, sealing the moment into history.

And Harry—Harry laughed against his lips.

He laughed as he tilted Severus back in front of the entire empire, laughed as he kissed him harder, as the ceremony blurred into raucous revelry, as fireworks exploded above them, as the people chanted their names.

Because for once—for once—Severus had stolen the moment, and Harry didn’t mind at all.

In the years to come, the empire would speak of this day.

They would whisper about the moment the Emperor and his consort sealed their rule not with words, but with fire.

They would gossip endlessly—was it a love match? A political maneuver? Was Lord Noir truly as terrifying as they feared, or had the Emperor’s warmth softened him?

(That last rumor made Severus snort aloud when he heard it.)

But some, the ones who had truly watched, knew the truth.

They had seen how Harry had looked at Severus long before today.

They had seen how Severus had fought beside him, had never once left his side, even when they had been enemies in name.

The empire had wanted a fairy tale, a divine romance.

Instead, they had been given something far more powerful.

They had been given two men who had shaped each other, who had built something unbreakable through sheer, stubborn will.

And that was the story that would last.

Not fate. Not prophecy.

But the undeniable reality of two men who had chosen—over and over again—to walk forward together.

And what a life they built.

Severus would later insist that he had been tricked into acquiring a household of strays.

"One cat, Harry. That was my condition."

"Technically," Harry had said, lifting the golden retriever puppy into his arms, "this is a dog."

"And the next thing you’ll bring home will be a dragon," Severus had muttered, rubbing his temples.

But it was never just a cat and a dog.

Because somehow, they ended up with two daughters, too.

Not by birth. Not by blood.

But by choice.

By Harry finding them—two abandoned girls, orphaned by war, left behind by fate—and refusing to leave them behind.

"They need a home," Harry had said, quiet but unyielding.

Severus had sighed. He had crossed his arms. He had stared at the two girls, both barely out of childhood but already carrying the world in their eyes.

And then, very slowly, he had nodded.

"Then let them have ours."

The older, Rin, was a storm made flesh.

Fierce, wild, brash—Harry’s daughter in every way but blood.

By the time she was sixteen, she had dueled half the Imperial Guard into the dirt, rode into battle like a legend reborn, and declared she would be the next Empress whether the court liked it or not.

They did not argue.

Severus thought her reckless. Harry thought her unstoppable.

They were both right.

The younger, Leta, was Severus’s daughter through and through.

Not because she was cruel.

But because she was terrifying in the way he was terrifying—sharp, deliberate, impossible to fool.

She did not raise armies.

She corrupted noble houses.

She could peel a man apart with nothing but a whisper, maneuver the aristocracy like a chessboard, and bankrupt a corrupt lord before he even realized he was under attack.

And then, at night, when no one was looking, she would curl up with her sister, soft and quiet, whispering stories of dreams and impossible things.

And so, when the empire whispered of them, they called Rin the tempest, the warrior, the one who would one day take the throne.

But they called Leta the Shadow Empress, the one who did not rule but who wove her will into every law, every market, every whispered deal.

And Severus, watching from his place at Harry’s side, only ever smirked.

Because the world had never stood a chance.

They never stopped arguing, never stopped bickering, scheming, plotting against each other only to fall asleep tangled together in the same war-torn love.

The empire whispered of many things.

But no one—no one—ever dared to question who truly ruled.