Summary: Weird things have always happened to Harry; restless later in life, he finds that he can live with this state of affairs.
Harry had known for years; it didn't change anything, not really. In the same way that his certain knowledge that he fancied blokes as much as he loved Ginny, it didn't matter that Snape wasn't dead. The man obviously hadn't wanted to be found.
Once things had quieted after the war, he and Ginny had discussed it, Snape's "death." Harry had still been angry with Snape for . . . well, everything the snarky bastard had done—the fact that Snape had loved his mum only went so far, really. But with Snape nowhere to be found and Harry needing to let go of his lingering resentment towards him, something had needed to be done.
It had been Ginny's idea, his writing—and then burning—that letter, and it had helped. Some.
The help only went so far, Harry realized later, because hatred hadn't been the only feeling for Snape he'd been harbouring. Of course, his wanting to shag—all right, to be shagged by—Snape didn't matter, either.
Snape wasn't gay. He never had been. And he'd been "dead" for a long time.
Still, with the kids at school and Ginny remarking more often than not on his "restlesness," Harry was beginning to think that he should find Snape. Get it out of his system. Because it wasn't love, what he felt. It wasn't, not like the feelings he had for Ginny. And anyway, he knew Ginny well enough to know that she knew him well enough to be that close to making one of her famous "suggestions."
He wasn't surprised when she finally did. Or by how easily he found Snape. That Snape wasn't completely straight? Well, that had been a surprise.
And being shagged hurt. For a moment, anyway. It was also amazing.
But Snape never spoke, not once, the entire time. Three days of shagging and not one word—Harry was sure Snape hated him.
He returned home, vaguely unsatisfied and nearly disgruntled to find that he'd got nothing out of his system—and he couldn't fantasise about other men anymore, which . . . well, it was bloody inconvenient, particularly as Snape wasn't where Harry had left him when he'd gone back to where he'd found him.
Moping set in. Yeah, moping. What else could he call it?
There was an abrupt end to his moping about seven months after his "mini-break" with Snape when Harry returned from assignment to find Snape shagging Ginny up against their kitchen wall.
Lucking fucking wa—"What to hell's going on here?"
And they laughed. Not at him, not . . . really, but they didn't stop shagging, either, and soon Harry was somehow in between them, his arse stretched wonderfully by Snape's pounding prick, his own cock buried inside of Ginny, his breath coming in gasps.
He couldn't think. He decided—ha!—not to. Later, hours, perhaps a day, later, he learned a little more about how Ginny had spent her seventh year at Hogwarts.
She fancied him, too. More than fancied—and Snape, well, Snape by his own admission was "the worst kind of opportunist."
There wasn't much planning after that. Harry had long ago removed the taint of Severus' Dark Mark by branding him a hero; people were excited by his return to society, which, of course, the Potters championed. It was no extraordinary thing, Harry, Ginny, and Severus being in each other's company.
But it felt nothing less than that when they were alone.
James and Albus, they took readily to "Uncle Severus," but Lily, who'd always been more shrewd, said, "'Uncle' isn't the word you're looking for." She called Severus "Mr Snape," and usually glared at him if she paid him any attention at all.
It was in her fifth year that Lily came home for the hols with articles on triadic marriages; she left the scrolls everywhere. Severus, visiting, found one.
Harry had never seen him blush before.
Ginny read the scrolls aloud in bed, underlining various passages. Harry blushed then.
But Lily's disgust at their secret finally proved too much.
It was a lovely ceremony, even if the reception was full of awkward pauses amidst the congratulatory chatter. Their friends, well, they clearly didn't know what to think and so had apparently elected not to think about it at all.
And then they were three as one—until the hols, obviously, when the kids would come home and say the most appalling, albeit affectionate, things to them.
That was life, then, well after the end of the war. It was "weird," as Ron had decreed, but it was his, and Harry felt truly without a want for the first time ever, sitting at the kitchen table with his spouses and children.
Weird. Weird but good.
Yeah, he could live with that.