Memoria Secludo - A Snarry fic
Apr. 2nd, 2008 01:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drachenminaEep! Why does my reluctance to post something I've written seem directly proportional to the length of the fic? *grits teeth*
Title. Memoria Secludo
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drachenmina
Word Count: ~20,600 (Complete, 5 chapters)
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Summary: Severus Snape survived Nagini’s bite, but as punishment for his crimes, he has had his memories excised and has been exiled from the wizarding world. Harry can’t resist the opportunity to get to know Snape without their past getting in the way. But what will happen if Snape regains his memories?
Warnings: Object insertion
Harry is 18 in this fic.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Huge thanks are due to the wonderfulalliekatgal, who beta’d, and to the lovely torino10154who held my hand during 12,000 word wibbles and persuaded me to carry on with this (yes, it is the same fic, I just changed the title a bit)! *hugs*
Memoria Secludo
Chapter 1
His name was Stefan Slaike. He was thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. He had, it appeared, no friends, and no family apart from a niece named Hermione Granger.
At least, that was what she had told him, and as his only memories were of the time since he had woken up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, he had no grounds upon which to contest her account, much as he might instinctively feel that he would like to. Certainly, what he had discovered of his personality since then had only tended to confirm the probability of his lack of intimates.
He had for many years been working abroad – she didn’t know precisely where, although judging from the pallor of his skin Stefan imagined it to have been in the Northern, rather than the Southern, hemisphere. Or possibly underground. Hermione thought he had worked in some branch of chemistry, she said, but she didn’t know for sure.
His niece had not seen him in all that time, which might perhaps account for the difficulty she seemed to experience in calling him Uncle Stefan, and the fact that when he looked at her, Stefan did not feel in the least avuncular, antagonistic being the word that more readily sprang to mind.
He felt a little guilty for that. She had, in fact, been kindness itself to a man who was, after all, merely a barely-known, antisocial relative: she had found him a flat, helped him register for social security, and visited regularly to ensure his continued existence and well-being – so Stefan felt it behoved him to try and conquer the instinctive irritation he always seemed to feel in her presence.
Perhaps it was merely less-than-fond, unconsciously recalled memories of his younger sister, her mother, which coloured his view of Hermione? It was not, of course, a subject he could broach with his niece but it did, at least, raise the possibility that his truant memories were still there, lying dormant within his subconscious, and might one day awaken and return to him.
Although if he were to judge by the number of scars that adorned his body, and in particular the ugly wound upon his neck, that might not be by any means a wholly pleasant experience.
Some days, though, he thought he would give anything to remember himself – not that he had much, but a limb or two, perhaps? He felt rootless, purposeless – had it not been for Hermione, he wondered at times if he might eventually have slipped into madness, doubting his very existence.
He was frustrated by the very vagaries of his condition – he could remember clearly how to cook certain dishes, so why could he remember nothing of chemistry, which Hermione thought to have been his specialisation? Even if she were mistaken in this, surely he should have some knowledge that he must have used in his work?
Stefan knew himself to be intelligent, even studious by nature – it beggared belief that he might have worked in an unskilled capacity. Yet he retained nothing, nothing at all, of the specialised knowledge he had presumably spent his life acquiring.
There were other gaps, no less troubling. He was assured that the number of televisions in England rivalled its number of inhabitants and had done so for decades – why then did the technology seem so strange? When he had visited the public library, a member of staff had suggested he look something up on their computer – but to his humiliation, he had not had the first clue how to make the wretched thing function.
He felt, at all times, a nagging sensation that he had forgotten something, which was so absurd as to be laughable: he had forgotten everything! Yet still the unpleasant feeling persisted that something important was missing from his life.
At first he had thought perhaps he had a lover. But as the weeks passed, first in hospital and then in the flat, and nobody came to visit him except for Hermione with her overblown sense of duty and family loyalty, he was forced to face the truth. There was no one who cared about him.
So he watched television, and he read widely, hoping to find somewhere a spark to reignite the flame of his memories.
And the days passed in their dreary routine as his hopes were repeatedly dashed.
*****************************************
“’lo, Hermione, Ron. Hey, how’s things with “Uncle Stefan”?” Harry made air quotes with his fingers as he walked into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and parked his bum on the corner of the table his friends were sitting at.
As Hogwarts was bursting at the seams these days with students catching up on disrupted studies, Hermione had suggested they give the house-elves a break at weekends, so every Friday night the three of them would travel down to London, returning to Hogwarts every Monday morning by floo via Hogsmeade.
Although he strongly suspected Hermione had only made the suggestion so she could spend a lot more quality time with Ron, Harry was glad of it. Back at school, it felt strange, like they were all just pretending to be children again. Pretending the war was just a bit of unpleasantness and least said, soonest mended. And Kreacher was ecstatic about having people to look after on a regular basis once more, of course.
“’Mione reckons he hates her, the ungrateful sod.”
“Ronald! That is not what I said! And he is always perfectly civil to me.” Hermione coloured a little. “He just… always seems quite glad when my visits end, that’s all.”
“Still reckon he’s ungrateful. After all you’ve done for him – “
“Ron, he’s not ungrateful. He always makes an effort to be nice, sort of, and anyway, he doesn’t know most of what I’ve done because the Ministry took his memories, remember? If you ask me, they’re the ones who are ungrateful. If you only think what he suffered in the war – “
“’Mione! They could have banged him up in Azkaban for life, you know that! He killed Dumbledore with an Unforgivable! There’s a reason they’re called that, you know. Anyway, he’s all right, isn’t he? It’s not like he ended up like Gilderoy Lockhart.”
“That’s because the spell they used was different. They didn’t Obliviate him, they used Memoria Secludo. His memories aren’t gone, just locked away. Just in case of this sort of miscarriage of justice.”
Ron shrugged. “I still think he got off lightly,” he muttered.
This was an argument they’d had many times before. They both knew Hermione was spending all her spare time in legal research, trying to find a way to get his sentence overturned. Harry hastened to interrupt, not wanting to rehash it all again. “So, how is he then?”
“Oh, you know. He’s settling in now, I think – after all, it must have been an awful shock, waking up and not knowing anything about himself. I can’t believe the Ministry was ready to just abandon him in the Muggle world like that!”
“So what’s he like, then? Is he still, well, him?”
“Oh yes. Only, not so much, if you know what I mean. Not so bitter, and he does make an effort with people these days. It’s a bit strange, though, seeing him without a, well, purpose. He was always so tightly focussed before, wasn’t he? Even when we didn’t realise it at the time.”
“Do you think he misses his magic? I mean, I know he doesn’t know about magic, now, but do you think he feels there’s something missing?”
“Harry, his whole life’s missing. I don’t suppose he can really distinguish one sense of loss from another.”
……………….
Later, Harry managed to get Hermione on her own for a while, and was able to broach the subject that had been on his mind since he’d arrived.
“Hermione? When are you going to see Snape again?”
“Next Saturday. I said I’d go round and cook him dinner. Why?”
“Um, I was wondering if I could, you know, come along too?”
Hermione’s gaze pierced him, and he shifted a little on his feet even though as far as he knew, he hadn’t got anything to feel guilty about. Except, maybe he could have spoken out more in Snape’s favour at the trial – but he’d thought the bastard’d be OK, hadn’t he? He hadn’t known the bloody Wizengamot would throw the book at him.
“Why, Harry? Is it just out of curiosity?”
“No! No, I just wanted to see, you know, how he is and what his place is like, and all.”
“That’s quite a fair definition of curiosity, Harry.”
“No! I mean, because I’m concerned about him. Not that I don’t think you’re doing a great job looking after him, of course,” he added hurriedly, before Hermione could get her miffed face on.
.
Hermione sighed. “Well, alright. But you’ll have to watch what you say, remember? Not a word about magic, and don’t let on that you knew him before.”
*********************************************
Saturday morning, Stefan supposed he should tidy up, as his niece would be coming round that evening. It didn’t take long – he still had very few possessions. Apparently he had had some things with him on his return to the UK, but they had all been destroyed in the car crash that had robbed him of his memories, according to Hermione.
His clothes, few as they were, were nearly all things she had picked out for him. She had, thank God, shown some taste and judgement, as they were all of plain design and sombre colour. He still felt odd in them, somehow. Had he, after all, been working in some hot country where he had adopted the local dress? The only time he felt truly comfortable was in his dressing gown, so he tended to wear that around the house, changing into trousers only when about to go out, which was seldom enough that it was far from a bother.
Or, of course, when his niece was due to visit. It would not do at all for her to get the wrong impression.
Stefan more-or-less looked forward to her visits, although he knew from experience it would not take long before her determinedly cheery “bedside” manner began to grate on him. Still, she remained the only person to whom he could recall ever having spoken more than a sentence or two in one go.
…………………………………….
Apparently, she had decided to address this, for when she arrived in the early evening, there was a young man accompanying her and carrying her grocery bags.
Regrettably, Stefan decided, in her choice of paramour she had not shown anything like the discretion she displayed when selecting his own wardrobe. The boy was scrawny, scruffy-haired and barely taller than her, his features distinguished only by an ugly scar and an abysmal pair of spectacles. His clothes looked like he had selected them at random from a bag left outside the local Oxfam shop, without regard to colour, fashion, or fit.
Stefan was not a vain man – he possessed eyes, after all, and a mirror – but at least he did not, as this callow youth appeared to, go out of his way to look unattractive.
“Uncle Stefan!” Hermione greeted him annoyingly brightly. “This is my friend Harry. I hope you don’t mind if he joins us tonight?”
“Of course not,” Stefan replied politely. Astonishing, really - he hadn’t thought the young man capable of looking any less appealing than he had at first glance, but by gaping at him open-mouthed the idiot was managing to do just that.
Stefan invited them both in courteously. Hermione, as usual, headed straight for the kitchen, and Stefan was amused to see the boy, after a frightened glance thrown his way, scuttle after her. He hoped they would keep their minds on the cooking. He was loath to think of his otherwise sensible niece being seduced amongst the saucepans by this immature scarecrow.
…………………………………………………………..
After dinner, which had included a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon, very little of which the children had imbibed, Stefan was feeling a great deal mellower, and even inclined to a little mischief. He rose from the table carrying the dishes, and waving aside Hermione’s objections, announced that he would wash up. “But I’m sure that Harry would like to help me, would you not?”
Looking satisfyingly trapped, the young man followed him into the kitchen.
“So, Harry, may I ask what your intentions are as to the future?” His phrasing was deliberate, and he could almost see the boy wondering, horrified, if Stefan was coming over all Victorian uncle and asking him if he was planning to marry Hermione, until the penny dropped with a clunk that was almost audible and the little idiot realised Stefan was talking about his career plans.
“Um, well, I’ve got to finish my N- my exams, and then I was thinking about, er, law enforcement. But I’m not sure yet.” Stefan was distinctly unsurprised at the boy’s lack of forward planning – he had the air of one who bumbled through life falling into one situation after another. Not at all the sort of young man whom he considered suitable for his niece.
“Hermione has never mentioned you before. I take it you have not been together long?”
“What? No – I mean, we’re not – we’re just friends. Really.” The boy seemed quite flustered, as well as adamant, which was interesting. Stefan decided to probe a little deeper, although he scorned to do so directly. He had noticed that the boy, hideous as he might be in other respects, was actually hiding a pair of exquisite green eyes behind those dreadful glasses.
“Contact lenses,” he announced with intentional abruptness.
“Um, what?” Harry stuttered in confusion.
“Contact lenses. You should try them. Your eyes are your best feature, you know.” Stefan smirked inwardly. The boy was actually blushing! Of course, there could be a number of explanations for that, although Stefan knew which one he’d prefer.
Not, of course, that he had any interest in the boy. He was merely – playing.
“Oh. Um, thanks.”
“And perhaps some clothes that fit you a little better? You should ask Hermione to take you shopping, she has quite an eye.”
“Um, right.” Yes, the boy was definitely uncomfortable.
Time for the coup de grace. “Or I could accompany you, if you prefer male company?”
Harry squawked, and dropped the plate he was drying.
……………………………………….
Stefan’s good mood did not long survive the children’s departure. The warm haze imparted to his mind by the wine had evaporated, and he was left feeling he had behaved like an immature, inebriated idiot.
What on earth had possessed him to flirt with a boy less than half his age? No doubt the boy, too polite to say anything at the time, was even now venting his outrage at Hermione. Stefan wondered how long it would be before she would visit him again.
She would certainly not bring her friend with her when she did.
****************************************
Harry didn’t know what to think. Snape had been teasing him. But how could he have possibly known – nobody knew. Nobody. He’d just told Ginny it wasn’t going to work, and although she’d been a bit upset, it hadn’t taken long before he’d heard she was seeing Neville.
Everyone just assumed Harry wanted a bit of a breather before getting another girlfriend. He hadn’t even told Hermione he’d come to the conclusion a girl wasn’t what he wanted. So how the hell had Snape known? Was this that gaydar thing he’d heard about? And if so, since when had Snape been gay? Harry was pretty certain his mum had been a girl, and wasn’t she supposed to have been the love of Snape’s life?
Harry pushed speculation about Snape to the back of his mind. The real issue here was: would Snape say anything to Hermione about him? It wasn’t that he didn’t mean to tell her, when he was ready – but he wasn’t ready yet, and to be honest he wasn’t sure if he ever would be if he didn’t find out just how the hell Snape had known.
“You’re quiet, Harry,” Hermione commented, interrupting his thoughts. They were back home, but Ron was still out with Dean and Seamus at a pub somewhere.
“Yeah. I’m just tired. Think I’ll have an early night, ok?”
After Hermione had wished him goodnight, Harry waited until he heard the bath running, and crept out of the front door. From outside, so that she wouldn’t hear the crack, he apparated to the back alley he and Hermione had used earlier.
Heart in his mouth, Harry walked the short distance to Snape’s flat, and rang the bell.
Snape opened the door. He was wearing an immense black dressing gown, which fell just far enough short of his ankles to make it plain that he wasn’t wearing any pyjama bottoms. The neckline showed a v-shape of thin, hairy chest. The overall effect was wizard-like, but slightly indecent – as if he was only halfway through putting his robes on.
Or taking them off.
“Yes?” he asked Harry brusquely. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d done to make the bloke so pissed off with him.
“Er, I wanted to – can I come in?”
Snape just inclined his head with a weird kind of grace, and opened the door wider to let Harry past.
There was an open bottle of whiskey on the table, and a half-empty glass. Without a word, Snape fetched another glass and poured several fingers, placing the glass in front of Harry. “Drink.”
He’s not lost it, Harry thought wryly, as he realised the commanding tone in Snape’s voice had the glass halfway to his lips before he had time to consider the matter. He took a cautious sip. Urgh. Did Snape actually like this stuff?
Apparently he did, as the other man’s glass was now empty and being refilled.
“So. You wished for something?”
“Um. I just wanted to know…” Harry took a deep breath. “I wanted to know how you knew I was gay.”
Snape’s eyelids fell slightly in a way Harry could just tell meant he was laughing at Harry inside. “I did not know, until you just told me.”
Crap. “But you guessed, didn’t you? I mean, from all the stuff you were saying about my eyes, and me preferring male company – “
Snape’s mouth twitched in a way that had to be a smile. “I apologise. I concede the thought did occur to me, and I was merely amusing myself in trying to find out for certain.”
Harry took a moment to recover from the shock. Snape just apologised? To him? OK, so maybe the bloke wasn’t quite himself, and he didn’t know who Harry was, but still. One for the record books, Harry reckoned.
“Right. So, er, now you know, are you planning to tell anyone?”
“Anyone, I presume, meaning my niece?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Might I ask what reason you might have for wishing to deceive Hermione?”
“I’m not! Not deceiving her. It’s just I haven’t told her yet, and I don’t want her to find out from anyone else, that’s all. I just need – to work up to it, that’s all.”
Snape was silent a moment. Harry wished he could tell what he was thinking.
“Very well. I shall not mention your preferences to my niece. However, should I at any time suspect that you are toying with her affections, that will change, understood?”
“Er, yeah. Thanks.” Harry was still reeling from Snape coming over all protective of Hermione, and for the first time he wondered, if she managed to get his sentence overturned, would he ever forgive her? It was weird seeing him doing the mother-tiger bit. Was that how he’d been with his Slytherins in the old days? Of course, he’d protected all the children when the Carrows were at Hogwarts, and he’d looked after Harry countless times.
God, what must it have been like for Snape, doing all that and never getting any credit? No wonder the man had been such a bastard.
“You’re not drinking.” Snape broke into his reverie. Harry noticed that he was refilling his own glass once more.
“Um, I don’t really drink a lot.” He took another swallow from his glass though, to be polite.
Snape sort of harrumphed. “Must be nice.”
Harry was confused. If Snape didn’t like drinking, why the hell did he do it? He noticed the man’s dressing gown had fallen further open, and quite a lot more of that thin chest was on view, along with a goodly length of hairy leg. Harry couldn’t help staring, it was just so – unSnapelike, sitting here half-dressed in front of a student. Even if he wasn’t a teacher any more.
Snape was looking at him oddly. Harry cast around wildly for something to say, but all he could think of was the question he’d had on his mind since before he’d got there. “Um, so are you, um, gay? I mean, is that how you knew?” Then he mentally kicked himself. “I mean, if you can remember?”
Snape was really smiling now, lips curved up and everything, and it freaked Harry out no end. Didn’t wild animals smile at you just before they pounced, or something?
“I may not be able to recall my past, but I can certainly analyse my own reactions, Harry. Yes, I prefer men.” As Snape said this, one hand crept up to brush Harry’s cheek softly, and he leant over towards him.
Harry panicked. Oh fuck, Snape was going to kiss him!
“I – I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye.” Harry scrambled off the sofa and out of the flat, nearly knocking over the table as he did so.
*********************************************
Alone again and suddenly feeling very sober, Stefan cursed once more. What had he been thinking of? Or rather, he thought sourly, what had he been thinking with?
The boy hadn’t seemed so bad, once they’d started talking. Granted, he had the gaucheness of youth, but to be fair, he was no worse than any other skinny teenager. Certainly he was far more attractive than the young ape at the corner shop, arms too long and hands too big (much like your own, Stefan?)
And those eyes were mesmerising. Surely that had been why Stefan had ignored his own better judgement, and given him that ill-omened caress?
No, it had all been that wretched brat’s fault, leading him on, looking him over lasciviously and asking leading questions. Anyone would have thought -
What, Stefan, that a young, beautiful boy like that would be interested in an ugly man with no past who is old enough to be his father?
He was a fool. Worse, an old fool.
He had lost him.
***********************************************
Harry reckoned it was lucky he hadn’t splinched himself in his hurry to get home.
Snape. Snape had – touched him. Had looked like he was about to kiss him. And why the hell was Harry getting hard thinking about that?
He didn’t want to think about it any more.
Harry went to bed, but it was a long time before he could sleep.
……………………………………………
Chapter 2
Title. Memoria Secludo
Author:
drachenminaWord Count: ~20,600 (Complete, 5 chapters)
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Summary: Severus Snape survived Nagini’s bite, but as punishment for his crimes, he has had his memories excised and has been exiled from the wizarding world. Harry can’t resist the opportunity to get to know Snape without their past getting in the way. But what will happen if Snape regains his memories?
Warnings: Object insertion
Harry is 18 in this fic.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Huge thanks are due to the wonderful
alliekatgal, who beta’d, and to the lovely torino10154who held my hand during 12,000 word wibbles and persuaded me to carry on with this (yes, it is the same fic, I just changed the title a bit)! *hugs* Memoria Secludo
Chapter 1
His name was Stefan Slaike. He was thirty-eight years old. Unmarried. He had, it appeared, no friends, and no family apart from a niece named Hermione Granger.
At least, that was what she had told him, and as his only memories were of the time since he had woken up in a hospital bed three weeks ago, he had no grounds upon which to contest her account, much as he might instinctively feel that he would like to. Certainly, what he had discovered of his personality since then had only tended to confirm the probability of his lack of intimates.
He had for many years been working abroad – she didn’t know precisely where, although judging from the pallor of his skin Stefan imagined it to have been in the Northern, rather than the Southern, hemisphere. Or possibly underground. Hermione thought he had worked in some branch of chemistry, she said, but she didn’t know for sure.
His niece had not seen him in all that time, which might perhaps account for the difficulty she seemed to experience in calling him Uncle Stefan, and the fact that when he looked at her, Stefan did not feel in the least avuncular, antagonistic being the word that more readily sprang to mind.
He felt a little guilty for that. She had, in fact, been kindness itself to a man who was, after all, merely a barely-known, antisocial relative: she had found him a flat, helped him register for social security, and visited regularly to ensure his continued existence and well-being – so Stefan felt it behoved him to try and conquer the instinctive irritation he always seemed to feel in her presence.
Perhaps it was merely less-than-fond, unconsciously recalled memories of his younger sister, her mother, which coloured his view of Hermione? It was not, of course, a subject he could broach with his niece but it did, at least, raise the possibility that his truant memories were still there, lying dormant within his subconscious, and might one day awaken and return to him.
Although if he were to judge by the number of scars that adorned his body, and in particular the ugly wound upon his neck, that might not be by any means a wholly pleasant experience.
Some days, though, he thought he would give anything to remember himself – not that he had much, but a limb or two, perhaps? He felt rootless, purposeless – had it not been for Hermione, he wondered at times if he might eventually have slipped into madness, doubting his very existence.
He was frustrated by the very vagaries of his condition – he could remember clearly how to cook certain dishes, so why could he remember nothing of chemistry, which Hermione thought to have been his specialisation? Even if she were mistaken in this, surely he should have some knowledge that he must have used in his work?
Stefan knew himself to be intelligent, even studious by nature – it beggared belief that he might have worked in an unskilled capacity. Yet he retained nothing, nothing at all, of the specialised knowledge he had presumably spent his life acquiring.
There were other gaps, no less troubling. He was assured that the number of televisions in England rivalled its number of inhabitants and had done so for decades – why then did the technology seem so strange? When he had visited the public library, a member of staff had suggested he look something up on their computer – but to his humiliation, he had not had the first clue how to make the wretched thing function.
He felt, at all times, a nagging sensation that he had forgotten something, which was so absurd as to be laughable: he had forgotten everything! Yet still the unpleasant feeling persisted that something important was missing from his life.
At first he had thought perhaps he had a lover. But as the weeks passed, first in hospital and then in the flat, and nobody came to visit him except for Hermione with her overblown sense of duty and family loyalty, he was forced to face the truth. There was no one who cared about him.
So he watched television, and he read widely, hoping to find somewhere a spark to reignite the flame of his memories.
And the days passed in their dreary routine as his hopes were repeatedly dashed.
*****************************************
“’lo, Hermione, Ron. Hey, how’s things with “Uncle Stefan”?” Harry made air quotes with his fingers as he walked into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and parked his bum on the corner of the table his friends were sitting at.
As Hogwarts was bursting at the seams these days with students catching up on disrupted studies, Hermione had suggested they give the house-elves a break at weekends, so every Friday night the three of them would travel down to London, returning to Hogwarts every Monday morning by floo via Hogsmeade.
Although he strongly suspected Hermione had only made the suggestion so she could spend a lot more quality time with Ron, Harry was glad of it. Back at school, it felt strange, like they were all just pretending to be children again. Pretending the war was just a bit of unpleasantness and least said, soonest mended. And Kreacher was ecstatic about having people to look after on a regular basis once more, of course.
“’Mione reckons he hates her, the ungrateful sod.”
“Ronald! That is not what I said! And he is always perfectly civil to me.” Hermione coloured a little. “He just… always seems quite glad when my visits end, that’s all.”
“Still reckon he’s ungrateful. After all you’ve done for him – “
“Ron, he’s not ungrateful. He always makes an effort to be nice, sort of, and anyway, he doesn’t know most of what I’ve done because the Ministry took his memories, remember? If you ask me, they’re the ones who are ungrateful. If you only think what he suffered in the war – “
“’Mione! They could have banged him up in Azkaban for life, you know that! He killed Dumbledore with an Unforgivable! There’s a reason they’re called that, you know. Anyway, he’s all right, isn’t he? It’s not like he ended up like Gilderoy Lockhart.”
“That’s because the spell they used was different. They didn’t Obliviate him, they used Memoria Secludo. His memories aren’t gone, just locked away. Just in case of this sort of miscarriage of justice.”
Ron shrugged. “I still think he got off lightly,” he muttered.
This was an argument they’d had many times before. They both knew Hermione was spending all her spare time in legal research, trying to find a way to get his sentence overturned. Harry hastened to interrupt, not wanting to rehash it all again. “So, how is he then?”
“Oh, you know. He’s settling in now, I think – after all, it must have been an awful shock, waking up and not knowing anything about himself. I can’t believe the Ministry was ready to just abandon him in the Muggle world like that!”
“So what’s he like, then? Is he still, well, him?”
“Oh yes. Only, not so much, if you know what I mean. Not so bitter, and he does make an effort with people these days. It’s a bit strange, though, seeing him without a, well, purpose. He was always so tightly focussed before, wasn’t he? Even when we didn’t realise it at the time.”
“Do you think he misses his magic? I mean, I know he doesn’t know about magic, now, but do you think he feels there’s something missing?”
“Harry, his whole life’s missing. I don’t suppose he can really distinguish one sense of loss from another.”
……………….
Later, Harry managed to get Hermione on her own for a while, and was able to broach the subject that had been on his mind since he’d arrived.
“Hermione? When are you going to see Snape again?”
“Next Saturday. I said I’d go round and cook him dinner. Why?”
“Um, I was wondering if I could, you know, come along too?”
Hermione’s gaze pierced him, and he shifted a little on his feet even though as far as he knew, he hadn’t got anything to feel guilty about. Except, maybe he could have spoken out more in Snape’s favour at the trial – but he’d thought the bastard’d be OK, hadn’t he? He hadn’t known the bloody Wizengamot would throw the book at him.
“Why, Harry? Is it just out of curiosity?”
“No! No, I just wanted to see, you know, how he is and what his place is like, and all.”
“That’s quite a fair definition of curiosity, Harry.”
“No! I mean, because I’m concerned about him. Not that I don’t think you’re doing a great job looking after him, of course,” he added hurriedly, before Hermione could get her miffed face on.
.
Hermione sighed. “Well, alright. But you’ll have to watch what you say, remember? Not a word about magic, and don’t let on that you knew him before.”
*********************************************
Saturday morning, Stefan supposed he should tidy up, as his niece would be coming round that evening. It didn’t take long – he still had very few possessions. Apparently he had had some things with him on his return to the UK, but they had all been destroyed in the car crash that had robbed him of his memories, according to Hermione.
His clothes, few as they were, were nearly all things she had picked out for him. She had, thank God, shown some taste and judgement, as they were all of plain design and sombre colour. He still felt odd in them, somehow. Had he, after all, been working in some hot country where he had adopted the local dress? The only time he felt truly comfortable was in his dressing gown, so he tended to wear that around the house, changing into trousers only when about to go out, which was seldom enough that it was far from a bother.
Or, of course, when his niece was due to visit. It would not do at all for her to get the wrong impression.
Stefan more-or-less looked forward to her visits, although he knew from experience it would not take long before her determinedly cheery “bedside” manner began to grate on him. Still, she remained the only person to whom he could recall ever having spoken more than a sentence or two in one go.
…………………………………….
Apparently, she had decided to address this, for when she arrived in the early evening, there was a young man accompanying her and carrying her grocery bags.
Regrettably, Stefan decided, in her choice of paramour she had not shown anything like the discretion she displayed when selecting his own wardrobe. The boy was scrawny, scruffy-haired and barely taller than her, his features distinguished only by an ugly scar and an abysmal pair of spectacles. His clothes looked like he had selected them at random from a bag left outside the local Oxfam shop, without regard to colour, fashion, or fit.
Stefan was not a vain man – he possessed eyes, after all, and a mirror – but at least he did not, as this callow youth appeared to, go out of his way to look unattractive.
“Uncle Stefan!” Hermione greeted him annoyingly brightly. “This is my friend Harry. I hope you don’t mind if he joins us tonight?”
“Of course not,” Stefan replied politely. Astonishing, really - he hadn’t thought the young man capable of looking any less appealing than he had at first glance, but by gaping at him open-mouthed the idiot was managing to do just that.
Stefan invited them both in courteously. Hermione, as usual, headed straight for the kitchen, and Stefan was amused to see the boy, after a frightened glance thrown his way, scuttle after her. He hoped they would keep their minds on the cooking. He was loath to think of his otherwise sensible niece being seduced amongst the saucepans by this immature scarecrow.
…………………………………………………………..
After dinner, which had included a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon, very little of which the children had imbibed, Stefan was feeling a great deal mellower, and even inclined to a little mischief. He rose from the table carrying the dishes, and waving aside Hermione’s objections, announced that he would wash up. “But I’m sure that Harry would like to help me, would you not?”
Looking satisfyingly trapped, the young man followed him into the kitchen.
“So, Harry, may I ask what your intentions are as to the future?” His phrasing was deliberate, and he could almost see the boy wondering, horrified, if Stefan was coming over all Victorian uncle and asking him if he was planning to marry Hermione, until the penny dropped with a clunk that was almost audible and the little idiot realised Stefan was talking about his career plans.
“Um, well, I’ve got to finish my N- my exams, and then I was thinking about, er, law enforcement. But I’m not sure yet.” Stefan was distinctly unsurprised at the boy’s lack of forward planning – he had the air of one who bumbled through life falling into one situation after another. Not at all the sort of young man whom he considered suitable for his niece.
“Hermione has never mentioned you before. I take it you have not been together long?”
“What? No – I mean, we’re not – we’re just friends. Really.” The boy seemed quite flustered, as well as adamant, which was interesting. Stefan decided to probe a little deeper, although he scorned to do so directly. He had noticed that the boy, hideous as he might be in other respects, was actually hiding a pair of exquisite green eyes behind those dreadful glasses.
“Contact lenses,” he announced with intentional abruptness.
“Um, what?” Harry stuttered in confusion.
“Contact lenses. You should try them. Your eyes are your best feature, you know.” Stefan smirked inwardly. The boy was actually blushing! Of course, there could be a number of explanations for that, although Stefan knew which one he’d prefer.
Not, of course, that he had any interest in the boy. He was merely – playing.
“Oh. Um, thanks.”
“And perhaps some clothes that fit you a little better? You should ask Hermione to take you shopping, she has quite an eye.”
“Um, right.” Yes, the boy was definitely uncomfortable.
Time for the coup de grace. “Or I could accompany you, if you prefer male company?”
Harry squawked, and dropped the plate he was drying.
……………………………………….
Stefan’s good mood did not long survive the children’s departure. The warm haze imparted to his mind by the wine had evaporated, and he was left feeling he had behaved like an immature, inebriated idiot.
What on earth had possessed him to flirt with a boy less than half his age? No doubt the boy, too polite to say anything at the time, was even now venting his outrage at Hermione. Stefan wondered how long it would be before she would visit him again.
She would certainly not bring her friend with her when she did.
****************************************
Harry didn’t know what to think. Snape had been teasing him. But how could he have possibly known – nobody knew. Nobody. He’d just told Ginny it wasn’t going to work, and although she’d been a bit upset, it hadn’t taken long before he’d heard she was seeing Neville.
Everyone just assumed Harry wanted a bit of a breather before getting another girlfriend. He hadn’t even told Hermione he’d come to the conclusion a girl wasn’t what he wanted. So how the hell had Snape known? Was this that gaydar thing he’d heard about? And if so, since when had Snape been gay? Harry was pretty certain his mum had been a girl, and wasn’t she supposed to have been the love of Snape’s life?
Harry pushed speculation about Snape to the back of his mind. The real issue here was: would Snape say anything to Hermione about him? It wasn’t that he didn’t mean to tell her, when he was ready – but he wasn’t ready yet, and to be honest he wasn’t sure if he ever would be if he didn’t find out just how the hell Snape had known.
“You’re quiet, Harry,” Hermione commented, interrupting his thoughts. They were back home, but Ron was still out with Dean and Seamus at a pub somewhere.
“Yeah. I’m just tired. Think I’ll have an early night, ok?”
After Hermione had wished him goodnight, Harry waited until he heard the bath running, and crept out of the front door. From outside, so that she wouldn’t hear the crack, he apparated to the back alley he and Hermione had used earlier.
Heart in his mouth, Harry walked the short distance to Snape’s flat, and rang the bell.
Snape opened the door. He was wearing an immense black dressing gown, which fell just far enough short of his ankles to make it plain that he wasn’t wearing any pyjama bottoms. The neckline showed a v-shape of thin, hairy chest. The overall effect was wizard-like, but slightly indecent – as if he was only halfway through putting his robes on.
Or taking them off.
“Yes?” he asked Harry brusquely. Harry wasn’t sure what he’d done to make the bloke so pissed off with him.
“Er, I wanted to – can I come in?”
Snape just inclined his head with a weird kind of grace, and opened the door wider to let Harry past.
There was an open bottle of whiskey on the table, and a half-empty glass. Without a word, Snape fetched another glass and poured several fingers, placing the glass in front of Harry. “Drink.”
He’s not lost it, Harry thought wryly, as he realised the commanding tone in Snape’s voice had the glass halfway to his lips before he had time to consider the matter. He took a cautious sip. Urgh. Did Snape actually like this stuff?
Apparently he did, as the other man’s glass was now empty and being refilled.
“So. You wished for something?”
“Um. I just wanted to know…” Harry took a deep breath. “I wanted to know how you knew I was gay.”
Snape’s eyelids fell slightly in a way Harry could just tell meant he was laughing at Harry inside. “I did not know, until you just told me.”
Crap. “But you guessed, didn’t you? I mean, from all the stuff you were saying about my eyes, and me preferring male company – “
Snape’s mouth twitched in a way that had to be a smile. “I apologise. I concede the thought did occur to me, and I was merely amusing myself in trying to find out for certain.”
Harry took a moment to recover from the shock. Snape just apologised? To him? OK, so maybe the bloke wasn’t quite himself, and he didn’t know who Harry was, but still. One for the record books, Harry reckoned.
“Right. So, er, now you know, are you planning to tell anyone?”
“Anyone, I presume, meaning my niece?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Might I ask what reason you might have for wishing to deceive Hermione?”
“I’m not! Not deceiving her. It’s just I haven’t told her yet, and I don’t want her to find out from anyone else, that’s all. I just need – to work up to it, that’s all.”
Snape was silent a moment. Harry wished he could tell what he was thinking.
“Very well. I shall not mention your preferences to my niece. However, should I at any time suspect that you are toying with her affections, that will change, understood?”
“Er, yeah. Thanks.” Harry was still reeling from Snape coming over all protective of Hermione, and for the first time he wondered, if she managed to get his sentence overturned, would he ever forgive her? It was weird seeing him doing the mother-tiger bit. Was that how he’d been with his Slytherins in the old days? Of course, he’d protected all the children when the Carrows were at Hogwarts, and he’d looked after Harry countless times.
God, what must it have been like for Snape, doing all that and never getting any credit? No wonder the man had been such a bastard.
“You’re not drinking.” Snape broke into his reverie. Harry noticed that he was refilling his own glass once more.
“Um, I don’t really drink a lot.” He took another swallow from his glass though, to be polite.
Snape sort of harrumphed. “Must be nice.”
Harry was confused. If Snape didn’t like drinking, why the hell did he do it? He noticed the man’s dressing gown had fallen further open, and quite a lot more of that thin chest was on view, along with a goodly length of hairy leg. Harry couldn’t help staring, it was just so – unSnapelike, sitting here half-dressed in front of a student. Even if he wasn’t a teacher any more.
Snape was looking at him oddly. Harry cast around wildly for something to say, but all he could think of was the question he’d had on his mind since before he’d got there. “Um, so are you, um, gay? I mean, is that how you knew?” Then he mentally kicked himself. “I mean, if you can remember?”
Snape was really smiling now, lips curved up and everything, and it freaked Harry out no end. Didn’t wild animals smile at you just before they pounced, or something?
“I may not be able to recall my past, but I can certainly analyse my own reactions, Harry. Yes, I prefer men.” As Snape said this, one hand crept up to brush Harry’s cheek softly, and he leant over towards him.
Harry panicked. Oh fuck, Snape was going to kiss him!
“I – I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye.” Harry scrambled off the sofa and out of the flat, nearly knocking over the table as he did so.
*********************************************
Alone again and suddenly feeling very sober, Stefan cursed once more. What had he been thinking of? Or rather, he thought sourly, what had he been thinking with?
The boy hadn’t seemed so bad, once they’d started talking. Granted, he had the gaucheness of youth, but to be fair, he was no worse than any other skinny teenager. Certainly he was far more attractive than the young ape at the corner shop, arms too long and hands too big (much like your own, Stefan?)
And those eyes were mesmerising. Surely that had been why Stefan had ignored his own better judgement, and given him that ill-omened caress?
No, it had all been that wretched brat’s fault, leading him on, looking him over lasciviously and asking leading questions. Anyone would have thought -
What, Stefan, that a young, beautiful boy like that would be interested in an ugly man with no past who is old enough to be his father?
He was a fool. Worse, an old fool.
He had lost him.
***********************************************
Harry reckoned it was lucky he hadn’t splinched himself in his hurry to get home.
Snape. Snape had – touched him. Had looked like he was about to kiss him. And why the hell was Harry getting hard thinking about that?
He didn’t want to think about it any more.
Harry went to bed, but it was a long time before he could sleep.
……………………………………………
Chapter 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re:
Date: 2012-07-23 05:56 pm (UTC)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMzgVshG6CI