Best Served Cold
Jun. 17th, 2008 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drachenminaTitle: Best Served Cold
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drachenmina
Word Count: ~10,200
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley at start, Ginny Weasley/others
Genre: Angst, drama, romance
Warnings: Dub-con (potion-induced)
Summary: Revenge is sweet. But not always good for you.
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.
AN: EWE. AU in that Lucius is a bit more of a bastard than the somewhat emasculated version of DH, sincerely wanted Voldemort to triumph, and has decidely ambivalent feelings about his family and friends. Oh, and Severus is alive, of course. But you knew that anyway. :D
Thanks for the beta-read are due to the lovelytorino10154!
Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge – Paul Gauguin (1848 – 1903)
Live well. It is the greatest revenge – The Talmud
Harry’s sitting at the garishly decorated head table hoping his face isn’t going to crack from the polite smile he’s had plastered on it for the last three-and-a-half hours. He hates these Ministry dinners, always has. He wishes Ginny could have come, but she’s got a try-out for the Cannons tomorrow so Molly insisted she get an early night.
Ginny’s great at this sort of event: she’s pretty, so all the men want to talk to her, but she’s loyal, staying by Harry’s side all night. She’s got a wicked sense of humour too, and Harry’s smile turns genuine for a minute as he thinks of some of her jokes.
He can see Neville at the other end of the table, chatting away to Minister Shacklebolt like he’s done it all his life. Harry wonders when it was that he became the awkward one, the one who can’t think of what to say to people. Probably around the time he realised that, with Voldemort gone, his whole bloody reason for existing has vanished. All his life Harry chafed under the restrictions of having his life mapped out for him, but now he’s finally got from point A to point B, he’s found he has absolutely no idea of where point C is supposed to be or how he’s meant to get there, and there’s no Dumbledore now to turn him in the right direction and shove.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucius Malfoy comes up to him after the speeches, a champagne flute held elegantly in each hand. “Mr Potter,” he smarms, smiling like a crocodile, all teeth and no sincerity, “how enchanting to see you again. But how sad not to see your delightful fiancée.”
Harry flushes. “We’re, um, not engaged.”
“No? But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, a pretty little thing like that. Still, we men must have some time on our own, mustn’t we? Indeed, I am myself bereft of my wife’s company for the evening. Fortunately I persuaded Severus to accompany me.”
Harry’s noticed Snape’s here, and he’s been wondering about it. He knows Snape hates public events: he was quite voluble one time about the “excessive attentions of insincere sycophants”. Harry can’t help smiling at the memory; he wonders: if he lives to be a hundred, will he ever know as many words as Snape?
Too late Harry realises Malfoy’s still talking. It’s his voice, he thinks, it’s so smooth and mellow that it lulls you until you don’t actually hear the words. Something about unsung heroes, he thinks.
“A toast, then? To Severus Snape.” Malfoy drinks, and is it just Harry’s imagination, or is he watching Harry just a little too closely? But Harry can’t see a way to politely get out of it, so he echoes, “Severus Snape,” and he drinks the champagne.
He’s probably finished it off too fast, as he starts to feel a little… strange not long after Lucius has insinuated his way back into the melee, graceful as a panther and with far sharper teeth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Severus regrets that he ever came to this interminable gathering. He wouldn’t have, but Lucius, when he’s of a mind to entice, could charm the scales off a dragon, and probably has at one time or another. He’s even got the Boy-Who-Vanquished practically on his knees, begging to suck his cock, as if anything so indelicate as cock-sucking would sully those self-righteous, heroic, sickeningly tempting lips. No, no, if there were to be any fellatio on the menu, Potter-the-hero would be the recipient, not the provider, and those plump, reddened lips would part only to moan his ecstasy as he spills his seed down the throat of his latest whore du jour.
Speaking of which, Severus wonders where the little red-haired harpy is tonight. Doesn’t she worry her sainted saviour might find other amusements if she lets him off the leash? As Malfoy hands Potter a glass, Severus reflects that it is entirely possible that he has already done so, and feels a clenching inside as if that damned snake were tearing at his guts this time rather than his throat.
Not for the first time, it occurs to Severus to wonder just why Lucius wanted him here. Oh, the reason Malfoy gave him is plausible enough: in these post-war days, it actually does Lucius a service to be seen in public with Severus Snape, Hero of the Light and Order of Merlin (second class). It’s an inversion of the natural order of things that Severus never tires of contemplating.
But Severus has dealt with Malfoys for long enough to know they never reveal their true motives for any given course of action, so he is thoughtful as he surveys the blatant arse-kissing going on all around.
Potter is smiling at Lucius who has no doubt murmured some sweet flattery which the boy is too green to recognise as the thin end of the wedge that will some day lever him into hell. Severus could read him chapter and verse on that; he wrote the book, in fact, back when he too was a skinny teenager, although all similarity between his younger self and Potter ends there.
Severus’ gut clenches again as he reflects how unlikely it is that that boyish smile will ever be directed at him, and he almost smiles himself as he indulges in a little fantasy of making said smile disappear forever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s another hour and a half before people start to drift away, and by then Harry’s feeling as tight and tense as a bowstring, and more than ready to let fly. No way is he going home now, like these pathetic little sods who’d probably piss themselves if Voldie said boo. God, he’s fed up with them, always telling him what a hero he is, like he doesn’t know it already.
He needs… he needs something. He’s not sure what it is, but he can feel it. There’s a hunger inside him that needs appeasing now. He scans the room, searching for someone worthy of his attention.
There. Severus Snape. The name sounds in his head like something out of Parseltongue, all hissing sibilants. Oddly, the voice it’s in is not his own; it’s older, smoother. But that’s unimportant.
Snape’s looking, as usual, like something just died under his nose. Harry smirks. It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room, you could fit a bloody elephants’ graveyard under that monstrosity. Pleased with his own joke, Harry makes his way over. His heart is beating faster now he’s spotted his quarry, and he wipes his palms on his robes.
“Snape.”
“Potter.” It’s a snarl, which delights him. This is what he needs: a challenge.
“Need to talk to you. Not here. Somewhere private.” He’s amused by the look on Snape’s face: equal parts derision, suspicion and surprise. Not everyone could read it, but Harry’s observed the git for years and he knows how he thinks. He leads him over to a side-room, locking the door behind them.
“Well? Out with it, Potter, I haven’t got all night.”
“Yes you have. You’ve got your whole bloody life, such as it is.”
“So what is it you want? I am in no mood to be trifled with, Potter – “
Harry cuts him off by moving closer, as Snape steps back until he’s pressed against the wall. God, it feels good having Snape cower like this. “Question is, what do you want, Snape?” He’s so close they’re touching now. He still has to look up into Snape’s face, but that’s OK. Harry’s way over being physically intimidated by the bastard. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Snape. Just gagging for it, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you just love to get your filthy, stained hands on my body?”
Harry’s pressing his body into Snape’s now and neither of them can be in any possible doubt as to the other man’s reaction to their proximity.
Snape makes an attempt to preserve common decency. “What the hell do you think you are playing at, Mister Potter?” he splutters amusingly.
“Not playing, Snape,” Harry tells him as he presses one hand against the bulge in Snape’s robes. “Unless you want to play? What game shall we play, then, Snape?”
His other hand’s found the fastenings of Snape’s robes and he parts them deftly. “How about this game, Snape?” Harry lowers himself gracefully to his knees. He’s never done this before, but hey, how hard can it be? He pauses a moment to savour Snape’s smell, a heady mix of musk, sweat and piss, before parting his lips and engulfing that turgid, eager prick with his mouth.
Snape gasps and his hips buck forward. Annoyed, Harry slams his arse back against the wall. “Stay still, you bastard.” Before he resumes, Harry takes the time to open his own robes, letting his own needy cock spring free, and now he’s stroking himself as he sucks Snape off.
God, how could he ever have thought this would be difficult? It’s like fucking flying; Harry could do this all day. Not that Snape’ll last anything like that long, he thinks with a smirk. Snape’s moaning now, and Harry withdraws, teasing the head of the man’s prick with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around the helmet and delighting in Snape’s loss of control. He’s getting close, Harry can feel it, so he speeds up the movements of his hand on his own prick, feeling his balls tighten as they prepare to let loose.
Snape lets out an ugly groan and at once Harry’s mouth is filled with his bitter release. It’s enough to bring him over the edge too and he’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, it’s fucking amazing as he shoots white streams all over the front of Snape’s robes and then suddenly it’s like a mist has cleared from his eyes, from his mind and he’s kneeling there at Snape’s feet with his mouth full of come and how the fuck did he get here?
Harry scrambles backwards, horrified, disgusted. The foul stuff in his mouth is making him gag and he half-spits, half-vomits it out onto the carpet. He looks at Snape, exposed and covered in come, and oh god his own prick’s still hanging out in front of Snape and this just can’t be real.
Harry grabs his robes around himself and he can’t look at Snape as he sobs, “What did you do to me? What the fuck did you do?”
Snape’s silent so long Harry risks a look. It doesn’t make sense because Snape looks as horrified as Harry feels.
“I… I did nothing. Nothing!”
“Don’t lie to me! You think I’d do – do that with you if you hadn’t – “
“Potter!” Snape’s grabbed him by the shoulders now but Harry doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to listen –
“Potter! Calm yourself! Think. Had I designs upon your person, would I seek to gratify them here? Now? I am as much a victim in this as you are.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Severus wishes he were anywhere but here. The object of his lust has turned from wanton incubus to frightened, weeping child in the time it takes to peel a shrivelfig, and he knows it must be his fault. Lily’s shade seems to accuse him and he has no defence to offer, none at all.
Did he realise that Potter was acting strangely? Yes. Did he allow that fact to influence his behaviour? No. To call himself a victim is to stretch the definition of that term beyond all rationality. If he is a victim of anything, it is of his own, foolish, self-deluding ego. How could he have persuaded himself to believe Potter would want him?
Years of practice, perhaps, believing the pleasant lies of Lucius and Riddle.
Earlier this evening, he’d wanted to punish the boy, for not wanting to be his. Had he devoted his life to it, Severus doubts he could have come up with a more fitting punishment for that crime. There’s a clue there, somewhere, but the sickness in the pit of his stomach and the boy standing in anguish before him will not allow him leisure to consider it right now.
Potter’s biting his lip, clearly trying to pull himself together. His voice shakes as he asks Severus, “You felt it too?”
Severus is cautious. “Tell me what you felt, Potter.”
“I – I don’t – I felt confident. Arrogant. And like I had to, to – “ He trails off, maddeningly.
“What, boy?”
Potter gathers the shreds of that vaunted Gryffindor courage and looks him in the eye. “Had to have you. You. Severus Snape.”
He’s silent for a moment, then he asks the question Severus has irrationally been hoping he’s forgotten about. “So did you feel – affected?”
Severus could lie, and he gives it serious consideration. Certainly it would be less humiliating. For after all, what is the alternative? No, Potter, I honestly thought you were just gagging for a taste of my cock. After all, what young boy doesn’t like to suck off ugly, bitter old men?
He is silent too long. “You didn’t, did you? Oh God, and you just let me… “
A good offence is the best defence; Severus learned this lesson at his father’s fist: “Let you, Potter? You gave me no opportunity to stop you! You backed me up against a wall, assaulted my person – “
He really should feel satisfied that his strategy has worked so well as the brat recoils, clearly struggling not to cry. Instead he finds his self-loathing, an ever-present tinnitus, noise pollution of his soul, has increased by decibels and he fights an urge to comfort the boy.
“Control yourself, Potter!” he snaps, and is unreasonably irritated when the boy does so.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucius watches with interest as Severus and the Potter boy make their way to the side room, the one scowling his displeasure to hide what Lucius is deliciously aware that he feels; the other all potion-built bravado. It is only with an effort of will that he forces himself to remain with the fools who chatter inanities in his ears, whilst his mind wanders to the side room, tempted almost unbearably by the salacious scenes he pictures.
He knows Severus too well to imagine he will resist Potter’s rather subjective delights, offered as they will be with wanton abandon. He has after all committed far greater transgressions for rewards far less tempting. Does he have the boy, even now, upon hands and knees? Is Potter’s lily-white arse being split apart by Severus’ debauched thrusts? It will be hard on the virgin boy, and Severus, he imagines, will show him no mercy. There will be blood, oh yes, dripping down those trembling thighs, but it will not deter the boy from seeking his own release. And with it, will come release from the potion’s bonds also. He will find himself degraded before a man whom he despises, with the traitor’s filth spilling from his arse. Will he scream, Lucius wonders? Will he cry?
It is, perhaps, a poor revenge for all that Potter has done to derail the Malfoy name’s rise to power. But it’s a start.
He watches with more interest as they return. It is a stinging disappointment that Potter does not immediately cry rape. Lucius was expecting the boy, all injured innocence, to run from the room with his robes half-off, calling swift vengeance upon Lucius’ traitorous friend. Instead, they appear to be talking to one another.
With an apparent ease that could only be displayed by a man of his breeding, Lucius turns and offers the Minister’s wife a particularly charming compliment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucius’ mood is not improved when he returns home to find his son and heir in flagrante with a low-born slut of indeterminate gender Lucius has never seen before, nor wishes to again. Lucius banishes the half-clad trollop summarily from his home with a wave of his wand, as his shameless son gapes unbecomingly.
His son is a fool. Lucius should have divorced Narcissa years ago, as soon as the mediwizards placed that scrawny, puking bundle in his arms and told him this pathetic scrap of life was all the heir he could expect from his wife. Sometimes he thinks she lived that day just to spite him.
Still, no matter: he is young and there are – perhaps not plenty more, but enough - pureblood maidens who’ll be only too happy to warm his bed for the price of a gold ring and a name. Lucius’ mind drifts to Potter’s Weasley girl. She’s pretty enough, although she’s been raised by savages, and the family is notorious for its fecundity. And her father’s ministry connections are tempting indeed. She’s also young enough to be pliable, and malleability is a quality Lucius prizes in his wives, above all others save fertility.
And she certainly seems the type to be easily charmed with a pretty trinket or two.
Lucius smiles. Poor thing, she’ll be so upset when she hears her de facto fiancé has been indulging in perverted liaisons with another man. He really will have to see to it that she is comforted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he gets back to the Burrow, Harry’s relieved beyond measure that Ginny’s already gone to bed. Normally she’d be there to greet him with a hug and a kiss, and he couldn’t bear her touching him now. He feels sick at the thought of her innocent lips meeting his. He’s filthy, tainted. He needs to wash. He needs to burn his robes.
He needs to forget what happened tonight.
How could he have done that? To Snape? Snape told him it must have been a potion, because it’s common knowledge he can throw off Imperius. But then, why didn’t he throw off the effects of the potion?
All he can remember is a feeling of being all-powerful, way better than everyone around him. And of wanting Snape.
He remembers it felt good.
Is that why, then? He didn’t throw it off because he liked it? Because secretly, this was what he’d wanted all along, deep in his subconscious? Or not so deep, a hissing in his mind that sounds a lot like Voldemort tells him. All those times you thought of Charlie as you kissed his sister. All the times you wondered what it would be like to have his cock in your mouth. They wouldn’t think you such a hero if they knew what you really wanted, now would they?
No. No, he doesn’t want Charlie, or Snape, or any man – he wants Ginny, with her pretty smile and her small, girlish breasts. He doesn’t want Snape, who’s old and ugly and hates him and who did nothing to stop Harry sucking him off…
Harry punches the wall in the shower, again and again until his knuckles are swollen and he knows there will be an ugly bruise in the morning.
He doesn’t heal it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry gets up late next morning, after a night of troubled sleep and dreams he’d rather forget, of him and Snape… doing stuff, while Lucius looks on lasciviously and calls him a pretty little thing. Harry feels a bit sick, and reckons he must be hungover.
He remembers to heal his hand before he goes down for breakfast, but he might as well not have bothered as they all stare at him anyway. Ginny looks like she’s about to cry and shouldn’t she be at the try-outs by now?
“Um, is something wrong?” he asks. It comes out a bit croaky so he clears his throat.
Ron’s scowling. “Just the Prophet printing lies about you again.” He turns to his family. “I told you, it’s rubbish. Harry wouldn’t do anything like that.”
Harry wishes Molly would make him a cup of tea because suddenly, his mouth is dry and his voice is hoarse again as he asks, “Do what?”
It’s Ron who answers. “There’s a big story about that do last night. They reckon you disappeared off halfway through to have it away with some bloke.”
Harry’s not at his best in the mornings even on a good day, and this is about as far from a good day as you can get, but even so he’s horrified that the next thing out of his cheating mouth is, “Do they say who it was?”
This is so far from an innocent dismissal of the story that even Ron, his hitherto staunch supporter, can’t help but notice, although to be fair, Harry can feel by the burning of his face that he not only sounds guilty, he looks it too.
It’s like that time at the Dursleys’ when Dobby upended the trifle over his aunt and uncle’s guests – everything seems to happen in slow motion, as Harry watches a family of freckled faces change from stunned to incredulous to accusing.
“Mate – you’re not saying it’s true?”
“Harry, I think perhaps – “
“I can’t believe you would do this to me, Harry Potter!” Ginny, as always, gets the last word as she runs crying from the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that he can’t stay at the Burrow to face a barrage of questions he can’t bear to answer, so he mutters, I’m sorry, and flooes to Grimmauld Place.
Once there, he finds that peace and leisure to think undisturbed is a mixed blessing at best. He’s as good as admitted to Ginny that he’s cheated on her, so he guesses the engagement that was never on in the first place is probably now off. God, are any of the Weasleys ever going to speak to him again?
Why didn’t he handle it better? Tell more of the truth, or less? He could have told them about the potion, couldn’t he?
He wants someone to talk to. He wants Ginny to smile at him and hug him and tell him it’s all right. He wants Ron to tell him they’ll get the bastard who did this to him. He wants Hermione, with her level head and her way of seeing clearly to the heart of things, but she’s in Australia with her parents and the only way to get in touch is by telephone, and there’s no phone in Grimmauld Place and the thought of going out to a public phone booth and shouting his woes to the world is so appalling, it’s almost funny.
But he can’t deal with this by himself and his parents are dead and Dumbledore’s dead and Remus and Sirius are dead dead dead so there’s only one person he can talk to.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Severus scans the paper furiously for mention of his own name, relieved beyond all rationality to find it absent, for this is like as not only a temporary reprieve – someone must have seen them together, after all.
He had counselled the boy against revealing anything, against complaining to the Aurors, and Potter, like a three-year-old child too naively trusting to realise that lollipops are not all that are on offer from the friendly man in the park, had, with a look of intense gratitude on his face that he need not explain his actions, agreed. But his manipulation of the boy, so innocent Severus felt the urge to slap him, has come to naught. Severus considers who might be responsible for the article. True, there were several reporters present, any one of whom would have sacrificed his or her first-born for a story this sensational.
But then, why be so uncharacteristically coy about revealing Severus’ name?
The answer is laughably obvious. Someone who has reason to hate the Boy-Who-Vanquished. Someone who might protect Severus for reasons of his own. Someone whose friendship has been a two-edged sword planted firmly between Severus’ ribs for longer than he cares to recall. Someone, moreover, who possesses the resources to have initiated this sordid little dalliance in the first place.
A latter-day Rome, all roads lead to Lucius Malfoy.
Who will no doubt, if challenged, expect Severus to thank him for the assistance granted in the indulgence of his shameful passion for a boy whose mother he once loved.
As he never even contemplates perusal of the society pages, Severus misses the admittedly small paragraph announcing the imminent divorce of Lucius and Narcissa (nee Black) Malfoy, so is entirely nonplussed when the distressed young man vomited forth by his Floo is not Harry Potter, but Draco Malfoy.
Having long regarded Draco as the son he and Lily should have had, Severus is nonetheless irritated by the boy’s arrogant presumption that Severus will immediately lay aside his own concerns to soothe the youngster’s teenaged angst. To be fair, never privy to his father’s machinations, Draco has no idea that Severus has any concerns, but Severus, knowing by bitter experience that life is most manifestly unfair, sees no reason not to emulate it.
If further evidence of the injustice of the whimsical decisions of the gods where one Severus Snape is concerned were needed, it is amply provided half-an-hour later by the graceless arrival of Potter in the hearth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry, funnily enough, was thinking even as he Flooed that this was a bad idea. Not used to having his ideas so spectacularly and speedily confirmed to be correct, he can only gape in dismay at the sight of Draco Malfoy’s too-pretty face as it runs the gamut of emotions from I to H: incredulity to hilarity.
“No! No! This is – this is absolutely priceless! You, Severus? You are the mysterious sexual partner of The Boy Who Lived?”
Harry’s not sure if he wants to turn and run or smash his fist into that girlish face, see how pretty he looks with blood streaming down from a broken nose, so he does nothing, simply stares. He’d thought things couldn’t get any worse but he should have known that wasn’t true, things always get worse, no matter what he does, and he’s tired of fighting and finding the victory wasn’t worth the battle.
“Draco!” Snape says sharply, breaking the spell.
“What’s he doing here?” Harry asks, and knows he sounds like a petulant, whining child. He came here for help, for guidance out of this putrid mess they find themselves in, not to be made sport of by a boy he’s always hated and now hates even more just for being here.
Snape ignores him. “Draco, you will not breathe one word of this to anyone, do you understand me?”
Malfoy half-laughs, the bastard. “Don’t worry, Severus, I sincerely doubt anyone would believe me if I did. I’m not even sure I believe it, but since the alternative is that you and Harry Potter have conspired to play a practical joke on me, I suppose I’ll have to. But how in Merlin’s name –?”
“A potion, Draco, and that is more than you need to know on the subject. I suggest that in the circumstances we continue our own discussion at a later date.”
Harry wants to smash that smirk right off Malfoy’s ferrety little face as he says, “Certainly, Severus. I’m sure you and Potter have lots to discuss,” and flooes away.
Having been desperate to see the back of him, Harry is dismayed to find he’s no happier when Malfoy’s gone, leaving him as he does alone with a scowling Severus Snape. Harry’s not sure what the hell he’s going to say now, so he’s almost grateful when Snape turns and snaps at him, “Well? For what reason, apart from your congenital stupidity, are you here?”
Snape’s taunt has the welcome effect of making Harry angry, which is a damn sight better than cripplingly uncertain.
“I’m here because we need to talk, Snape. And it’s not like I walked in the bloody front door with a pack of paparazzi at my heels! Nobody knows – I came from Grimmauld Place.”
“Indeed? You informed me last night that you were staying at the Burrow.”
Harry hates the way he can feel his face grow hot. “Yeah, well they saw the Prophet, OK?”
“And turfed you out without giving you a chance to deny the story in that scurrilous rag? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
Harry has to unclench his teeth before he can reply.
“Yeah, well we’re not all fantastic at lying, are we?” Harry runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “They’re my best friends, Snape. I couldn’t just stand there and deny it when I knew it was true. I couldn’t. Even if I’d tried – you said it, right? Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves, or something like that – that’s me all over.”
Suddenly tired, Harry slumps down on the sofa.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Severus sighs. No, of course the boy could not lie. Lies are for Slytherins and bitter old spies with too many secrets, not for fresh young Gryffindors whose cupboards hide, not skeletons, but romantic tales of lonely childhoods. Potter would not be himself, the idol of Severus’ sordid worship, had he been able to dissemble effectively to friend and foe alike.
He sits down beside the boy, uncertain what to do now. Potter looks like he’s sorely in need of solace, but Severus has always been a poor provider of that. His cock stirs as he thinks of the last time they were this close. Only last night, which is fitting, as the memory has assumed the hazy semblance of a dream, fantastic and unlikely. Hesitantly, drawn by an impulse to comfort he thought had died with the boy’s mother, Severus reaches a hand out and places it on Potter’s knee.
The response is as immediate as it is humiliating. Potter leaps up from the sofa and actually backs away, as if Severus is a particularly vicious sub-species of Devil’s Snare that, once it has him in its coils, will squeeze him dry of every vestige of youth and innocence. Severus curses himself. Fool – how could he possibly imagine the boy would welcome his touch? Potter sees him as little better than a rapist; it’s a wonder he’s here at all.
“I – I – maybe I should go,” Potter stutters.
“For Merlin’s sake, boy, did you think me about to molest you?” Severus snaps.
Potter bites his lip, causing Severus’ cock to twitch once more. “Sorry. I just – I wasn’t expecting you to touch me, that’s all.”
“No doubt you think me devoid of all human feeling, Potter,” Severus sneers.
Potter looks defensive. “Well, you’re not exactly renowned for being, well, nice.”
“I should damn well hope not,” Severus mutters darkly, and is astonished to be rewarded with a weak smile from the boy whose life he has so spectacularly ruined. Curse the boy – has he no idea of the seriousness of his situation?
Potter sits down again, cautiously, as if he’s worried that if not watched carefully, Severus will try to fondle him once more. “Look, I came here because I was hoping you’d… have some idea of what we should do. What I should do, I mean,” he says softly.
The sight of Harry Potter actually asking for direction from Severus of his own free will is such a novel one that Severus doesn’t answer for a moment. Potter takes advantage of this to press on. “I mean, do you have any idea who could have done it? Now you’ve had a chance to think, I mean.” He hesitates. “Look, don’t get mad at this, I know he’s a mate of yours, but do you think it might have been Lucius Malfoy? I mean, I remember him giving me a drink, and well – that’d be the ideal cover for slipping me a potion, wouldn’t it?”
Damn the boy for finally displaying some semblance of deductive thinking. Severus stalls. “And how long was this before the,” Severus swallows, furious at his own embarrassment, “incident?”
Potter looks away. “It was – a while. I don’t know exactly. I mean, you’re the bloody potions expert, you tell me how long it must have been.”
“That, Potter, is presupposing that Lucius was the one responsible, which is by no means certain. Did no one else offer you a drink last night?”
“I don’t know, OK? Things got a bit… fuzzy after that glass of champagne with Lucius bloody Malfoy.”
Thank you, Potter, for that reminder that only one of us was compos mentis during our depraved little tryst.
Severus chooses his next words carefully. “And if it was Lucius, what then? Do you intend to call the Aurors down upon his head? If I know Lucius,” and I do, oh, far too well, “you will find yourself unable to prove a thing, and will have exposed us both to public ridicule for no purpose.”
Potter stands up and paces in his frustration. “So we’re just going to let him get away with it? Aren’t you pissed off with him? Like you said, you’re a victim too.” His glare is more accusing than petulant, and his eyes narrow as he continues, “Or was this something you cooked up between you? Fed up with not being able to humiliate me, now you’re not my teacher any more?”
Severus is on his feet in an instant. “How dare you, boy?” he spits, the guilt he feels for his passive acceptance of Potter’s unlikely advances last night erupting into fury at the accusation that he took a more active role. Potter stumbles backwards.
“Look, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – I’m just, just tired, OK? It was a stupid thing to say. Of course you wouldn’t – and you hate me, anyway, it’s not like you’d… I shouldn’t have come. It’s not your problem, it’s mine, and I’ll – I’ll think of something. I won’t tell anyone about you. I’ll just – fuck.”
The guilt is crushing Severus now, and he can only watch as, despairingly, Potter flooes away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry sighs when he gets back to Grimmauld Place. OK, so going to see Snape probably wasn’t actually the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but it’s not going to be appearing in any halls of fame for bright ideas, either. It seems that this mess he’s in is something Harry’s got to sort out for himself, not just try and find someone to tell him what to do, what to search for, who to kill. He grabs a sheet of parchment and a quill, and sits down.
1. Was it Lucius Malfoy who gave me the potion?
Yes, he writes, then tries to think about it more rationally. He’s read a few detective novels, he knows all about Means, Motive and Opportunity. Malfoy certainly had the Opportunity, and he’s got Means by the shed-load. Does he have a Motive? Harry saved Draco – but then, his dealings were all with Narcissa on that one. More to the point, he got Lucius sent to Azkaban and destroyed his dreams of pure-blood domination. Yes, Lucius had a motive to hurt Harry.
But why involve Snape? Weren’t they friends?
But then, Snape deceived Lucius for years as to his true allegiance, and had at least as great a role as Harry in Voldemort’s downfall.
YES, he writes again, and goes on to the next question.
2. Should I call in the Aurors?
While he wants to write, YES, because there’s nothing he’d like better than to see that smarmy git dragged off in chains to Azkaban again, he forces himself to think rationally about it. Has he, actually, got any evidence besides knowing the bastard did it? And even if he had, would he really want all this dragged out in court, where the Prophet’s reporters will seize on every sordid detail?
Cursing Lucius Malfoy to hell, Harry writes NO.
It takes a while before Harry has the courage to write down the third question:
3. Am I gay?
That’s a tougher one to answer. Yeah, right. Because straight blokes always fantasize about their girlfriend’s brother when they’re kissing them. Again, he makes himself think it through logically. He gets hard remembering what he and Snape did, but how much of that is due to the memory of how the potion made him feel? Harry tries thinking of Ginny, and smiles sadly. What does she make him feel? He writes down a few words that pop into his head. Warm. Loved. Safe. Family. Friend. Mum.
Mum?
Mum?
Hurriedly, he thinks of Charlie: Cool. Dragons. Danger. Excitement. Sex. Oh. He thinks of Snape – and then doesn’t, because it’s too confusing and anyway he suspects he hasn’t got the vocabulary, not to mention his bloody prick’s distracting him again.
Harry sighs, and reaching for a copy of Time Out he picked up at the local newsagent, turns to the Lesbian and Gay section.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few months on from his disappointment at the Ministry, Lucius has fully recovered his equanimity and is in fact enjoying himself no end. Really, he can’t imagine why he’s never bought himself a Quidditch team before. Another pleasure his stultifying marriage to Narcissa denied him; she never bothered to hide her dislike of the game. Even when he took her to the World Cup she contrived to convey, and none too subtly, that she considered it all terribly beneath her.
Sport is so much more fun when you have a vested interest in the outcome, he thinks. And his position as team owner gives him a perfect right to enter the changing rooms to give a pre-match pep talk when the young men are in a fetching state of undress. Of course he wouldn’t dream of going into the ladies’ changing room, that would hardly be proper; but in any case the only witch he wants to be seen to be interested in is the little Weasley, who’s already showing touching signs of gratitude for his endeavours in getting her a place on the team.
Narcissa, he’s pleased to note, has made her exit from the Manor with a quiet dignity he appreciates, and has retreated to a continental estate bequeathed her by a godmother, although her lawyers, he suspects, will not be nearly so obliging. Still, Lucius has yet to meet the lawyer who cannot be bribed and/or blackmailed, and in extreme cases eliminated, should their demands on his ex-wife’s behalf prove too exigent.
Draco, on the other hand, has been rather less than accommodating. He’s always been a mother’s boy, but although he protests the divorce vociferously he has yet to take the hint that he is included in its terms and vacate the Manor. Or perhaps that is Narcissa’s doing – she always did show most energy when in defence of her child, and is quite intelligent enough to realise that he intends that Draco be supplanted as the Malfoy heir. Perhaps she’s hoping that Lucius will meet an untimely end before he has time to disinherit her son, and a Draco in situ will be that much more conveniently placed to assume the reins of power. Lucius resolves to double the security measures around the Manor and employ the services of a food-taster.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s a long time – months – before Severus sees Potter again, and when he does it is, irony of ironies, at another Ministry function.
He’s been reading the Prophet, of course. How could he not, when it’s full of Potter. The Boy Who Lived Comes Out, blared the headlines, with many a soi-disant witty pun on the subject of closets. The blasted boy has been linked with every prominent wizard of questionable sexuality, from Quidditch players to werewolves. At first, his putative conquests had nothing in common besides the fact that they were young, good-looking, and most assuredly nothing like Severus Snape; latterly, what pictures the Prophet has been able to procure have depicted the boy in the company of rather older men. Admittedly, there have been far too few of these to justify generalisation; but tall, dark-haired and lean do appear to be themes that show some degree of repetition. Severus isn’t sure what he should make of this. He tells himself digustedly that it would be utterly ridiculous for him to make anything of it whatsoever.
Severus would wonder why he’s come, tonight, to be faced with the revolting spectacle of a Potter so brazenly secure in a sexuality that in Severus’ day was a matter for shame and concealment, but his eager perusal of the daily papers has confirmed to Severus what he has long suspected: that his taste for self-flagellation knows no bounds.
This time, the Weasley girl is also present, almost unrecognisable on the arm of a smug Lucius Malfoy, dripping with diamonds and wearing robes that cost more than her father’s annual income. Potter turns an unflattering red whenever his glance drifts her way, but whether that’s due to embarrassment or fury, Severus is unable to tell. Lucius’ purchase of the Cannons was also a matter for the headlines, as was the team’s subsequent signing of The Girl Who Was Spurned. The engagement, Severus presumes, must only be a matter of time, and not too long a time at that; after all, it would not do to allow the girl too much leisure to reflect. She might come to her senses, should she actually possess any, which Severus doubts, and reject Malfoy senior in favour of someone who actually gives a damn about her.
Severus took sadistic pleasure in witnessing the visible denting of Lucius’ composure when he first noted that the beauty on the arm of the Minister for Magic was none other than his own ex-wife; but Malfoys are nothing if not survivors and he rallied with irritating ease, even going over to congratulate the couple, occasioning alarmed looks on the part of his own companion, Severus was amused to note.
Potter is alone.
Severus’ eyes seem to be under some minor form of Imperius, as they keep returning to that lean figure and that boyish face that seems to have learned, at last, not to broadcast every thought, every emotion to a pruriently fascinated world. Perhaps it is Potter who has cursed him, for every time Severus finds himself gazing at the boy, green eyes stare back into his soul. He should tell the boy to cease, before he finds himself sullied by the contact.
He does not.
After the speeches, when the guests are mingling with insincere smiles and polite laughter that turns Severus’ stomach to witness, their eyes meet once more. Potter hesitates, then walks resolutely over to him.
To flee would be utterly ridiculous. Severus stands his ground.
“Snape? I’m, um, glad you came. I wanted to, well, talk to you. Actually that’s the only reason I’ve kept coming to these things, hoping you’d turn up to one, which is stupid, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like I don’t know where you live.”
He ceases babbling for a moment to run his hand through his hair. Severus’ breath is caught by how fuckable he looks right now.
“So, can we talk?” the boy asks, uncertainly.
Being a man who takes his scant pleasures where he can, Severus nods, and says, “I presume you recall the location of a certain anteroom?”
The boy hasn’t stopped blushing by the time they reach the side room. Severus wonders if anyone’s noticed, and whether there will be a headline about this in tomorrow’s Prophet. Has the fool still no sense of self-preservation? More to the point, when did folly become contagious?
“Well?” Severus asks, when the brat shows no inclination to get to the point, fiddling with the ornaments on a shelf and avoiding Severus’ gaze.
“I want you to know, most of it’s a load of bollocks, that stuff in the Prophet about me and all those blokes. Not about being gay, though – I mean, maybe I should be grateful to Malfoy for helping me work that out.” He looks up at Severus now. “Because it was a form of Imperius, that potion, wasn’t it, and I don’t think, if it had been something I really didn’t want to do, that I would have done it, because I can throw off Imperius. And that’s why I wanted to talk. To say I’m sorry for, well, throwing myself on you. It must have been –“ heavenly? The closest thing to happiness I have felt in my miserable life? “- horrible. I mean, you were in love with my mum, for God’s sake.”
“No.” Severus is amazed to find that he has spoken, and more astonished still that he continues. “No. Your mother was – the best friend I ever had. I may have wished that we could have been more to each other, but – “ Severus’ twisted attempt at a smile is spectacularly unsuccessful, if Potter’s expression is anything to go by “- my own… preferences have always been fixed, and you need not fear that my feelings for you are at all paternal in nature.”
There is a world of uncertainty and disbelief in the boy’s tone as he answers. “You have feelings for me?”
Curse him. “There are many kinds of feelings, Potter, and very few of them are positive.”
Potter grins, shame-faced. “Yeah. Stupid of me.” He changes tack, suddenly. “But do you think I’m right, about the potion being something I could have fought against, if I’d wanted to?”
Is this what lies behind his admission of homosexuality? “Potter, I could brew you a potion that’d make you rape your own grandmother, living or dead, resistance to Imperius be damned. And forgive me if I find it hard to credit that you were harbouring suppressed desires for your old Potions Master.”
Potter flushes once more. “Well, I used to have a bit of a crush on the Half-Blood Prince,” he mutters, looking away.
“Do not mock me, Potter!”
“God, you just think everyone’s a bastard, don’t you, Snape?”
“Most people, Potter, are.”
“Well, I’m not, OK? At least, I try not to be. The Weasleys might have a different opinion,” he adds ruefully, suddenly looking achingly lonely, as indeed he must be, Severus realises, if the tales of his liaisons are all lies as he claims. Again Severus feels the foolish urge to comfort the boy; but this time, he is able to resist. “Anyway, I just thought it’d be nice if we could be, you know, friends. Even if you don’t want, well, anything more.”
As Severus reels in shock, scarce able to believe he has interpreted the last of those woefully ungrammatical sentences correctly, Potter approaches him, and tentatively places a hand on his arm. Severus does not react, if one discounts the clenching of his jaw and the swelling of his cock. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about things, and I’ve, sort of, been with a couple of blokes – not those ones in the Prophet, I mean, some of them were Muggles – and I’m pretty sure I’m, you know, gay.”
Severus feels the entirely rational urge to Legilimise the boy and find out the names of these blokes, and preferably also where they might easily be found and subjected to multiple Unforgivables, but contents himself with sneering, “Not good enough for the Wizarding Hero, were they not?”
Potter shrugs shyly. “Actually they dumped me. I think I’m buggered, really – wizards think they’re getting a hero, and they’re always disappointed when it’s just me, and Muggles all think I’m weird, because I’m too serious and I don’t get any of their telly references. And being a speccy runt with stupid hair and a daft scar doesn’t help, either.” He kicks morosely at a table leg. “Oh, and I appear to be completely crap at selling myself, too. We should get back, you know, people are going to talk.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Severus doesn’t stay to try and ascertain if people have, indeed, begun to talk. It would have been a waste of time in any case, as the Prophet next day once more confirms the newsworthiness of all things Potter. It makes for interesting reading; the editorial staff were clearly split between throwing up their hands in horror at the unseemly alliance they postulate between the Death Eater and the living saint, and gushing in tones of cloying sentimentality over the two lonely war heroes finding love in a May-December romance, so have settled for a queasy mix between the two approaches.
Severus considers May-September would have been more appropriate in any case; he is hardly in his dotage. Unfortunately, he is also hardly in any position to complain about it. He maintains a dignified silence when reporters and curious members of the public accost him in the street, refusing to confirm or deny the reports.
When three days have passed and the interest shows no sign of abating, he resorts to polyjuice to go about his business unmolested. Eventually, though, with no new rumours or pictures to sustain it, the frenzy dies down – and it is at this point that Potter decides for some reason to come to Severus’ house, and this time he does turn up at the front door, paparazzi in tow.
“Sorry about that,” he apologises insincerely, and proceeds to talk of nothing of any consequence whatsoever, and then leave. The Prophet salivates correspondingly. Severus brews more polyjuice.
Thus it goes on. Potter continually finds reasons to interrupt Severus’ solitude - donations to the wretched orphans, advice on a potions scholarship – and the press have them practically married already. It is revenge, Severus decides. Potter has hit upon an ingenious way of making him suffer for all his petty spite at school (and Severus is self-aware enough to recognise that it was indeed petty, and spiteful) by foisting upon him all the disadvantages of an affair du coeur with the Boy Hero, and none of the actual fucking.
He could, of course, put an end to it. Deny the boy entrance to his home. Announce in the Prophet that rumours of their love are greatly exaggerated. Have the brat prosecuted for stalking.
He does not.
He has observed that Potter often visits on a Friday afternoon. No doubt the boy has noticed that Severus permits himself the indulgence of cakes from the local patisserie on that day. Severus considers changing his habits, but in the end, merely places a double order, which is the only reason he is irritated on those occasions when the brat fails to turn up.
They don’t touch, on these visits. Potter seems annoyingly cheerful these days and is obviously in no need of comfort, and Severus finds his mood to be inexplicably brighter also. Not infrequently, they laugh, which is something Severus would never have imagined himself doing with any spawn of the Potter line.
One unseasonably chilly afternoon, the skies overcast and grey, Potter appears subdued. Nervous.
“Um, Severus?”
“I feel sure I would have remembered granting you permission to call me by my given name.”
“Stuffy old git. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my future, and I’ve come to a decision. Actually, I’ve done something about it too. I’m not going to be an Auror – I’m going to teach at Hogwarts. DADA. It’s all settled with Prof – Minerva.” He hesitates, twirling his wand in an irritating fashion between his fingers and nearly dropping it. “She asked me to see if you’d consider going back to teach Potions, too.”
“I see. And what, in your opinion, caused her to make this enquiry through you, rather than approaching me direct?”
“She, um, she seems to think we’re, well, together.”
The cards, it appears, are to be laid upon the table. “An impression you appear to have been doing your best to impart to the whole of the Wizarding World.”
“Oh. You noticed.”
“Being neither blind nor a fool, Potter, yes I did. I am however at a loss to understand the reason behind your actions.”
Apparently Potter finds the pattern of soot-marks on Severus’ hearth-rug fascinating. “I – well, I’ve enjoyed coming to visit you, and I just thought, if you had time to get used to the idea, and could see that everyone else was used to it too, you might, well, think about us getting together. For real.”
Unable to credit this realisation of many a fond fantasy, Severus simply stares at the boy. “The Half-Blood Prince is dead, Potter,” Severus warns somewhat light-headedly. “He died a long time ago.” When he watched them bury your mother.
“Yeah. I know. But you’re still here.”
The Ministry should outlaw the boy from biting his lip; it makes it so damnably hard for Severus to think. “You are… certain that this is truly what you want?”
“I haven’t accepted any drinks from Malfoy lately, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Potter tells him with an attempt at a grin.
Severus feels a familiar churn of resentment in his gut at the mention of his erstwhile friend, which stills abruptly with the realisation that perhaps he should indeed thank the man for his malicious actions all those months ago. If done with enough sincerity, it might well prove a satisfying revenge upon the schemer.
“This is not some attempt to justify your actions that night, is it, Potter?”
The boy looks him squarely in the eyes, which is annoyingly distracting. “No. Maybe that was how it started – the wanting to get to know you, I mean. But that night - that was the potion, I get that now. He gave me the drink, made me say your name – that was it. Point and shoot. Me bullet, you target. This – this is different. This is about wanting to be with you. You, not the man I used to think you were.” He smiles ruefully. “That is, if you want to be with me, not the boy you used to think I was.”
“Potter, I never wanted to be with the boy I thought you to be. I wanted to fuck him. There is a difference.”
“So what about me, then?” Potter challenges him boldly. “Want to fuck me?”
Merlin, yes. “I was not aware that was the question.”
“It’s not, really. I don’t – look, are we going to stop talking around the subject and get to the point? I’d like us to be, well, lovers.” Able, now, to pronounce the word fuck without a blush, Harry’s a fetching shade of pink as he says lovers, and Severus thinks suddenly that perhaps it is time they stop using words to fence with.
Once more, he reaches out a hand, a little less hesitantly than before. Potter doesn’t flinch, this time, as it touches him; in fact he moves forward, towards Severus, and lifts his own hand to Severus’ waist. Severus is achingly hard in an instant. Fortunately he is not such a fool as to push too hard, too fast.
The kiss, when it comes, is gentle, tentative, as if both of them wish to efface the memory of the careless rutting of their previous, disastrous tryst. Potter’s – Harry’s – lips are soft upon his own, but the scent of him is unmistakeably male and there’s a hardness in his jeans that meets Severus’ own erection with a tantalising pressure. Severus gazes into those deep green eyes for a moment, wondering how he could ever have thought them so like hers. Lily’s eyes were bright, sparkling with intelligence and girlish mischief; Harry’s are intelligent, too, but there’s a solemn quality in them that hers never gained, and an understanding that her inflexible naivety failed to permit. Severus loved her, it’s true: a child’s love for something shining and beautiful, like the sun or the moon or the stars and equally unobtainable and misunderstood. What he feels for Harry is different in so many ways: it’s a want and a grudging liking and a need and yes, love too, for a spirit that’s faced loneliness and hardship and the unreasonable demands of the world, and come through, battered perhaps, but still strong.
Severus wonders if he’ll ever be able to tell Harry this, and if it’ll matter if he can’t.
Harry’s hand comes up to stroke Severus’ face, as if trying to soothe away the lines of tension that never quite leave it. Severus takes the hand and kisses its palm thoughtfully, which earns him a smile from Harry that’s like the first glimpse of the sun after a week of foul weather.
“So… you’re OK with this, then?” Harry asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Apparently,” Severus tells him, letting Harry’s hand fall, and finally, finally running his fingers through that hair that yes, still reminds him of Potter pere, but these days, only with a sense of wonder that he could ever have thought the son to resemble the father in any way that truly matters.
Harry pulls him closer, and asks, “Do you want to take this slowly? Or,” he swallows, “do we go straight to bed?”
Severus doesn’t make the mistake of considering too long, this time. “Bed,” he says firmly, and pulls Harry towards the bedroom.
They fumble each others’ clothes off awkwardly, buttons refusing to undo and legs getting stuck in jeans, and it doesn’t matter because this is nearer to perfection than Severus thought he’d ever see. At last they’re naked, Severus deciding he’s damned if he’s going to be insecure about his body: after all, Harry seems to have accepted the personality and face, which must surely be the greater stumbling-blocks. In fact it’s Harry who seems endearingly shy, muttering that he’s not had a lot of experience and he’s probably only going to last five minutes anyway.
“Must see about getting you a cock ring, Potter,” Severus mutters, and Harry laughs joyously. Severus feels like he’s seventeen again, when sex was new and fun and something to be discovered together by him and - but he pushes down that thought, because it’s Harry now, and no one else he wants to be with.
Although Harry was not, it transpires, exaggerating his inexperience, and Severus is more than a little out of practice, it seems that enthusiasm and, yes, affection can atone for a multitude of sins, and they manage to find a position that suits both of them, Harry appearing to take face-to-face as a given, and Severus not feeling inclined to argue with him. And then it’s sweat and need and wanting to please the other, and Severus wonders if it was ever this good with anyone else and if so, how on Earth he’s managed to forget.
It’s hard, as Severus watches Harry come, not to think of that night so many months ago, and for a moment Severus falters in his rhythm, tensing for rejection, but Harry reaches up and pulls him down for a kiss, breaking the spell, and then Severus is coming too and all memories are swept away on a tide of bliss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few weeks later, they’re sitting at the breakfast table. Severus is scowling at the post: another missive from Minerva begging him to reconsider his refusal to return to pedagogic drudgery. But Severus has no intention of giving up his research to once more tutor a rabble of dunderheaded, snot-nosed ingrates, and Harry can just as easily floo home to him every night. Only heads of house are required to be in residence and the old cat can find some other gullible Gryffindor to assume that stifling mantle. He’s quite sure that Longbottom, if asked, would be fool enough to take it as the honour it is not.
Harry is reading the Prophet, to which Severus continues to subscribe – after all, as he remarks in arid tones, how else would he know what was happening in his love life? Suddenly Harry makes an inarticulate sound of astonishment and drops his fork.
“Severus, you’re not going to believe this! Ginny’s jilted Lucius Malfoy and eloped to France with Draco!” His eyes narrow as Severus singularly, and smugly, fails to evince one jot of even mild surprise. “Wait a minute. You knew?”
Severus allows himself a smirk. He’s found he’s become increasingly self-indulgent in so many ways, these days. “It seems Miss Weasley was inadvertently allowed to overhear a conversation between Lucius and myself in which I thanked him profusely for his little prank at the Ministry that set so many wheels in motion. I may also have congratulated Lucius on his achievement in finding a young woman so willing to exchange a burgeoning Quidditch career for the position of brood mare.” He pauses to let his words sink in, then continues. “I am gratified to hear that Draco was able to adequately console her.”
“You evil bastard!” Harry says in tones of heartfelt admiration. “All this time I thought you were going to just let him get away with it, and you were plotting your revenge all along!”
“Well, you know what they say about revenge, Harry,” Severus purrs.
His lover looks endearingly blank. “Um, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?” Harry hazards. He blushes at Severus’ raised eyebrow. “What? So the Dursleys sent me to Sunday School to get me out of the house at weekends.”
Severus smiles indulgently. “Revenge, Harry, as is well known, is a dish that is best served cold.”
Fin.
Author:
drachenminaWord Count: ~10,200
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Severus Snape/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley at start, Ginny Weasley/others
Genre: Angst, drama, romance
Warnings: Dub-con (potion-induced)
Summary: Revenge is sweet. But not always good for you.
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.
AN: EWE. AU in that Lucius is a bit more of a bastard than the somewhat emasculated version of DH, sincerely wanted Voldemort to triumph, and has decidely ambivalent feelings about his family and friends. Oh, and Severus is alive, of course. But you knew that anyway. :D
Thanks for the beta-read are due to the lovely
torino10154!Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge – Paul Gauguin (1848 – 1903)
Live well. It is the greatest revenge – The Talmud
Harry’s sitting at the garishly decorated head table hoping his face isn’t going to crack from the polite smile he’s had plastered on it for the last three-and-a-half hours. He hates these Ministry dinners, always has. He wishes Ginny could have come, but she’s got a try-out for the Cannons tomorrow so Molly insisted she get an early night.
Ginny’s great at this sort of event: she’s pretty, so all the men want to talk to her, but she’s loyal, staying by Harry’s side all night. She’s got a wicked sense of humour too, and Harry’s smile turns genuine for a minute as he thinks of some of her jokes.
He can see Neville at the other end of the table, chatting away to Minister Shacklebolt like he’s done it all his life. Harry wonders when it was that he became the awkward one, the one who can’t think of what to say to people. Probably around the time he realised that, with Voldemort gone, his whole bloody reason for existing has vanished. All his life Harry chafed under the restrictions of having his life mapped out for him, but now he’s finally got from point A to point B, he’s found he has absolutely no idea of where point C is supposed to be or how he’s meant to get there, and there’s no Dumbledore now to turn him in the right direction and shove.
Lucius Malfoy comes up to him after the speeches, a champagne flute held elegantly in each hand. “Mr Potter,” he smarms, smiling like a crocodile, all teeth and no sincerity, “how enchanting to see you again. But how sad not to see your delightful fiancée.”
Harry flushes. “We’re, um, not engaged.”
“No? But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, a pretty little thing like that. Still, we men must have some time on our own, mustn’t we? Indeed, I am myself bereft of my wife’s company for the evening. Fortunately I persuaded Severus to accompany me.”
Harry’s noticed Snape’s here, and he’s been wondering about it. He knows Snape hates public events: he was quite voluble one time about the “excessive attentions of insincere sycophants”. Harry can’t help smiling at the memory; he wonders: if he lives to be a hundred, will he ever know as many words as Snape?
Too late Harry realises Malfoy’s still talking. It’s his voice, he thinks, it’s so smooth and mellow that it lulls you until you don’t actually hear the words. Something about unsung heroes, he thinks.
“A toast, then? To Severus Snape.” Malfoy drinks, and is it just Harry’s imagination, or is he watching Harry just a little too closely? But Harry can’t see a way to politely get out of it, so he echoes, “Severus Snape,” and he drinks the champagne.
He’s probably finished it off too fast, as he starts to feel a little… strange not long after Lucius has insinuated his way back into the melee, graceful as a panther and with far sharper teeth.
Severus regrets that he ever came to this interminable gathering. He wouldn’t have, but Lucius, when he’s of a mind to entice, could charm the scales off a dragon, and probably has at one time or another. He’s even got the Boy-Who-Vanquished practically on his knees, begging to suck his cock, as if anything so indelicate as cock-sucking would sully those self-righteous, heroic, sickeningly tempting lips. No, no, if there were to be any fellatio on the menu, Potter-the-hero would be the recipient, not the provider, and those plump, reddened lips would part only to moan his ecstasy as he spills his seed down the throat of his latest whore du jour.
Speaking of which, Severus wonders where the little red-haired harpy is tonight. Doesn’t she worry her sainted saviour might find other amusements if she lets him off the leash? As Malfoy hands Potter a glass, Severus reflects that it is entirely possible that he has already done so, and feels a clenching inside as if that damned snake were tearing at his guts this time rather than his throat.
Not for the first time, it occurs to Severus to wonder just why Lucius wanted him here. Oh, the reason Malfoy gave him is plausible enough: in these post-war days, it actually does Lucius a service to be seen in public with Severus Snape, Hero of the Light and Order of Merlin (second class). It’s an inversion of the natural order of things that Severus never tires of contemplating.
But Severus has dealt with Malfoys for long enough to know they never reveal their true motives for any given course of action, so he is thoughtful as he surveys the blatant arse-kissing going on all around.
Potter is smiling at Lucius who has no doubt murmured some sweet flattery which the boy is too green to recognise as the thin end of the wedge that will some day lever him into hell. Severus could read him chapter and verse on that; he wrote the book, in fact, back when he too was a skinny teenager, although all similarity between his younger self and Potter ends there.
Severus’ gut clenches again as he reflects how unlikely it is that that boyish smile will ever be directed at him, and he almost smiles himself as he indulges in a little fantasy of making said smile disappear forever.
It’s another hour and a half before people start to drift away, and by then Harry’s feeling as tight and tense as a bowstring, and more than ready to let fly. No way is he going home now, like these pathetic little sods who’d probably piss themselves if Voldie said boo. God, he’s fed up with them, always telling him what a hero he is, like he doesn’t know it already.
He needs… he needs something. He’s not sure what it is, but he can feel it. There’s a hunger inside him that needs appeasing now. He scans the room, searching for someone worthy of his attention.
There. Severus Snape. The name sounds in his head like something out of Parseltongue, all hissing sibilants. Oddly, the voice it’s in is not his own; it’s older, smoother. But that’s unimportant.
Snape’s looking, as usual, like something just died under his nose. Harry smirks. It’s not like there isn’t plenty of room, you could fit a bloody elephants’ graveyard under that monstrosity. Pleased with his own joke, Harry makes his way over. His heart is beating faster now he’s spotted his quarry, and he wipes his palms on his robes.
“Snape.”
“Potter.” It’s a snarl, which delights him. This is what he needs: a challenge.
“Need to talk to you. Not here. Somewhere private.” He’s amused by the look on Snape’s face: equal parts derision, suspicion and surprise. Not everyone could read it, but Harry’s observed the git for years and he knows how he thinks. He leads him over to a side-room, locking the door behind them.
“Well? Out with it, Potter, I haven’t got all night.”
“Yes you have. You’ve got your whole bloody life, such as it is.”
“So what is it you want? I am in no mood to be trifled with, Potter – “
Harry cuts him off by moving closer, as Snape steps back until he’s pressed against the wall. God, it feels good having Snape cower like this. “Question is, what do you want, Snape?” He’s so close they’re touching now. He still has to look up into Snape’s face, but that’s OK. Harry’s way over being physically intimidated by the bastard. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Snape. Just gagging for it, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you just love to get your filthy, stained hands on my body?”
Harry’s pressing his body into Snape’s now and neither of them can be in any possible doubt as to the other man’s reaction to their proximity.
Snape makes an attempt to preserve common decency. “What the hell do you think you are playing at, Mister Potter?” he splutters amusingly.
“Not playing, Snape,” Harry tells him as he presses one hand against the bulge in Snape’s robes. “Unless you want to play? What game shall we play, then, Snape?”
His other hand’s found the fastenings of Snape’s robes and he parts them deftly. “How about this game, Snape?” Harry lowers himself gracefully to his knees. He’s never done this before, but hey, how hard can it be? He pauses a moment to savour Snape’s smell, a heady mix of musk, sweat and piss, before parting his lips and engulfing that turgid, eager prick with his mouth.
Snape gasps and his hips buck forward. Annoyed, Harry slams his arse back against the wall. “Stay still, you bastard.” Before he resumes, Harry takes the time to open his own robes, letting his own needy cock spring free, and now he’s stroking himself as he sucks Snape off.
God, how could he ever have thought this would be difficult? It’s like fucking flying; Harry could do this all day. Not that Snape’ll last anything like that long, he thinks with a smirk. Snape’s moaning now, and Harry withdraws, teasing the head of the man’s prick with the tip of his tongue, swirling it around the helmet and delighting in Snape’s loss of control. He’s getting close, Harry can feel it, so he speeds up the movements of his hand on his own prick, feeling his balls tighten as they prepare to let loose.
Snape lets out an ugly groan and at once Harry’s mouth is filled with his bitter release. It’s enough to bring him over the edge too and he’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, it’s fucking amazing as he shoots white streams all over the front of Snape’s robes and then suddenly it’s like a mist has cleared from his eyes, from his mind and he’s kneeling there at Snape’s feet with his mouth full of come and how the fuck did he get here?
Harry scrambles backwards, horrified, disgusted. The foul stuff in his mouth is making him gag and he half-spits, half-vomits it out onto the carpet. He looks at Snape, exposed and covered in come, and oh god his own prick’s still hanging out in front of Snape and this just can’t be real.
Harry grabs his robes around himself and he can’t look at Snape as he sobs, “What did you do to me? What the fuck did you do?”
Snape’s silent so long Harry risks a look. It doesn’t make sense because Snape looks as horrified as Harry feels.
“I… I did nothing. Nothing!”
“Don’t lie to me! You think I’d do – do that with you if you hadn’t – “
“Potter!” Snape’s grabbed him by the shoulders now but Harry doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to listen –
“Potter! Calm yourself! Think. Had I designs upon your person, would I seek to gratify them here? Now? I am as much a victim in this as you are.”
Severus wishes he were anywhere but here. The object of his lust has turned from wanton incubus to frightened, weeping child in the time it takes to peel a shrivelfig, and he knows it must be his fault. Lily’s shade seems to accuse him and he has no defence to offer, none at all.
Did he realise that Potter was acting strangely? Yes. Did he allow that fact to influence his behaviour? No. To call himself a victim is to stretch the definition of that term beyond all rationality. If he is a victim of anything, it is of his own, foolish, self-deluding ego. How could he have persuaded himself to believe Potter would want him?
Years of practice, perhaps, believing the pleasant lies of Lucius and Riddle.
Earlier this evening, he’d wanted to punish the boy, for not wanting to be his. Had he devoted his life to it, Severus doubts he could have come up with a more fitting punishment for that crime. There’s a clue there, somewhere, but the sickness in the pit of his stomach and the boy standing in anguish before him will not allow him leisure to consider it right now.
Potter’s biting his lip, clearly trying to pull himself together. His voice shakes as he asks Severus, “You felt it too?”
Severus is cautious. “Tell me what you felt, Potter.”
“I – I don’t – I felt confident. Arrogant. And like I had to, to – “ He trails off, maddeningly.
“What, boy?”
Potter gathers the shreds of that vaunted Gryffindor courage and looks him in the eye. “Had to have you. You. Severus Snape.”
He’s silent for a moment, then he asks the question Severus has irrationally been hoping he’s forgotten about. “So did you feel – affected?”
Severus could lie, and he gives it serious consideration. Certainly it would be less humiliating. For after all, what is the alternative? No, Potter, I honestly thought you were just gagging for a taste of my cock. After all, what young boy doesn’t like to suck off ugly, bitter old men?
He is silent too long. “You didn’t, did you? Oh God, and you just let me… “
A good offence is the best defence; Severus learned this lesson at his father’s fist: “Let you, Potter? You gave me no opportunity to stop you! You backed me up against a wall, assaulted my person – “
He really should feel satisfied that his strategy has worked so well as the brat recoils, clearly struggling not to cry. Instead he finds his self-loathing, an ever-present tinnitus, noise pollution of his soul, has increased by decibels and he fights an urge to comfort the boy.
“Control yourself, Potter!” he snaps, and is unreasonably irritated when the boy does so.
Lucius watches with interest as Severus and the Potter boy make their way to the side room, the one scowling his displeasure to hide what Lucius is deliciously aware that he feels; the other all potion-built bravado. It is only with an effort of will that he forces himself to remain with the fools who chatter inanities in his ears, whilst his mind wanders to the side room, tempted almost unbearably by the salacious scenes he pictures.
He knows Severus too well to imagine he will resist Potter’s rather subjective delights, offered as they will be with wanton abandon. He has after all committed far greater transgressions for rewards far less tempting. Does he have the boy, even now, upon hands and knees? Is Potter’s lily-white arse being split apart by Severus’ debauched thrusts? It will be hard on the virgin boy, and Severus, he imagines, will show him no mercy. There will be blood, oh yes, dripping down those trembling thighs, but it will not deter the boy from seeking his own release. And with it, will come release from the potion’s bonds also. He will find himself degraded before a man whom he despises, with the traitor’s filth spilling from his arse. Will he scream, Lucius wonders? Will he cry?
It is, perhaps, a poor revenge for all that Potter has done to derail the Malfoy name’s rise to power. But it’s a start.
He watches with more interest as they return. It is a stinging disappointment that Potter does not immediately cry rape. Lucius was expecting the boy, all injured innocence, to run from the room with his robes half-off, calling swift vengeance upon Lucius’ traitorous friend. Instead, they appear to be talking to one another.
With an apparent ease that could only be displayed by a man of his breeding, Lucius turns and offers the Minister’s wife a particularly charming compliment.
Lucius’ mood is not improved when he returns home to find his son and heir in flagrante with a low-born slut of indeterminate gender Lucius has never seen before, nor wishes to again. Lucius banishes the half-clad trollop summarily from his home with a wave of his wand, as his shameless son gapes unbecomingly.
His son is a fool. Lucius should have divorced Narcissa years ago, as soon as the mediwizards placed that scrawny, puking bundle in his arms and told him this pathetic scrap of life was all the heir he could expect from his wife. Sometimes he thinks she lived that day just to spite him.
Still, no matter: he is young and there are – perhaps not plenty more, but enough - pureblood maidens who’ll be only too happy to warm his bed for the price of a gold ring and a name. Lucius’ mind drifts to Potter’s Weasley girl. She’s pretty enough, although she’s been raised by savages, and the family is notorious for its fecundity. And her father’s ministry connections are tempting indeed. She’s also young enough to be pliable, and malleability is a quality Lucius prizes in his wives, above all others save fertility.
And she certainly seems the type to be easily charmed with a pretty trinket or two.
Lucius smiles. Poor thing, she’ll be so upset when she hears her de facto fiancé has been indulging in perverted liaisons with another man. He really will have to see to it that she is comforted.
When he gets back to the Burrow, Harry’s relieved beyond measure that Ginny’s already gone to bed. Normally she’d be there to greet him with a hug and a kiss, and he couldn’t bear her touching him now. He feels sick at the thought of her innocent lips meeting his. He’s filthy, tainted. He needs to wash. He needs to burn his robes.
He needs to forget what happened tonight.
How could he have done that? To Snape? Snape told him it must have been a potion, because it’s common knowledge he can throw off Imperius. But then, why didn’t he throw off the effects of the potion?
All he can remember is a feeling of being all-powerful, way better than everyone around him. And of wanting Snape.
He remembers it felt good.
Is that why, then? He didn’t throw it off because he liked it? Because secretly, this was what he’d wanted all along, deep in his subconscious? Or not so deep, a hissing in his mind that sounds a lot like Voldemort tells him. All those times you thought of Charlie as you kissed his sister. All the times you wondered what it would be like to have his cock in your mouth. They wouldn’t think you such a hero if they knew what you really wanted, now would they?
No. No, he doesn’t want Charlie, or Snape, or any man – he wants Ginny, with her pretty smile and her small, girlish breasts. He doesn’t want Snape, who’s old and ugly and hates him and who did nothing to stop Harry sucking him off…
Harry punches the wall in the shower, again and again until his knuckles are swollen and he knows there will be an ugly bruise in the morning.
He doesn’t heal it.
Harry gets up late next morning, after a night of troubled sleep and dreams he’d rather forget, of him and Snape… doing stuff, while Lucius looks on lasciviously and calls him a pretty little thing. Harry feels a bit sick, and reckons he must be hungover.
He remembers to heal his hand before he goes down for breakfast, but he might as well not have bothered as they all stare at him anyway. Ginny looks like she’s about to cry and shouldn’t she be at the try-outs by now?
“Um, is something wrong?” he asks. It comes out a bit croaky so he clears his throat.
Ron’s scowling. “Just the Prophet printing lies about you again.” He turns to his family. “I told you, it’s rubbish. Harry wouldn’t do anything like that.”
Harry wishes Molly would make him a cup of tea because suddenly, his mouth is dry and his voice is hoarse again as he asks, “Do what?”
It’s Ron who answers. “There’s a big story about that do last night. They reckon you disappeared off halfway through to have it away with some bloke.”
Harry’s not at his best in the mornings even on a good day, and this is about as far from a good day as you can get, but even so he’s horrified that the next thing out of his cheating mouth is, “Do they say who it was?”
This is so far from an innocent dismissal of the story that even Ron, his hitherto staunch supporter, can’t help but notice, although to be fair, Harry can feel by the burning of his face that he not only sounds guilty, he looks it too.
It’s like that time at the Dursleys’ when Dobby upended the trifle over his aunt and uncle’s guests – everything seems to happen in slow motion, as Harry watches a family of freckled faces change from stunned to incredulous to accusing.
“Mate – you’re not saying it’s true?”
“Harry, I think perhaps – “
“I can’t believe you would do this to me, Harry Potter!” Ginny, as always, gets the last word as she runs crying from the room.
Harry doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that he can’t stay at the Burrow to face a barrage of questions he can’t bear to answer, so he mutters, I’m sorry, and flooes to Grimmauld Place.
Once there, he finds that peace and leisure to think undisturbed is a mixed blessing at best. He’s as good as admitted to Ginny that he’s cheated on her, so he guesses the engagement that was never on in the first place is probably now off. God, are any of the Weasleys ever going to speak to him again?
Why didn’t he handle it better? Tell more of the truth, or less? He could have told them about the potion, couldn’t he?
He wants someone to talk to. He wants Ginny to smile at him and hug him and tell him it’s all right. He wants Ron to tell him they’ll get the bastard who did this to him. He wants Hermione, with her level head and her way of seeing clearly to the heart of things, but she’s in Australia with her parents and the only way to get in touch is by telephone, and there’s no phone in Grimmauld Place and the thought of going out to a public phone booth and shouting his woes to the world is so appalling, it’s almost funny.
But he can’t deal with this by himself and his parents are dead and Dumbledore’s dead and Remus and Sirius are dead dead dead so there’s only one person he can talk to.
Severus scans the paper furiously for mention of his own name, relieved beyond all rationality to find it absent, for this is like as not only a temporary reprieve – someone must have seen them together, after all.
He had counselled the boy against revealing anything, against complaining to the Aurors, and Potter, like a three-year-old child too naively trusting to realise that lollipops are not all that are on offer from the friendly man in the park, had, with a look of intense gratitude on his face that he need not explain his actions, agreed. But his manipulation of the boy, so innocent Severus felt the urge to slap him, has come to naught. Severus considers who might be responsible for the article. True, there were several reporters present, any one of whom would have sacrificed his or her first-born for a story this sensational.
But then, why be so uncharacteristically coy about revealing Severus’ name?
The answer is laughably obvious. Someone who has reason to hate the Boy-Who-Vanquished. Someone who might protect Severus for reasons of his own. Someone whose friendship has been a two-edged sword planted firmly between Severus’ ribs for longer than he cares to recall. Someone, moreover, who possesses the resources to have initiated this sordid little dalliance in the first place.
A latter-day Rome, all roads lead to Lucius Malfoy.
Who will no doubt, if challenged, expect Severus to thank him for the assistance granted in the indulgence of his shameful passion for a boy whose mother he once loved.
As he never even contemplates perusal of the society pages, Severus misses the admittedly small paragraph announcing the imminent divorce of Lucius and Narcissa (nee Black) Malfoy, so is entirely nonplussed when the distressed young man vomited forth by his Floo is not Harry Potter, but Draco Malfoy.
Having long regarded Draco as the son he and Lily should have had, Severus is nonetheless irritated by the boy’s arrogant presumption that Severus will immediately lay aside his own concerns to soothe the youngster’s teenaged angst. To be fair, never privy to his father’s machinations, Draco has no idea that Severus has any concerns, but Severus, knowing by bitter experience that life is most manifestly unfair, sees no reason not to emulate it.
If further evidence of the injustice of the whimsical decisions of the gods where one Severus Snape is concerned were needed, it is amply provided half-an-hour later by the graceless arrival of Potter in the hearth.
Harry, funnily enough, was thinking even as he Flooed that this was a bad idea. Not used to having his ideas so spectacularly and speedily confirmed to be correct, he can only gape in dismay at the sight of Draco Malfoy’s too-pretty face as it runs the gamut of emotions from I to H: incredulity to hilarity.
“No! No! This is – this is absolutely priceless! You, Severus? You are the mysterious sexual partner of The Boy Who Lived?”
Harry’s not sure if he wants to turn and run or smash his fist into that girlish face, see how pretty he looks with blood streaming down from a broken nose, so he does nothing, simply stares. He’d thought things couldn’t get any worse but he should have known that wasn’t true, things always get worse, no matter what he does, and he’s tired of fighting and finding the victory wasn’t worth the battle.
“Draco!” Snape says sharply, breaking the spell.
“What’s he doing here?” Harry asks, and knows he sounds like a petulant, whining child. He came here for help, for guidance out of this putrid mess they find themselves in, not to be made sport of by a boy he’s always hated and now hates even more just for being here.
Snape ignores him. “Draco, you will not breathe one word of this to anyone, do you understand me?”
Malfoy half-laughs, the bastard. “Don’t worry, Severus, I sincerely doubt anyone would believe me if I did. I’m not even sure I believe it, but since the alternative is that you and Harry Potter have conspired to play a practical joke on me, I suppose I’ll have to. But how in Merlin’s name –?”
“A potion, Draco, and that is more than you need to know on the subject. I suggest that in the circumstances we continue our own discussion at a later date.”
Harry wants to smash that smirk right off Malfoy’s ferrety little face as he says, “Certainly, Severus. I’m sure you and Potter have lots to discuss,” and flooes away.
Having been desperate to see the back of him, Harry is dismayed to find he’s no happier when Malfoy’s gone, leaving him as he does alone with a scowling Severus Snape. Harry’s not sure what the hell he’s going to say now, so he’s almost grateful when Snape turns and snaps at him, “Well? For what reason, apart from your congenital stupidity, are you here?”
Snape’s taunt has the welcome effect of making Harry angry, which is a damn sight better than cripplingly uncertain.
“I’m here because we need to talk, Snape. And it’s not like I walked in the bloody front door with a pack of paparazzi at my heels! Nobody knows – I came from Grimmauld Place.”
“Indeed? You informed me last night that you were staying at the Burrow.”
Harry hates the way he can feel his face grow hot. “Yeah, well they saw the Prophet, OK?”
“And turfed you out without giving you a chance to deny the story in that scurrilous rag? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
Harry has to unclench his teeth before he can reply.
“Yeah, well we’re not all fantastic at lying, are we?” Harry runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “They’re my best friends, Snape. I couldn’t just stand there and deny it when I knew it was true. I couldn’t. Even if I’d tried – you said it, right? Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves, or something like that – that’s me all over.”
Suddenly tired, Harry slumps down on the sofa.
Severus sighs. No, of course the boy could not lie. Lies are for Slytherins and bitter old spies with too many secrets, not for fresh young Gryffindors whose cupboards hide, not skeletons, but romantic tales of lonely childhoods. Potter would not be himself, the idol of Severus’ sordid worship, had he been able to dissemble effectively to friend and foe alike.
He sits down beside the boy, uncertain what to do now. Potter looks like he’s sorely in need of solace, but Severus has always been a poor provider of that. His cock stirs as he thinks of the last time they were this close. Only last night, which is fitting, as the memory has assumed the hazy semblance of a dream, fantastic and unlikely. Hesitantly, drawn by an impulse to comfort he thought had died with the boy’s mother, Severus reaches a hand out and places it on Potter’s knee.
The response is as immediate as it is humiliating. Potter leaps up from the sofa and actually backs away, as if Severus is a particularly vicious sub-species of Devil’s Snare that, once it has him in its coils, will squeeze him dry of every vestige of youth and innocence. Severus curses himself. Fool – how could he possibly imagine the boy would welcome his touch? Potter sees him as little better than a rapist; it’s a wonder he’s here at all.
“I – I – maybe I should go,” Potter stutters.
“For Merlin’s sake, boy, did you think me about to molest you?” Severus snaps.
Potter bites his lip, causing Severus’ cock to twitch once more. “Sorry. I just – I wasn’t expecting you to touch me, that’s all.”
“No doubt you think me devoid of all human feeling, Potter,” Severus sneers.
Potter looks defensive. “Well, you’re not exactly renowned for being, well, nice.”
“I should damn well hope not,” Severus mutters darkly, and is astonished to be rewarded with a weak smile from the boy whose life he has so spectacularly ruined. Curse the boy – has he no idea of the seriousness of his situation?
Potter sits down again, cautiously, as if he’s worried that if not watched carefully, Severus will try to fondle him once more. “Look, I came here because I was hoping you’d… have some idea of what we should do. What I should do, I mean,” he says softly.
The sight of Harry Potter actually asking for direction from Severus of his own free will is such a novel one that Severus doesn’t answer for a moment. Potter takes advantage of this to press on. “I mean, do you have any idea who could have done it? Now you’ve had a chance to think, I mean.” He hesitates. “Look, don’t get mad at this, I know he’s a mate of yours, but do you think it might have been Lucius Malfoy? I mean, I remember him giving me a drink, and well – that’d be the ideal cover for slipping me a potion, wouldn’t it?”
Damn the boy for finally displaying some semblance of deductive thinking. Severus stalls. “And how long was this before the,” Severus swallows, furious at his own embarrassment, “incident?”
Potter looks away. “It was – a while. I don’t know exactly. I mean, you’re the bloody potions expert, you tell me how long it must have been.”
“That, Potter, is presupposing that Lucius was the one responsible, which is by no means certain. Did no one else offer you a drink last night?”
“I don’t know, OK? Things got a bit… fuzzy after that glass of champagne with Lucius bloody Malfoy.”
Thank you, Potter, for that reminder that only one of us was compos mentis during our depraved little tryst.
Severus chooses his next words carefully. “And if it was Lucius, what then? Do you intend to call the Aurors down upon his head? If I know Lucius,” and I do, oh, far too well, “you will find yourself unable to prove a thing, and will have exposed us both to public ridicule for no purpose.”
Potter stands up and paces in his frustration. “So we’re just going to let him get away with it? Aren’t you pissed off with him? Like you said, you’re a victim too.” His glare is more accusing than petulant, and his eyes narrow as he continues, “Or was this something you cooked up between you? Fed up with not being able to humiliate me, now you’re not my teacher any more?”
Severus is on his feet in an instant. “How dare you, boy?” he spits, the guilt he feels for his passive acceptance of Potter’s unlikely advances last night erupting into fury at the accusation that he took a more active role. Potter stumbles backwards.
“Look, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – I’m just, just tired, OK? It was a stupid thing to say. Of course you wouldn’t – and you hate me, anyway, it’s not like you’d… I shouldn’t have come. It’s not your problem, it’s mine, and I’ll – I’ll think of something. I won’t tell anyone about you. I’ll just – fuck.”
The guilt is crushing Severus now, and he can only watch as, despairingly, Potter flooes away.
Harry sighs when he gets back to Grimmauld Place. OK, so going to see Snape probably wasn’t actually the stupidest thing he’s ever done, but it’s not going to be appearing in any halls of fame for bright ideas, either. It seems that this mess he’s in is something Harry’s got to sort out for himself, not just try and find someone to tell him what to do, what to search for, who to kill. He grabs a sheet of parchment and a quill, and sits down.
1. Was it Lucius Malfoy who gave me the potion?
Yes, he writes, then tries to think about it more rationally. He’s read a few detective novels, he knows all about Means, Motive and Opportunity. Malfoy certainly had the Opportunity, and he’s got Means by the shed-load. Does he have a Motive? Harry saved Draco – but then, his dealings were all with Narcissa on that one. More to the point, he got Lucius sent to Azkaban and destroyed his dreams of pure-blood domination. Yes, Lucius had a motive to hurt Harry.
But why involve Snape? Weren’t they friends?
But then, Snape deceived Lucius for years as to his true allegiance, and had at least as great a role as Harry in Voldemort’s downfall.
YES, he writes again, and goes on to the next question.
2. Should I call in the Aurors?
While he wants to write, YES, because there’s nothing he’d like better than to see that smarmy git dragged off in chains to Azkaban again, he forces himself to think rationally about it. Has he, actually, got any evidence besides knowing the bastard did it? And even if he had, would he really want all this dragged out in court, where the Prophet’s reporters will seize on every sordid detail?
Cursing Lucius Malfoy to hell, Harry writes NO.
It takes a while before Harry has the courage to write down the third question:
3. Am I gay?
That’s a tougher one to answer. Yeah, right. Because straight blokes always fantasize about their girlfriend’s brother when they’re kissing them. Again, he makes himself think it through logically. He gets hard remembering what he and Snape did, but how much of that is due to the memory of how the potion made him feel? Harry tries thinking of Ginny, and smiles sadly. What does she make him feel? He writes down a few words that pop into his head. Warm. Loved. Safe. Family. Friend. Mum.
Mum?
Mum?
Hurriedly, he thinks of Charlie: Cool. Dragons. Danger. Excitement. Sex. Oh. He thinks of Snape – and then doesn’t, because it’s too confusing and anyway he suspects he hasn’t got the vocabulary, not to mention his bloody prick’s distracting him again.
Harry sighs, and reaching for a copy of Time Out he picked up at the local newsagent, turns to the Lesbian and Gay section.
A few months on from his disappointment at the Ministry, Lucius has fully recovered his equanimity and is in fact enjoying himself no end. Really, he can’t imagine why he’s never bought himself a Quidditch team before. Another pleasure his stultifying marriage to Narcissa denied him; she never bothered to hide her dislike of the game. Even when he took her to the World Cup she contrived to convey, and none too subtly, that she considered it all terribly beneath her.
Sport is so much more fun when you have a vested interest in the outcome, he thinks. And his position as team owner gives him a perfect right to enter the changing rooms to give a pre-match pep talk when the young men are in a fetching state of undress. Of course he wouldn’t dream of going into the ladies’ changing room, that would hardly be proper; but in any case the only witch he wants to be seen to be interested in is the little Weasley, who’s already showing touching signs of gratitude for his endeavours in getting her a place on the team.
Narcissa, he’s pleased to note, has made her exit from the Manor with a quiet dignity he appreciates, and has retreated to a continental estate bequeathed her by a godmother, although her lawyers, he suspects, will not be nearly so obliging. Still, Lucius has yet to meet the lawyer who cannot be bribed and/or blackmailed, and in extreme cases eliminated, should their demands on his ex-wife’s behalf prove too exigent.
Draco, on the other hand, has been rather less than accommodating. He’s always been a mother’s boy, but although he protests the divorce vociferously he has yet to take the hint that he is included in its terms and vacate the Manor. Or perhaps that is Narcissa’s doing – she always did show most energy when in defence of her child, and is quite intelligent enough to realise that he intends that Draco be supplanted as the Malfoy heir. Perhaps she’s hoping that Lucius will meet an untimely end before he has time to disinherit her son, and a Draco in situ will be that much more conveniently placed to assume the reins of power. Lucius resolves to double the security measures around the Manor and employ the services of a food-taster.
It’s a long time – months – before Severus sees Potter again, and when he does it is, irony of ironies, at another Ministry function.
He’s been reading the Prophet, of course. How could he not, when it’s full of Potter. The Boy Who Lived Comes Out, blared the headlines, with many a soi-disant witty pun on the subject of closets. The blasted boy has been linked with every prominent wizard of questionable sexuality, from Quidditch players to werewolves. At first, his putative conquests had nothing in common besides the fact that they were young, good-looking, and most assuredly nothing like Severus Snape; latterly, what pictures the Prophet has been able to procure have depicted the boy in the company of rather older men. Admittedly, there have been far too few of these to justify generalisation; but tall, dark-haired and lean do appear to be themes that show some degree of repetition. Severus isn’t sure what he should make of this. He tells himself digustedly that it would be utterly ridiculous for him to make anything of it whatsoever.
Severus would wonder why he’s come, tonight, to be faced with the revolting spectacle of a Potter so brazenly secure in a sexuality that in Severus’ day was a matter for shame and concealment, but his eager perusal of the daily papers has confirmed to Severus what he has long suspected: that his taste for self-flagellation knows no bounds.
This time, the Weasley girl is also present, almost unrecognisable on the arm of a smug Lucius Malfoy, dripping with diamonds and wearing robes that cost more than her father’s annual income. Potter turns an unflattering red whenever his glance drifts her way, but whether that’s due to embarrassment or fury, Severus is unable to tell. Lucius’ purchase of the Cannons was also a matter for the headlines, as was the team’s subsequent signing of The Girl Who Was Spurned. The engagement, Severus presumes, must only be a matter of time, and not too long a time at that; after all, it would not do to allow the girl too much leisure to reflect. She might come to her senses, should she actually possess any, which Severus doubts, and reject Malfoy senior in favour of someone who actually gives a damn about her.
Severus took sadistic pleasure in witnessing the visible denting of Lucius’ composure when he first noted that the beauty on the arm of the Minister for Magic was none other than his own ex-wife; but Malfoys are nothing if not survivors and he rallied with irritating ease, even going over to congratulate the couple, occasioning alarmed looks on the part of his own companion, Severus was amused to note.
Potter is alone.
Severus’ eyes seem to be under some minor form of Imperius, as they keep returning to that lean figure and that boyish face that seems to have learned, at last, not to broadcast every thought, every emotion to a pruriently fascinated world. Perhaps it is Potter who has cursed him, for every time Severus finds himself gazing at the boy, green eyes stare back into his soul. He should tell the boy to cease, before he finds himself sullied by the contact.
He does not.
After the speeches, when the guests are mingling with insincere smiles and polite laughter that turns Severus’ stomach to witness, their eyes meet once more. Potter hesitates, then walks resolutely over to him.
To flee would be utterly ridiculous. Severus stands his ground.
“Snape? I’m, um, glad you came. I wanted to, well, talk to you. Actually that’s the only reason I’ve kept coming to these things, hoping you’d turn up to one, which is stupid, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like I don’t know where you live.”
He ceases babbling for a moment to run his hand through his hair. Severus’ breath is caught by how fuckable he looks right now.
“So, can we talk?” the boy asks, uncertainly.
Being a man who takes his scant pleasures where he can, Severus nods, and says, “I presume you recall the location of a certain anteroom?”
The boy hasn’t stopped blushing by the time they reach the side room. Severus wonders if anyone’s noticed, and whether there will be a headline about this in tomorrow’s Prophet. Has the fool still no sense of self-preservation? More to the point, when did folly become contagious?
“Well?” Severus asks, when the brat shows no inclination to get to the point, fiddling with the ornaments on a shelf and avoiding Severus’ gaze.
“I want you to know, most of it’s a load of bollocks, that stuff in the Prophet about me and all those blokes. Not about being gay, though – I mean, maybe I should be grateful to Malfoy for helping me work that out.” He looks up at Severus now. “Because it was a form of Imperius, that potion, wasn’t it, and I don’t think, if it had been something I really didn’t want to do, that I would have done it, because I can throw off Imperius. And that’s why I wanted to talk. To say I’m sorry for, well, throwing myself on you. It must have been –“ heavenly? The closest thing to happiness I have felt in my miserable life? “- horrible. I mean, you were in love with my mum, for God’s sake.”
“No.” Severus is amazed to find that he has spoken, and more astonished still that he continues. “No. Your mother was – the best friend I ever had. I may have wished that we could have been more to each other, but – “ Severus’ twisted attempt at a smile is spectacularly unsuccessful, if Potter’s expression is anything to go by “- my own… preferences have always been fixed, and you need not fear that my feelings for you are at all paternal in nature.”
There is a world of uncertainty and disbelief in the boy’s tone as he answers. “You have feelings for me?”
Curse him. “There are many kinds of feelings, Potter, and very few of them are positive.”
Potter grins, shame-faced. “Yeah. Stupid of me.” He changes tack, suddenly. “But do you think I’m right, about the potion being something I could have fought against, if I’d wanted to?”
Is this what lies behind his admission of homosexuality? “Potter, I could brew you a potion that’d make you rape your own grandmother, living or dead, resistance to Imperius be damned. And forgive me if I find it hard to credit that you were harbouring suppressed desires for your old Potions Master.”
Potter flushes once more. “Well, I used to have a bit of a crush on the Half-Blood Prince,” he mutters, looking away.
“Do not mock me, Potter!”
“God, you just think everyone’s a bastard, don’t you, Snape?”
“Most people, Potter, are.”
“Well, I’m not, OK? At least, I try not to be. The Weasleys might have a different opinion,” he adds ruefully, suddenly looking achingly lonely, as indeed he must be, Severus realises, if the tales of his liaisons are all lies as he claims. Again Severus feels the foolish urge to comfort the boy; but this time, he is able to resist. “Anyway, I just thought it’d be nice if we could be, you know, friends. Even if you don’t want, well, anything more.”
As Severus reels in shock, scarce able to believe he has interpreted the last of those woefully ungrammatical sentences correctly, Potter approaches him, and tentatively places a hand on his arm. Severus does not react, if one discounts the clenching of his jaw and the swelling of his cock. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about things, and I’ve, sort of, been with a couple of blokes – not those ones in the Prophet, I mean, some of them were Muggles – and I’m pretty sure I’m, you know, gay.”
Severus feels the entirely rational urge to Legilimise the boy and find out the names of these blokes, and preferably also where they might easily be found and subjected to multiple Unforgivables, but contents himself with sneering, “Not good enough for the Wizarding Hero, were they not?”
Potter shrugs shyly. “Actually they dumped me. I think I’m buggered, really – wizards think they’re getting a hero, and they’re always disappointed when it’s just me, and Muggles all think I’m weird, because I’m too serious and I don’t get any of their telly references. And being a speccy runt with stupid hair and a daft scar doesn’t help, either.” He kicks morosely at a table leg. “Oh, and I appear to be completely crap at selling myself, too. We should get back, you know, people are going to talk.”
Severus doesn’t stay to try and ascertain if people have, indeed, begun to talk. It would have been a waste of time in any case, as the Prophet next day once more confirms the newsworthiness of all things Potter. It makes for interesting reading; the editorial staff were clearly split between throwing up their hands in horror at the unseemly alliance they postulate between the Death Eater and the living saint, and gushing in tones of cloying sentimentality over the two lonely war heroes finding love in a May-December romance, so have settled for a queasy mix between the two approaches.
Severus considers May-September would have been more appropriate in any case; he is hardly in his dotage. Unfortunately, he is also hardly in any position to complain about it. He maintains a dignified silence when reporters and curious members of the public accost him in the street, refusing to confirm or deny the reports.
When three days have passed and the interest shows no sign of abating, he resorts to polyjuice to go about his business unmolested. Eventually, though, with no new rumours or pictures to sustain it, the frenzy dies down – and it is at this point that Potter decides for some reason to come to Severus’ house, and this time he does turn up at the front door, paparazzi in tow.
“Sorry about that,” he apologises insincerely, and proceeds to talk of nothing of any consequence whatsoever, and then leave. The Prophet salivates correspondingly. Severus brews more polyjuice.
Thus it goes on. Potter continually finds reasons to interrupt Severus’ solitude - donations to the wretched orphans, advice on a potions scholarship – and the press have them practically married already. It is revenge, Severus decides. Potter has hit upon an ingenious way of making him suffer for all his petty spite at school (and Severus is self-aware enough to recognise that it was indeed petty, and spiteful) by foisting upon him all the disadvantages of an affair du coeur with the Boy Hero, and none of the actual fucking.
He could, of course, put an end to it. Deny the boy entrance to his home. Announce in the Prophet that rumours of their love are greatly exaggerated. Have the brat prosecuted for stalking.
He does not.
He has observed that Potter often visits on a Friday afternoon. No doubt the boy has noticed that Severus permits himself the indulgence of cakes from the local patisserie on that day. Severus considers changing his habits, but in the end, merely places a double order, which is the only reason he is irritated on those occasions when the brat fails to turn up.
They don’t touch, on these visits. Potter seems annoyingly cheerful these days and is obviously in no need of comfort, and Severus finds his mood to be inexplicably brighter also. Not infrequently, they laugh, which is something Severus would never have imagined himself doing with any spawn of the Potter line.
One unseasonably chilly afternoon, the skies overcast and grey, Potter appears subdued. Nervous.
“Um, Severus?”
“I feel sure I would have remembered granting you permission to call me by my given name.”
“Stuffy old git. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my future, and I’ve come to a decision. Actually, I’ve done something about it too. I’m not going to be an Auror – I’m going to teach at Hogwarts. DADA. It’s all settled with Prof – Minerva.” He hesitates, twirling his wand in an irritating fashion between his fingers and nearly dropping it. “She asked me to see if you’d consider going back to teach Potions, too.”
“I see. And what, in your opinion, caused her to make this enquiry through you, rather than approaching me direct?”
“She, um, she seems to think we’re, well, together.”
The cards, it appears, are to be laid upon the table. “An impression you appear to have been doing your best to impart to the whole of the Wizarding World.”
“Oh. You noticed.”
“Being neither blind nor a fool, Potter, yes I did. I am however at a loss to understand the reason behind your actions.”
Apparently Potter finds the pattern of soot-marks on Severus’ hearth-rug fascinating. “I – well, I’ve enjoyed coming to visit you, and I just thought, if you had time to get used to the idea, and could see that everyone else was used to it too, you might, well, think about us getting together. For real.”
Unable to credit this realisation of many a fond fantasy, Severus simply stares at the boy. “The Half-Blood Prince is dead, Potter,” Severus warns somewhat light-headedly. “He died a long time ago.” When he watched them bury your mother.
“Yeah. I know. But you’re still here.”
The Ministry should outlaw the boy from biting his lip; it makes it so damnably hard for Severus to think. “You are… certain that this is truly what you want?”
“I haven’t accepted any drinks from Malfoy lately, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Potter tells him with an attempt at a grin.
Severus feels a familiar churn of resentment in his gut at the mention of his erstwhile friend, which stills abruptly with the realisation that perhaps he should indeed thank the man for his malicious actions all those months ago. If done with enough sincerity, it might well prove a satisfying revenge upon the schemer.
“This is not some attempt to justify your actions that night, is it, Potter?”
The boy looks him squarely in the eyes, which is annoyingly distracting. “No. Maybe that was how it started – the wanting to get to know you, I mean. But that night - that was the potion, I get that now. He gave me the drink, made me say your name – that was it. Point and shoot. Me bullet, you target. This – this is different. This is about wanting to be with you. You, not the man I used to think you were.” He smiles ruefully. “That is, if you want to be with me, not the boy you used to think I was.”
“Potter, I never wanted to be with the boy I thought you to be. I wanted to fuck him. There is a difference.”
“So what about me, then?” Potter challenges him boldly. “Want to fuck me?”
Merlin, yes. “I was not aware that was the question.”
“It’s not, really. I don’t – look, are we going to stop talking around the subject and get to the point? I’d like us to be, well, lovers.” Able, now, to pronounce the word fuck without a blush, Harry’s a fetching shade of pink as he says lovers, and Severus thinks suddenly that perhaps it is time they stop using words to fence with.
Once more, he reaches out a hand, a little less hesitantly than before. Potter doesn’t flinch, this time, as it touches him; in fact he moves forward, towards Severus, and lifts his own hand to Severus’ waist. Severus is achingly hard in an instant. Fortunately he is not such a fool as to push too hard, too fast.
The kiss, when it comes, is gentle, tentative, as if both of them wish to efface the memory of the careless rutting of their previous, disastrous tryst. Potter’s – Harry’s – lips are soft upon his own, but the scent of him is unmistakeably male and there’s a hardness in his jeans that meets Severus’ own erection with a tantalising pressure. Severus gazes into those deep green eyes for a moment, wondering how he could ever have thought them so like hers. Lily’s eyes were bright, sparkling with intelligence and girlish mischief; Harry’s are intelligent, too, but there’s a solemn quality in them that hers never gained, and an understanding that her inflexible naivety failed to permit. Severus loved her, it’s true: a child’s love for something shining and beautiful, like the sun or the moon or the stars and equally unobtainable and misunderstood. What he feels for Harry is different in so many ways: it’s a want and a grudging liking and a need and yes, love too, for a spirit that’s faced loneliness and hardship and the unreasonable demands of the world, and come through, battered perhaps, but still strong.
Severus wonders if he’ll ever be able to tell Harry this, and if it’ll matter if he can’t.
Harry’s hand comes up to stroke Severus’ face, as if trying to soothe away the lines of tension that never quite leave it. Severus takes the hand and kisses its palm thoughtfully, which earns him a smile from Harry that’s like the first glimpse of the sun after a week of foul weather.
“So… you’re OK with this, then?” Harry asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Apparently,” Severus tells him, letting Harry’s hand fall, and finally, finally running his fingers through that hair that yes, still reminds him of Potter pere, but these days, only with a sense of wonder that he could ever have thought the son to resemble the father in any way that truly matters.
Harry pulls him closer, and asks, “Do you want to take this slowly? Or,” he swallows, “do we go straight to bed?”
Severus doesn’t make the mistake of considering too long, this time. “Bed,” he says firmly, and pulls Harry towards the bedroom.
They fumble each others’ clothes off awkwardly, buttons refusing to undo and legs getting stuck in jeans, and it doesn’t matter because this is nearer to perfection than Severus thought he’d ever see. At last they’re naked, Severus deciding he’s damned if he’s going to be insecure about his body: after all, Harry seems to have accepted the personality and face, which must surely be the greater stumbling-blocks. In fact it’s Harry who seems endearingly shy, muttering that he’s not had a lot of experience and he’s probably only going to last five minutes anyway.
“Must see about getting you a cock ring, Potter,” Severus mutters, and Harry laughs joyously. Severus feels like he’s seventeen again, when sex was new and fun and something to be discovered together by him and - but he pushes down that thought, because it’s Harry now, and no one else he wants to be with.
Although Harry was not, it transpires, exaggerating his inexperience, and Severus is more than a little out of practice, it seems that enthusiasm and, yes, affection can atone for a multitude of sins, and they manage to find a position that suits both of them, Harry appearing to take face-to-face as a given, and Severus not feeling inclined to argue with him. And then it’s sweat and need and wanting to please the other, and Severus wonders if it was ever this good with anyone else and if so, how on Earth he’s managed to forget.
It’s hard, as Severus watches Harry come, not to think of that night so many months ago, and for a moment Severus falters in his rhythm, tensing for rejection, but Harry reaches up and pulls him down for a kiss, breaking the spell, and then Severus is coming too and all memories are swept away on a tide of bliss.
A few weeks later, they’re sitting at the breakfast table. Severus is scowling at the post: another missive from Minerva begging him to reconsider his refusal to return to pedagogic drudgery. But Severus has no intention of giving up his research to once more tutor a rabble of dunderheaded, snot-nosed ingrates, and Harry can just as easily floo home to him every night. Only heads of house are required to be in residence and the old cat can find some other gullible Gryffindor to assume that stifling mantle. He’s quite sure that Longbottom, if asked, would be fool enough to take it as the honour it is not.
Harry is reading the Prophet, to which Severus continues to subscribe – after all, as he remarks in arid tones, how else would he know what was happening in his love life? Suddenly Harry makes an inarticulate sound of astonishment and drops his fork.
“Severus, you’re not going to believe this! Ginny’s jilted Lucius Malfoy and eloped to France with Draco!” His eyes narrow as Severus singularly, and smugly, fails to evince one jot of even mild surprise. “Wait a minute. You knew?”
Severus allows himself a smirk. He’s found he’s become increasingly self-indulgent in so many ways, these days. “It seems Miss Weasley was inadvertently allowed to overhear a conversation between Lucius and myself in which I thanked him profusely for his little prank at the Ministry that set so many wheels in motion. I may also have congratulated Lucius on his achievement in finding a young woman so willing to exchange a burgeoning Quidditch career for the position of brood mare.” He pauses to let his words sink in, then continues. “I am gratified to hear that Draco was able to adequately console her.”
“You evil bastard!” Harry says in tones of heartfelt admiration. “All this time I thought you were going to just let him get away with it, and you were plotting your revenge all along!”
“Well, you know what they say about revenge, Harry,” Severus purrs.
His lover looks endearingly blank. “Um, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?” Harry hazards. He blushes at Severus’ raised eyebrow. “What? So the Dursleys sent me to Sunday School to get me out of the house at weekends.”
Severus smiles indulgently. “Revenge, Harry, as is well known, is a dish that is best served cold.”
Fin.
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Date: 2008-06-17 09:06 pm (UTC)I'm happy he managed to extract his revenge on Lucius, and I'm happy Severus and Harry came together at the end, and I'm especially happy that affection ... atone(ed) for a multitude of sins .... That was a lovely touch. :-)
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Date: 2008-06-17 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-17 09:58 pm (UTC)Awesome story.
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Date: 2008-06-17 11:02 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it! :D
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Date: 2008-06-17 10:59 pm (UTC)Great job!
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Date: 2008-06-17 11:04 pm (UTC)So glad you enjoyed it! :D
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Date: 2008-06-18 03:02 am (UTC)I must admit that I feel a bit like Harry did. If I live to be 100, will I know as many words as you?
I really, really enjoyed this one, and my only crit would be that it needed to be about twice as long. :D
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Date: 2008-06-18 08:13 pm (UTC)my only crit would be that it needed to be about twice as long
Hmm. Is that good (as in I never wanted it to stop) or bad (as in you could have done with fleshing out scenes x, y and z a bit more)? *is curious*
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Date: 2008-06-19 05:30 am (UTC)I'm just a whore for UST, and although there was some here, I can just never get enough of it. I could have happily sat and read for hours, just about the courtship. :D
I really meant what I said about your 'voice.' It was wonderful, and funny and clever, and not remotely distracting.
I am going to have to go back and look at more of your stuff. I find I don't have as much time for reading fic as I would like, so I tend to be picky about what I read. I liked your summary for this one, though. That is what sucked me in.
Would you mind if I friended you?
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Date: 2008-06-19 05:07 pm (UTC)And no problem - friend away!
*friends back* :D
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Date: 2008-06-18 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 08:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 04:58 am (UTC)The last three paragraphs, btw, are sheer brilliance.
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Date: 2008-06-18 08:25 pm (UTC)And sorry about the late night! ;D
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Date: 2008-06-18 05:42 am (UTC)Hugs,
Dixiebell
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Date: 2008-06-18 08:26 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it! :D
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Date: 2008-06-19 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-19 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-11 12:21 pm (UTC)-cookies-
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Date: 2009-08-15 10:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-16 04:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-13 05:04 am (UTC)This is brilliant, from start to finish. All the characterizations were spot-on. I absolutely loved that you made me believe that everyone forgot about Lucius until the very end, and then - damn! PERFECT!!!
Well done. Very well done. :)
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Date: 2013-02-17 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-12 10:00 pm (UTC)This was totally delicious.