Her Eyes, Part Two/Two
Aug. 21st, 2008 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drachenminaTitle: Her Eyes, Part Two/Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drachenmina
Rating: NC17
Word Count: ~18,000
Pairing(s)/character(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter,
Summary: Post DH AU. Severus Snape is the only one who can heal the injuries inflicted on Harry by a vengeful Bellatrix Lestrange.
Part One
Day Fifteen
When Harry came downstairs, his stomach telling him hopefully that it was probably around dinnertime, he found Snape in the kitchen, banging some pots around, possibly for Harry’s benefit. Harry sat at the table in silence for a moment, before blurting out, “I don’t want to be gay!”
“Then don’t be, Potter. You are, after all, the saviour of the wizarding world - it should be a simple matter to command your own sexuality!”
“That’s – that’s crap, Snape.”
“Precisely. You are either attracted to men, or you are not. What you want, Potter, does not come into it. No more than it does for any of us.” It sounded bitter. Harry remembered what Snape had said about his dad and the others bullying him.
“Did you try to be straight? For my mum?”
“If I did, it is quite evident that I did not succeed.”
“You can never come out and admit anything, can you?”
“Openness and honesty tend not to be the hallmark of the successful spy, it is true.”
“Did you enjoy it? The spying, I mean. I mean, obviously it was really hard work, and stressful, and - “
“Yes, Potter.”
“Yes?”
“You were about to say, did I enjoy knowing that I had fooled one of the most powerful wizards in history into thinking I was his devoted, if somewhat incompetent, servant? Yes, Potter. I would not be human if I had not derived a certain amount of satisfaction from that.”
“Did you use to fancy him?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most appalling thing you have ever said.”
“No it’s not. I mean, obviously you didn’t fancy him when he was all bald and noseless and snakey – unless that’s your thing, which if it is I’m not sure I want to know about it - but he wasn’t bad looking before, when he was Tom Riddle.”
There was a silence.
“Snape?”
“Regulus Black.”
“What?”
“I was involved with Regulus Black, although why I am telling you this I have no idea. He was… young, impetuous, good-looking, pure-blooded – everything I was not.”
“Oh. Wait – he can’t have been more than a couple of years younger than you!”
“The spoilt darling of a wealthy family whose elder son had turned out a crushing disappointment? Potter, we were generations apart.”
“Yeah, right. Did you know he turned against Voldemort in the end?”
“Not until it was far too late for me to have helped him, no.”
“Sorry.”
“Potter, I have long ceased to hold you personally responsible for every minor tragedy of a long and bitter life.”
“Not so bloody minor. And you’re not so bloody old, either. I mean, Albus Dumbledore must’ve been, what, a hundred and fifty years old when he died!”
“Thank you, Potter, for reminding me of the worst night of my life.”
“Was it, though? Was it worse than the night you learned the woman you loved – yeah, I know, as a friend, whatever – had died because of a prophecy you passed on, despite your attempt to get Voldemort to only murder her baby?”
“You can be a vicious little cunt when you want to be, can’t you, Potter?”
“Now who needs to watch his bloody language?”
“At least I’m not displaying a rather pathetic jealousy of a man who died before I was even born.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Sixteen
“If I’m gay, how come I went out with Ginny, then?” was the first thing Harry said on coming down to breakfast.
Snape sighed. “Potter, I can think of at least six reasons. No, make that five – Percy always appeared to me to have come from the shallow end of that particular gene pool.”
“Snape, you’re quoting Lion King. That is even more disturbing than you implying that I actually fancied her brothers. Wait a minute – do you fancy her brothers?”
“Are you sure you want me to answer that, Potter?”
“Oh my God, you do! Urgh. Please tell me you don’t fancy Ron.”
“Worried I’ll be stepping on your toes, Potter?”
Harry was silent a while, eating his toast, which he’d put way too much marmalade on. “Look, I don’t fancy Ron. Or Bill. And definitely not Percy. I admit I might have had a bit of a crush on Charlie at one point. But that’s not why I was going out with Ginny! I fancied her.”
“And her status as sister to your very close friend, who was untouchable, and her superficial resemblance to your dead mother played no part in your attraction to her.”
“We slept together, you know.”
“That family has never been noted for its sexual continence.”
“I enjoyed it!”
“I do not doubt it. So why, pray tell, did you split up?”
“She, um, reckoned I wasn’t that interested in her. As a person, I mean.”
“That would be due to her lack of a penis, then.”
Harry choked on his cup of tea.
…
“I bet I know who your favourite character was. In the Lion King, I mean.”
“Let me guess: you imagine me to have been enthralled by Scar, the evil murderer who schemed to take over the land?”
“Well, yeah, but I also reckon you had a soft spot for Simba.”
“Simba? The foolish young cub whose reckless flouting of authority endangered himself and others?”
“But who defeated the evil murderer in the end – yep, that’s the one.”
“I believe, Potter, that we have wasted quite enough time in the discussion of a ridiculous children’s animation.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Eighteen
Harry was trying to build a house of cards. It was bloody difficult, not being able to see what he was doing. He’d just managed to get the first level up, and was excitedly starting on the second storey, when Hurricane Snape swept into the room and the air currents demolished his painstakingly-built structure like, well, a house of cards. Harry heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“I was finally getting somewhere with that, you know. Now I’ll have to start all over again.”
“I regret to disillusion you, Potter, but you will never make a career out of building houses of cards.”
“’Bout as much chance of that as of making a career out of being an Auror. Anyway, what do you actually do for a living, now? I mean, you keep saying you’ve got work to do – “
“Let us see, Potter. I am a Potions Master; with a fully equipped potions laboratory in the basement into which I disappear for hours on end. What could I possibly be doing? Cultivating mushrooms?”
“Git. So how does it work? I mean, if you were operating an owl-order business I think even I’d have noticed by now. Not to mention the neighbours, although you’ve probably got some nifty little spell that makes them think any owls they see are hallucinations and they should check into the funny farm straight away.”
“If you must know, I produce a line of potions for the higher end of the market, which I supply to a Diagon Alley apothecary on a monthly basis. They are marketed under the name of Fairfax’s Philtres.”
“Fairfax? Why Fairfax? I mean, it doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“Let me guess, Potter. Your idea of a cunningly impenetrable pseudonym for me would be something along the lines of Tobias Prince?”
“Um…”
“Well then, should you ever disappear into the Muggle world, we need look no further than the phone book under Evans.”
“Yeah, all right. So I didn’t quite think it through. So the people you supply, they’ve got no idea who you really are?”
“This is the world of business, Potter. They don’t care who I am. As long as I continue to supply superior potions at reasonable prices, I could be the bastard love-child of Voldemort and Grindelwald for all they care.”
“You know, I think that’s the one theory about your parentage that I haven’t actually heard before. It would never have worked, though. Two evil megalomaniacs? They’d never have got on together long enough to produce a child.”
“You really are quite the innocent, aren’t you, Potter?”
“Yep, and quite happy to stay that way, thanks. So anyway, what do you tell the neighbours you do? The ones who aren’t too busy dashing off to the doctor’s with their legs crossed or getting themselves fitted for straitjackets, I mean.”
“I tell them I write, Potter.”
“Yeah? What? Obscure and learned chemical treatiseses – whatevers?”
“Romance novels, actually. For Mills and Boon.”
“Bloody hell, Snape! You, write slushy romantic stories about heaving bosoms? What do you say if they ask you which ones you’ve written? You know, to see if they’ve read them?”
“Potter, precisely how many people have you ever met who would admit to reading Mills and Boon?”
“Well, there’s - ”
“And your aunt does not count.”
“Oh. But you know – “
“Neither does having had an appalling lapse of what little taste and judgement you possess and picked one up yourself.”
“Hey! It’s not like the Dursleys used to let me watch the telly, you know!”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty
Harry walked into the living room to hear a familiar ticking sound. “Why am I not surprised you watch Countdown?”
“I am not watching, it merely happens to be on. I am in fact perusing a potions journal.”
Harry grinned. Snape sounded way too defensive to be telling the truth. “So why can’t I hear the pages rustling? You know, I am surprised you even have a telly, though. Isn’t that a bit, well, Muggle?”
“Do I have to explain the meaning of the term half-blood, Potter?”
“Yeah, all right. But I thought you didn’t like Muggle stuff, even if you did grow up with it.”
“As I believe I already mentioned, Potter, when in Rome.”
“Yeah, right. Because all the hordes of visitors that troop through your house every day might think it was a bit odd if you didn’t have a telly.”
“I am hardly likely to invite anyone round whilst you are here, Potter. The presence of a blind, heavily scarred, teenaged trauma victim in my house might just conceivably occasion some comment.”
Harry froze.
“I… apologise, Potter. That was thoughtless of me.”
“I’m… heavily scarred?” For once Harry didn’t care how pathetically weak his voice sounded.
“Potter…”
“Where? Where am I scarred? Is it my, my face?”
He could hear Severus getting up – he’d either switched off the telly or turned the sound down; Harry hadn’t been paying attention. “There is some scarring to your face, Potter. It is… it is not extensive. Do you wish me to touch you?”
“What?”
There was a trace of impatience in Snape’s voice when he answered. “To show you where the scars are.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think – yeah. Do it.”
Harry felt a finger come up to rest lightly upon his left temple. “There is a thin scar – probably from Sectumsempra – that runs from here to here.” Snape moved his finger down almost to Harry’s chin. “And on your forehead – I believe Bellatrix took exception to your lightning bolt. Her attempt to erase it has left what looks like a burn scar here.” He hesitated, and Harry could feel warm breath on his face. “Around your throat there is a rope burn; I believe that may fade with time.”
Harry swallowed, relieved to find he apparently wasn’t totally unrecognisable but still uncomfortable for some reason he couldn’t articulate. “What about the rest of me?”
“You will have to remove your shirt.”
Harry pulled it over his head, feeling horribly vulnerable. He jumped slightly as Snape’s finger touched his chest. “More Sectumsempra scars here and here. Turn around. Your back bears marks from what looks like a whipping – too many to trace individually.” He brushed his hand down Harry’s back anyway, and Harry heard his breathing becoming heavier. Snape found this a turn-on? Was it because of Harry, or was it some sick reaction to the scars? Or was Harry just imagining the whole thing?
“What about – lower down?”
No, he hadn’t imagined that sharp intake of breath. Wondering why the hell he was playing this game with Snape, Harry briefly considered dropping his trousers and grinding his arse back against Snape’s groin, to see if he was as turned on as he sounded, but common sense prevailed. Or it might have been fear, of course. There was a rush of air against his bare skin as Snape moved away from him abruptly. “The scarring continues across your… buttocks and legs, but is no worse than that on your back.” Snape’s voice was brisk, impersonal. “Put your shirt back on, Potter – you are getting goose-bumps.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-One
Harry sat down on the sofa next to Snape, his heart beating fast. Time to do it. He’d been thinking about it all day, after a night of restless sleep and troubled dreams in which Snape’s hands on his cock played a prominent part, and he’d woken up with his pyjama bottoms stuck to him for the first time since he’d been here.
Hesitantly, he slid a hand onto Snape’s thigh, running it up and down lightly.
“Potter, what on Earth do you think you are doing?”
“Um, stroking your leg? Look, I’ve been thinking about it. You were right. It’s stupid to pretend I’m not – gay – when I obviously am. So I thought we could - ”
“Could what, Potter? This is not some adolescent fantasy, Potter! In the adult world, as opposed to the hormone-addled teenaged brain, the mere existence of attraction does not presuppose that it must be acted upon. There are other things to consider, Potter, than your prick!”
Hurt and humiliated beyond words, Harry scrambled to his feet and stumbled out of the room, banging his shins painfully on the coffee table as he did so. Upstairs, he flung himself on his bed. God, he’d been so fucking stupid. Snape didn’t fancy him – why the fuck should he? He’d loved Harry’s mother, for fuck’s sake, whatever he said about it now. He was probably only pretending to be turned on that night they’d looked at the stars, to make Harry feel better, or something. Yeah, because Snape’s always doing things just to make people feel better… Fuck it. Whatever the truth was, Snape didn’t want him. Too fucking stupid, and scarred, and young, and blind.
“Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer. What the fuck was there to say?
“Harry, you have been through a terrible ordeal, the effects of which you have not yet recovered from. To take advantage of you now would be an appalling breach – “
“That’s not what you said downstairs! You said I was a, a hormone-addled teenager! You still think I’m just a stupid, annoying fucking kid, don’t you?”
“Potter, I do not think of you as a child. Stupid, perhaps – annoying, certainly – but not a child.”
“So why don’t you want to sleep with me? Am I too fucking ugly with all these scars, or do you just hate my guts?”
“Damn you, Potter, you are not listening! I have told you my reasons! It is too soon for you to be embarking upon a physical relationship.”
“What, and I don’t get any fucking say in the matter? I’m fed up, Snape – I’m fed up with it not being my choice! Do you know how many people I’ve had sex with? Three. And two of them were the fucking Lestranges! I just – I just wanted – “ Harry was appalled to find his voice cracking on the last words. He would not cry.
“Potter, you are in no fit state for whatever it is that you imagine you want. I will not lay myself open to accusations of having abused your trust in me. You will cease this melodrama and you will come and have a cup of tea, is that understood?”
“I – oh, fuck it, Snape, just tell me – do you fancy me? At all? Or were you lying about that? I mean, I know I’m not good-looking, and now there’s all these scars – “
“Potter, if physical perfection were that important to me I should have slit my own wrists years ago. Now. Tea.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-Two
Harry was in a sullen mood at breakfast the next morning, with the memory of the previous evening’s humiliation still firmly uppermost in his brain. He hadn’t slept at all well either – and when he had managed to drift off, his dreams had been full of Bellatrix screeching at him how worthless he was, as she charmed the knives to cut into his flesh…
“Potter. Your potion.” Snape sounded as grumpy as Harry felt.
“Thanks,” Harry told him shortly. Then a thought struck. “How come you knew all about this potion already – I mean, you started work on it almost as soon as I got here, it wasn’t like you had to do any research or anything, and you seemed to have all the ingredients already?”
Snape didn’t answer immediately.
“Snape?”
“I – Bellatrix was quite aware of my fondness for your mother. She used to taunt me about it – suggested that I might be tempted to leniency with you by the resemblance of your eyes to hers. She… on more than one occasion, she – “ he broke off for a minute, “she offered to one day make me a present of them.”
Harry erupted. “So – you knew? You knew that’s what she had planned for me – and you knew a list of places she might be hiding out – and you didn’t tell anyone? You couldn’t even send an anonymous tip-off to the Aurors so they could check it out? Have you any idea what it was like for me? I thought – I thought I was going to die there! Blind. Helpless. And you – you could have stopped it all from happening!”
“Damn you, Potter! I will not take the blame for the actions of a madwoman!”
“But you knew! You cowardly fucking bastard, I went through all that just so you could have a quiet life!”
“Potter, you self-righteous little shit, I have spent nearly twenty years fighting the Dark Lord and his adherents – surely I am entitled to expect someone else to shoulder a little responsibility now! You were the one who was fool enough to allow himself to be captured! You have no one to blame but yourself!”
Harry ran from the room and stumbled up the stairs feeling sick and shaky. Once in his room he curled up on the bed and lay there, trying not to think.
He wasn’t very successful.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Later, Harry made his way back down to the living room. The telly wasn’t on, but he was pretty sure he could hear someone breathing. “Snape? Are you there?”
“Yes, Potter, I am here.” Snape’s voice sounded desperately tired.
“I’m – sorry. You were right – I was stupid. Letting myself get captured, I mean. I was having a bad day – Ron had been on at me all day about splitting up with Ginny, as if she hadn’t been the one who dumped me – and I was just walking home on my own, feeling pissed off, not paying attention to anything. Must’ve been the easiest kidnap in the history of the world. It’s – you couldn’t have known that she’d actually do it.”
“Potter.” There was a long silence. “I concede that I may have been overhasty in abdicating responsibility for the – continuing fight. You may be assured that I sincerely regret the suffering my disinclination to act has caused, however indirectly. It… appears to be the way of things with me, to cause pain to those that I – to others, and to then have to try to make amends.”
Harry was suddenly hit from nowhere with an intense longing to have Hermione there, so she could help him make sense of all the emotions that were churning inside him. “Um,” he started. “Don’t know about you, but I could really use a cup of tea.”
Was it possible to hear a smile? Snape took a deep breath, and stood up. “Tea, then, Potter.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-Four
They’d had Edam for lunch, and Harry was amusing himself trying to make very small models with the wax rind. It wasn’t easy, having to do everything by touch, but he thought he’d made a passable Snape’s head, and was just wondering if he should ask the original for his opinion, when he was disturbed by the sort of bing-bong sound that made him think instantly of Avon ladies.
“Snape? Was that the doorbell?”
“Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Potter.”
“Who – who is it?”
“Do I look like a bloody seer, Potter?”
“Hey, for all I know you dress up in drag as Trelawny when you’re at home. Snape..? Snape?”
Harry heard the front door open, then a jovial voice boomed out, “Nige! ‘Ow are you, mate? Me and the lads was getting a bit worried about you. Where you been hiding all month?”
Nige?
“I’d be touched by your concern, Andy, if I didn’t suspect it had a lot to do with the match against the Swan next weekend. But come in, come in. I’ve been looking after my nephew. Harry, this is Andy. He’s the captain of the darts team at the Fighting Cocks.”
Nephew? Darts team? “Um, hi.”
“Bloody hell, Nige, what happened to him?”
“Nasty story, Andy. Queer-bashing. Bunch of yobs saw him kissing his boyfriend and took exception.”
“Bastards! So what happened to the boyfriend?”
“Legged it, the little shit.”
“Well, that’s queers for you. Are his eyes going to be all right?”
“We hope so. He’s been seeing a specialist.”
“So anyway, you going to be around for the match..?”
Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation, it having been made quite obvious that he wasn’t going to be a part of it, and fidgeted in his chair until Captain Andy finally left.
“Right. You won’t believe the number of questions I have about that. For a start, how come your bloody mate acted like I was deaf, not blind? And you’re on the darts team? And bloody hell, Nige? You had all the names in the English language to choose from, and you went for Nigel?”
“In order, then, Potter: it is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone who is disabled in any way must also be retarded and incapable of speaking for himself; I resent your implication that I must necessarily be incompetent at all sports; and yes, Potter, I went for Nigel. It happens to be a favourite name of mine.”
“Darts is a sport now? Be in the next Olympics, will it? Right after competitive beer drinking?”
“Potter, I strongly suggest you leave sarcasm to your superiors in the art.”
“So sarcasm’s an art now? All right, all right. So who’s this mythical boyfriend who ran off and left me to get beaten up?”
“I should have thought that to be obvious. Ronald Weasley.”
“Hey! Ron wouldn’t have legged it!”
“Really? Experience would tend to suggest otherwise. However, if you prefer, feel free to imagine yourself locked in osculatory embrace with young Malfoy.”
“I bet you’re imagining it right now, you kinky bastard. And anyway, how come you told him I’m a poof but didn’t admit to being one yourself? Scared they’d kick you off the darts team?”
“Precisely, Potter. Never underestimate the casual homophobia of the average pub-going British male.”
…
“Did you use to play darts with your dad?”
“I am afraid, Potter, that by the time I was fourteen our relationship had deteriorated to the point that we were actively avoiding one another.”
“Is he, um, still alive?”
“He died of lung cancer some years ago.”
“Oh. He smoked?”
“Mostly passively. After my mother’s death, he spent most of his waking hours down the pub. And yes, Potter, he was a keen darts player.”
“Did you, um, ever see him again before he died?”
There was a silence. “He had an old witch who’d been friends with my mother send me an owl shortly before his death.”
“And you made up?”
“He apologised for his… attitude when I was younger, and I accepted his apology, so I suppose you might say we made up. He died the evening of my visit.”
“Um. At least – you knew him.”
“Yes, Potter, I suppose there is that.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-Eight
“It is time, Potter.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you said a month, right? So it’s been what, twenty-eight days? Maybe we should go for thirty-one, just in case they meant one of those months? Or, or longer, just to be on the safe side - ”
“Potter, as I am quite sure you are aware, a month, in magic, means a lunar month. Kindly remember that you are a Gryffindor.” Snape unwound the blindfold, muttering the counter-charms for the spells that had kept it in place.
“I can – tell it’s light, Snape. It must have worked a bit, at least.” Which was good, right? At least, even if this was as good as it got, he’d be able to tell if it was night or bloody day, which was better than not knowing-
“Potter. You need to open your eyes.”
What if they didn’t open? What if they’d, they’d healed shut? Would Snape have to cut them open?
“Potter! Open your eyes!”
Oh. Harry blinked at the watery image of Snape that appeared in front of him. “Your hair’s short.”
“Potter, that is news to neither of us. How well can you see?”
“Um, well. I mean, really well. I mean – I don’t need my glasses any more! Hey, you fixed my eyesight!”
“That is… not unexpected.”
“Hey, we should have done this years ago!”
“That, Potter, would scarcely have been appropriate. Although it is possible it might have saved us all a great deal of trouble.”
“I need a mirror. I want to look at me.”
“There is a mirror in the bathroom. Potter – your eyes are… not as they were. You should be prepared for that.”
“Too bloody right they’re not. These ones work! Hey, Snape, did you know your stair carpet’s pink? You ought to change that, or people’ll be getting the right idea about you! And bloody hell, the bath’s avocado?”
Harry stopped, reaching the washbasin. He stared in the mirror above it, horror creeping upon him. “Those – those aren’t my eyes. They look like… hers. Bellatrix Lestrange’s. Fuck, Snape, what did you put in that potion?”
“What the hell do you think, Potter? I told you it was Dark Magic. Would you rather I had left you blind? She took your eyes, Potter. This was the only way –“
“So you gave me hers? Fuck, I’ve been drinking – and now, now she’s sat in a dungeon somewhere, staring at nothing, just like I was?”
“No, Potter, she is dead, as have I told you. Therefore, she can have no use for her eyes.”
“So, right, be a pity to waste them? This isn’t Dark, Snape, it’s fucking sick!”
“An eye for an eye, Potter. An ancient form of justice. Potter, I realise this is… shocking for you, but would you rather be blind? Know that she has blighted your life forever?”
“I – no – I need – “
“A cup of tea. Come on, Potter, let us put the kettle on.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry stirred his second cup of tea moodily. He’d found a small shaving mirror in the kitchen (why in the kitchen?) and was staring at his reflection like he was Gilderoy bloody Lockhart. “Do you put Calming Draughts in this stuff?”
“Possibly. Are you feeling calmer, now?”
“I – yeah – I just – I don’t even look like me, any more. I mean, what does anyone think of when they hear Harry Potter? Green eyes, glasses, a lightning-bolt scar. I haven’t got any of those any more.”
“You still retain that appallingly unruly bird’s-nest upon your head.”
Harry grimaced. It made the scar down his face stretch and twist alarmingly. “I should get an eye-patch, and a pirate’s outfit.”
“If you think I shall allow you anywhere near me whilst brandishing a cutlass, you are very much mistaken. I might, however, be persuaded to lop off one of your hands for verisimilitude.”
“Is that how they make Hands of Glory?”
“No, Potter, they are grown in jars from discarded fingernails. Obviously that is how they are made.”
“Do you think pirates used to fancy each other?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most naïve thing you have ever said. You have a group of men whose morals are even looser than that of the populace at large, out at sea for months on end, sleeping in many cases three to a bunk - ”
“Oh. So you reckon they were all shagging each other blind, then? Well, I s’pose that’d explain why they all had eye-patches.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Twenty-Nine
They were sitting in the lounge, Harry enjoying the novelty of actually watching Countdown for once, instead of just listening to it. It made the anagrams an awful lot easier, but he still wasn’t much good. Snape always got them in about ten seconds.
“Um, Snape? I was thinking.”
“That would account for the strained look.”
“Ha ha. Well, you know Muggles do organ transplants – “
“I have heard of that gruesome butchery, yes.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. Well, sometimes the organs get rejected. So maybe I should wait around here for a few days. Just to make sure my eyes don’t, um, get rejected.”
“Potter, this is – oh, very well. But you can damn well start doing some washing up.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Thirty-Two
It was a gloriously sunny day. Had he been able to tell, before, when it was sunny? By feeling the warmth on his face through the windows? Already Harry was finding it hard to remember. He smiled at Snape, who scowled reassuringly.
“You know, maybe we could go out? To the pub, maybe. You could teach me how to play darts!”
“Because I was so spectacularly successful when I attempted to teach you potions and Occlumency?” Snape sighed. “Potter, you need to return to your life. There is no reason for you to stay here any longer.”
Right. No reason. So why the bloody hell was Harry so reluctant to leave? “Do you like me?”
“What?” Snape had turned to him in obvious disbelief.
“It’s a simple question. Do you like me? I mean, I know you didn’t, before, but do you, now? Now we’ve, um, got to know each other a bit better?”
“Potter. You are quite aware that I find you attractive.”
“That’s not the same as liking me. Do you, you know, like talking to me?”
“I confess I have been known to derive amusement from your continual displays of the most appalling ignorance.”
“So will you miss me when I go?”
“Potter, I have potions to brew. Do try and make yourself useful in my absence.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Thirty-Three
Snape was watching some nature program with lions messily slaughtering other, cuter animals. Harry sat down next to him, just in time for the lions to start shagging each other instead. “You need to get a proper porn channel,” he commented.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “I have a collection of DVDs, if you’re interested,” in a don’t-try-to-outbrazen-me-sonny-boy tone of voice.
“Gay or straight?”
“What the hell do you think, Potter?”
“You actually walk into shops and buy gay porn DVDs?”
“Don’t be absurd. Mail-order is far more discreet.”
“Or you could just Obliviate the shop assistant.”
“Because being caught on CCTV waving a wand around is the very definition of keeping a low profile.”
Harry grinned. Snape’s hand was resting on the sofa beside him. It looked a bit lonely.
“Potter, what are you doing?”
“Trying to hold your hand.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
“That is not answering the question, Potter.”
“Neither is that.” Harry’s heart skipped a beat as Snape’s long, thin fingers shifted – and he smiled, as they curled around his own. They sat there for a while, as the lions carried on doing what came naturally. Pretty soon, by the magic of television sweeping all that tedious gestation stuff under the carpet, there were cute little cubs to look at, but then there was drama as a rival lioness attacked. Mum fought savagely to protect her own, and the challenger retired, bloody and limping. After that, the presenter seemed to get bored of lions, and moved on to okapi, about which Harry found it hard to muster any enthusiasm, so he turned to study Snape. Short hair really didn’t suit him, he thought. It made his nose seem even larger, and the scar on his neck stood out all the more. Somebody really ought to kiss it better.
“Potter – “
“I’m kissing your scar. You can kiss mine, if you like. Might take you a while, though.”
“Potter, this is… not advisable.”
“’S all right. I’m not that good at taking advice anyway.” Snape’s shirt collar was getting in the way a bit, so Harry undid the top button, exposing a ridge of collarbone. That was better. He gave Snape’s scar another kiss, then a lick, just to see what it tasted like, as he slid a hand in between the next two buttons to touch Snape’s chest. Snape was breathing quite fast, now. But then, so was Harry.
“Potter… “
“It’s all right. I mean, there’s a few things I don’t want to do, but I think we can work around them. You don’t mind if I keep my shirt on, do you? Because I don’t think I’m up to getting completely naked. Sorry. But you can get your kit off, if you want. I mean, I’d like you to.”
Snape breathed in sharply, then all at once Harry found his head taken in Snape’s hands, and his mouth seized in a deep, searching kiss. Nervousness flaring for the first time, Harry broke away. “I think – I think I need to be in control. If that’s OK?” he said, willing the flutterings in his stomach to cease.
“Potter, you will be the death of me,” Snape told him. Then he lay back on the sofa, passive. Or possibly, just playing dead to prove a point. Why he wasn’t deafened by the sound of Harry’s heartbeat Harry would never know. Straddling Snape’s hips, Harry moved his hands wonderingly over that chest, and then bent down to kiss Snape on the lips. Yep. Definitely better with him on top. Just to make sure, he did it again. Snape’s hands ghosted lightly over Harry’s hips, not holding, just reassuring. It was almost perfect. Harry sat up straight, reluctantly.
“You need to undo that shirt. Or, you know, I could do it for you.”
The corner of Snape’s mouth turned up in the most genuine smile Harry had ever seen from him. “That will be acceptable, Potter.”
Harry’s fingers were very pleased about this arrangement indeed, although clearly they needed a bit more practice at this sort of thing, as they fumbled a bit with Snape’s shirt buttons. But by the time they’d got to the bottom, they seemed to have got the hang of it. Harry thought they deserved a reward, so he ran them gently over Snape’s chest. It was nice: thin, but hairier than you might expect, showing the first signs of grey, with dark nipples that hardened obligingly under Harry’s touch.
Harry looked up at Snape’s face. His eyes were darker than Harry would ever have thought possible, and he was gazing intently at Harry. Harry held his gaze for a moment, then bent down to kiss those nipples, one after the other. He couldn’t resist swirling his tongue around them at which, impossibly, they hardened even more. He could hear Snape’s breathing getting harsher.
One of Harry’s hands had struck out on its own and was gently rubbing at Snape’s groin. Snape’s trousers were definitely in its way, though, so Harry started to undo them. Snape’s cock twitched, as if impatient to get in on the action. Luckily Harry was in an obliging mood.
He looked at Snape’s cock as it sprang free, large and red but somehow, not threatening. Inviting, actually. Friendly. He stroked it a few times, which it seemed to like. “Can I suck it?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most idiotic thing you have ever said.”
Grinning, Harry bent down. Nervously, he opened his mouth and, remembering to shield his teeth with his lips, took Snape’s cock in as far as it would go – which wasn’t very far, as it turned out. Still, Snape didn’t seem to mind, as he let out a weird sort of strangled grunt that Harry took as encouragement. He’d never done this before – although once, when they’d had a bit too much to drink at a party, Ginny had done it to him. He’d lasted all of five seconds, and she’d looked absolutely revolted when he’d come in her mouth, spitting and slapping him.
Drawing back a bit, Harry licked the head of Snape’s cock, which earned him another strange moaning sound. It tasted salty, a bit like a packet of crisps, only with less potatoey overtones. And attempting to crunch it would probably be a very bad idea, he thought, trying not to laugh around his mouthful of Snape.
“Bloody hell, Potter!”
“Was that good?”
“Quite… tolerable… Potter.” Snape seemed to be having trouble remembering how to speak. Encouraged, Harry started to suck. Funny how something that tasted so weird could be such an amazing turn-on, he mused, trying to press his groin into Snape’s leg.
“Potter?”
“Mmm?”
“Desist.”
“Oh. I thought you were enjoying it.”
“I was, Potter. Far too much.”
“Oh. That’s all right. I want to make you come. Can’t taste worse than that potion, anyway.” Harry lowered his head and took Snape’s prick back into his mouth, wrapping a hand around the base of it for good measure, which was probably just as well as after a minute or so, Snape’s hips started bucking upwards, as if he was trying to shove his prick down Harry’s throat. Harry was just wondering how you learned how to deep-throat a bloke, and if Snape would be any better at giving lessons at that than he was at teaching potions, and thinking if anything, he’d probably be worse, when Snape grunted and stilled and hot spurts of come hit the roof of Harry’s mouth. Harry swallowed reflexively, managing not to gag, and looked up, wiping his mouth. He suspected he was grinning like an idiot. Did it look sinister, with his new scars? He’d have to check in a mirror later. “Was that all right, then?”
Snape looked – languid. Harry hadn’t known he could do that. “Apparently, Potter, chasing the snitch and risking your foolish neck are not the only things you excel at. Would you like me to reciprocate?”
“Um.” Harry wasn’t sure how he’d react to that – would it feel too much like her, riding him? “Use your hands?” he suggested, scooting forward, still straddling Snape, and was rewarded by Snape’s long, supple fingers coiling around his cock like snakes on a tree branch. “Oh, yeah!” he breathed. Snape set up a pace that was nice, but frustratingly slow. “Mmm, bit faster,” Harry murmured.
“I think not,” Snape said, with an evil smile. He did, however, send one hand scuttling downwards to play with Harry’s bollocks, which certainly appreciated the attention.
“Yeah, that’s… that’s good,” Harry breathed. He was getting used to the slower rhythm, and could feel the waves of sensation building up. “Oh, yeah.”
“You see, Potter? Slow and easy wins the race.”
That was from the tortoise and the hare, wasn’t it? Come to think of it, how on Earth did tortoises manage to shag? Didn’t the shell get in the way? Maybe they had really long pricks. That curved…
“Potter! Do try to pay attention!”
Harry grinned. “Well, maybe if you speeded it up a bit…”
Glaring at him, although Harry was almost certain he didn’t really mean it, Snape started to move his hand more quickly up and down Harry’s shaft. This time, the build-up was an intense crescendo that took Harry’s breath away.
“God, I’m so… ahhhhhh!” Feeling like his whole body was clenching in sympathy, Harry came, his spunk shooting straight up in the air and landing messily on Snape’s bare chest. Harry thought it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life, although admittedly he probably needed to get out a bit more. Finally spent, he collapsed, panting, on top of Snape, not caring that he was smearing come all over the front of his sweatshirt. By a lucky chance, he was in just the right position to kiss Snape’s scar better again, which lent a nice circularity to the whole proceedings. Snape’s hand came up to gently stroke his hair.
Harry closed his eyes blissfully. “Um, I was thinking I’d sleep in your bed tonight. With you, I mean. If that’s all right. Which it’d better be. And, um, Snape?”
“Yes, Potter?”
“I s’pose it’d sound really girly if I said I love you, wouldn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Thought so. Sorry.”
“However, I might be prepared to overlook the transgression, just this once.”
Harry grinned, and taking Snape’s hand, dragged him upstairs to bed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Day Thirty-Four
When Harry woke up, he felt – different. Off. And not in an I’ve-just-shagged-a-bloke-for-the-first-time sort of way. Not even in an I’m-in-love sort of way. Maybe he should just lie here a bit and see what happened.
“I think he’s waking up. Harry?”
Oh. That happened.
“Mate, can you hear us?”
If he opened his eyes, would they scream and run away? Would he?
“Oh, Harry!” Apparently Hermione was more into crying and hugging him. Actually, that felt quite nice. Ron seemed to think so too, as he was obviously struggling not to be quite so obviously girly.
“What happened?” Harry asked, when they’d given him some air.
Ron grimaced. “We were hoping you could tell us that, mate.”
“Don’t you remember anything, Harry?” Hermione had her concerned face on again.
“Um, yeah – but not how I got here. This is St Mungo’s, right?”
“Yes. Someone brought you in last night, unconscious, and just left you at the desk. No one knows who it was. They – they weren’t sure it was really you, at first, but they did some tests – oh, Harry, we thought you were dead!“
Harry grinned. “Boy Who Lived, remember? Um, I need to get out of here.”
“You sure, mate? Looks like you had a pretty rough time, wherever you were.”
“Yeah, but I’m OK, now.” Harry swung his legs out of bed, and looked down. “Um, clothes. I need clothes.”
“We’ll see what we can do – but are you sure you’re all right to leave? I really think we should get a mediwizard to discharge you – “
“I’m fine. Where are my clothes?”
“Just – just wait there, Harry. I’ll get you some.” Hermione bustled off, looking troubled.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Harry looked at the colourful things she’d given him. Those aren’t Snape’s clothes. “Those aren’t my clothes.”
“Yes they are, Harry, I brought them from Grimmauld Place.” Hermione had moved from concerned-face to distinctly-worried-face now.
Harry shrugged. “Oh. I need some new clothes, then. More black, I think. Go with my eyes, now, won’t it?”
“Um, mate, I’d been meaning to ask you about that - “
“Ronald!”
Harry looked at them both, halfway through pulling his trousers on. “It’s OK. She did it.”
“She?”
“Bellatrix Lestrange. I thought – well, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”
“You killed her, mate? Bloody well done!”
“No. But she’s dead.” Harry hoped his tone sounded final.
Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, what did happen to you? Harry?”
“Mate, are you OK?” Ron was doing concerned-face too now. It made him look slightly constipated.
Harry shook himself mentally. “Sorry. I’m all right. Just – stuff happened. Which I don’t want to talk about. Let’s go, all right?”
“Um, just wait a minute – “ Hermione was looking fidgety, the reason for which was explained when a tall wizard in Healer’s robes walked in. “Harry, this is Healer Ignavus. I just thought – “
Harry sighed. “Right. Healer Ignavus. Thanks for, for, whatever it was you did, but as you can see, I’m fine, so I’ll be going now. C’mon, Ron, Hermione, we’re leaving.”
“Healer Ignavus! I’m sure you need to – “
“Miss Granger, he does appear to be fine. Perhaps you could call us if there are any problems.”
Hermione shot the healer a look of betrayal as she scurried after Harry and Ron. Opening the door, Harry steeled himself to walk through the hospital to the Floo. There were so many people. And they were all staring at him – OK, that was nothing new, but was it because they knew who he was, or because he looked like a freak, or both –
“Mate, you OK?”
Harry took a deep breath. After all, what would Snape say, if he saw him? Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, yet he can’t even face a few idiots who’d probably piss themselves if they ever saw a Death Eater? “Yeah, I’m fine. ‘S just a bit – busy, that’s all. But I’m fine.” Squaring his shoulders, Harry marched through the hospital, vowing to buy some dark glasses as soon he could work up the nerve to go shopping.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Being back at Grimmauld Place just felt wrong, somehow. The rooms were too old and there wasn’t a proper garden, let alone one surrounded by twenty-foot evergreens, and there wasn’t even a telly. Why had he never got a telly?
First things first, though. “I need an owl – I mean, one of my own. Hermione, can you get me an owl?”
“Well, yes – but don’t you want to choose one for yourself?”
“I – look, I can’t face shopping right now. Just get me a decent owl, all right? A smart one.”
Harry waited tensely with Ron for the wholly unreasonable amount of time it took before her return, bearing a cage holding a horned owl that reminded Harry uncannily of Snape.
“Here you are, Harry. His name’s Orion.”
Harry grinned, remembering a drizzly night. “Where’s his sword belt?”
Hermione looked worried. “Harry, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Quill in hand, his new owl perched on top of the bureau, Harry wondered for the first time what the hell he was going to write. In the end, he settled for
Snape, you’re a bastard.
I’m fine. I miss you.
Write back soon?
Harry
PS I haven’t told anyone about you.
Then he settled back anxiously to await a reply. It wasn’t long in coming.
Potter, you’re an idiot.
What on earth would I have to write about? You saw me only last night.
I am pleased that you are well, and have not succumbed to your usual tendency to babble incontinently about whatever enters your lamentably empty head.
S.
Harry grinned happily, and got out his quill.
Snape
When can I see you again? And don’t say never or I’ll tell the Ministry to take away that posthumous Order of Merlin I made them give you.
Harry
The next reply was a long time coming. Harry had time to drink several cups of over-sweetened tea, persuade Hermione to take him Muggle clothes shopping somewhere quiet, and polish his broom three times, only one of them figuratively, before Orion eventually returned.
Harry
You need to readjust to your life. In a few months time, if you are still desirous of seeing me again (which I doubt) we may make arrangements.
S
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snape was sitting in the kitchen, moodily staring at Harry’s empty place at the table, when the owl came.
Snape
Bugger that. Hey, do you know how fast an owl can fly? It’s pretty fast, but it can’t beat a top-of-the-range Firebolt.
The letter was unsigned. Feeling a strange, unsettled feeling in his stomach that was undoubtedly due to the milk in his tea having been on the turn, Snape looked up. And straight into the grinning face of Harry Potter, just emerging from under a Disillusionment Charm.
He sighed. “Potter, I went to a great deal of trouble to return you to the bosom of your adoring friends.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not staying. I just came round to tell you I’ll be seeing someone on Friday night.”
“You ungrateful little - “
“Bloke called Nigel Fairfax. Grumpy old sod, always jumping to conclusions. Don’t know what I see in him really. We’re going to a little restaurant not far from my house – it’s a Muggle place, so it’s up to you if you want to, er, change. I thought you could come round about seven, so at least I’ll know what you look like.”
“And what, Potter, makes you think I have Polyjuice prepared for such an occasion?”
“You’re Snape. You’re always prepared. But, um, try and make it someone believable, right? You know, that I’d fall for?”
“If you wish me to turn into a replica of the youngest Weasley – “
Harry shuddered. “Bloody hell, no! Um, I was thinking, more in the tall, dark and handsome way? And older than me. I like older men.” His smile slipped a little. “Unless, you know, you really don’t want to see me again, and last night was just you being kind – “
“Potter, I am not kind, and I would thank you not to accuse me of being so.”
Harry grinned happily. “Right then! Seven o’clock, my place.”
“Tall, dark and handsome?” Snape asked sardonically.
“Well, tall and dark, anyway. Or at least, a couple of inches taller than me, and dark. And slightly longer hair would be good too. I just can’t get used to you having short hair. It’s against nature, or something.”
“It’s a damn sight easier to keep clean, that’s what it is,” Snape muttered. “I hope you realise just how bloody difficult it’s going to be to steal hair to order without getting myself arrested for stalking. And in any case, precisely what makes you think I wish to go along with this ridiculous idea of yours?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, pleased that the constant practice in front of the mirror had finally paid off. “Well, lots of things, really. For a start, the fact that you spent about a hundred and twelve hours brewing a really icky potion to give me back my sight – “
“Bravo. You have mastered simple multiplication,” Snape muttered sourly. “Give the boy a prize.”
“Shut up. And there’s all the times you looked after me when I was throwing a wobbly – “
“Somebody had to snap you out of your hysterics, Potter, or the neighbours would have complained.”
“- But most of all, there’s this,” Harry finished triumphantly, and kissed him enthusiastically.
“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” Snape commented when he was finally released. “But I will concede that you may, for once, have a point.”
Fin
.
Author:
drachenminaRating: NC17
Word Count: ~18,000
Pairing(s)/character(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter,
Summary: Post DH AU. Severus Snape is the only one who can heal the injuries inflicted on Harry by a vengeful Bellatrix Lestrange.
Part One
Day Fifteen
When Harry came downstairs, his stomach telling him hopefully that it was probably around dinnertime, he found Snape in the kitchen, banging some pots around, possibly for Harry’s benefit. Harry sat at the table in silence for a moment, before blurting out, “I don’t want to be gay!”
“Then don’t be, Potter. You are, after all, the saviour of the wizarding world - it should be a simple matter to command your own sexuality!”
“That’s – that’s crap, Snape.”
“Precisely. You are either attracted to men, or you are not. What you want, Potter, does not come into it. No more than it does for any of us.” It sounded bitter. Harry remembered what Snape had said about his dad and the others bullying him.
“Did you try to be straight? For my mum?”
“If I did, it is quite evident that I did not succeed.”
“You can never come out and admit anything, can you?”
“Openness and honesty tend not to be the hallmark of the successful spy, it is true.”
“Did you enjoy it? The spying, I mean. I mean, obviously it was really hard work, and stressful, and - “
“Yes, Potter.”
“Yes?”
“You were about to say, did I enjoy knowing that I had fooled one of the most powerful wizards in history into thinking I was his devoted, if somewhat incompetent, servant? Yes, Potter. I would not be human if I had not derived a certain amount of satisfaction from that.”
“Did you use to fancy him?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most appalling thing you have ever said.”
“No it’s not. I mean, obviously you didn’t fancy him when he was all bald and noseless and snakey – unless that’s your thing, which if it is I’m not sure I want to know about it - but he wasn’t bad looking before, when he was Tom Riddle.”
There was a silence.
“Snape?”
“Regulus Black.”
“What?”
“I was involved with Regulus Black, although why I am telling you this I have no idea. He was… young, impetuous, good-looking, pure-blooded – everything I was not.”
“Oh. Wait – he can’t have been more than a couple of years younger than you!”
“The spoilt darling of a wealthy family whose elder son had turned out a crushing disappointment? Potter, we were generations apart.”
“Yeah, right. Did you know he turned against Voldemort in the end?”
“Not until it was far too late for me to have helped him, no.”
“Sorry.”
“Potter, I have long ceased to hold you personally responsible for every minor tragedy of a long and bitter life.”
“Not so bloody minor. And you’re not so bloody old, either. I mean, Albus Dumbledore must’ve been, what, a hundred and fifty years old when he died!”
“Thank you, Potter, for reminding me of the worst night of my life.”
“Was it, though? Was it worse than the night you learned the woman you loved – yeah, I know, as a friend, whatever – had died because of a prophecy you passed on, despite your attempt to get Voldemort to only murder her baby?”
“You can be a vicious little cunt when you want to be, can’t you, Potter?”
“Now who needs to watch his bloody language?”
“At least I’m not displaying a rather pathetic jealousy of a man who died before I was even born.”
Day Sixteen
“If I’m gay, how come I went out with Ginny, then?” was the first thing Harry said on coming down to breakfast.
Snape sighed. “Potter, I can think of at least six reasons. No, make that five – Percy always appeared to me to have come from the shallow end of that particular gene pool.”
“Snape, you’re quoting Lion King. That is even more disturbing than you implying that I actually fancied her brothers. Wait a minute – do you fancy her brothers?”
“Are you sure you want me to answer that, Potter?”
“Oh my God, you do! Urgh. Please tell me you don’t fancy Ron.”
“Worried I’ll be stepping on your toes, Potter?”
Harry was silent a while, eating his toast, which he’d put way too much marmalade on. “Look, I don’t fancy Ron. Or Bill. And definitely not Percy. I admit I might have had a bit of a crush on Charlie at one point. But that’s not why I was going out with Ginny! I fancied her.”
“And her status as sister to your very close friend, who was untouchable, and her superficial resemblance to your dead mother played no part in your attraction to her.”
“We slept together, you know.”
“That family has never been noted for its sexual continence.”
“I enjoyed it!”
“I do not doubt it. So why, pray tell, did you split up?”
“She, um, reckoned I wasn’t that interested in her. As a person, I mean.”
“That would be due to her lack of a penis, then.”
Harry choked on his cup of tea.
…
“I bet I know who your favourite character was. In the Lion King, I mean.”
“Let me guess: you imagine me to have been enthralled by Scar, the evil murderer who schemed to take over the land?”
“Well, yeah, but I also reckon you had a soft spot for Simba.”
“Simba? The foolish young cub whose reckless flouting of authority endangered himself and others?”
“But who defeated the evil murderer in the end – yep, that’s the one.”
“I believe, Potter, that we have wasted quite enough time in the discussion of a ridiculous children’s animation.”
Day Eighteen
Harry was trying to build a house of cards. It was bloody difficult, not being able to see what he was doing. He’d just managed to get the first level up, and was excitedly starting on the second storey, when Hurricane Snape swept into the room and the air currents demolished his painstakingly-built structure like, well, a house of cards. Harry heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“I was finally getting somewhere with that, you know. Now I’ll have to start all over again.”
“I regret to disillusion you, Potter, but you will never make a career out of building houses of cards.”
“’Bout as much chance of that as of making a career out of being an Auror. Anyway, what do you actually do for a living, now? I mean, you keep saying you’ve got work to do – “
“Let us see, Potter. I am a Potions Master; with a fully equipped potions laboratory in the basement into which I disappear for hours on end. What could I possibly be doing? Cultivating mushrooms?”
“Git. So how does it work? I mean, if you were operating an owl-order business I think even I’d have noticed by now. Not to mention the neighbours, although you’ve probably got some nifty little spell that makes them think any owls they see are hallucinations and they should check into the funny farm straight away.”
“If you must know, I produce a line of potions for the higher end of the market, which I supply to a Diagon Alley apothecary on a monthly basis. They are marketed under the name of Fairfax’s Philtres.”
“Fairfax? Why Fairfax? I mean, it doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“Let me guess, Potter. Your idea of a cunningly impenetrable pseudonym for me would be something along the lines of Tobias Prince?”
“Um…”
“Well then, should you ever disappear into the Muggle world, we need look no further than the phone book under Evans.”
“Yeah, all right. So I didn’t quite think it through. So the people you supply, they’ve got no idea who you really are?”
“This is the world of business, Potter. They don’t care who I am. As long as I continue to supply superior potions at reasonable prices, I could be the bastard love-child of Voldemort and Grindelwald for all they care.”
“You know, I think that’s the one theory about your parentage that I haven’t actually heard before. It would never have worked, though. Two evil megalomaniacs? They’d never have got on together long enough to produce a child.”
“You really are quite the innocent, aren’t you, Potter?”
“Yep, and quite happy to stay that way, thanks. So anyway, what do you tell the neighbours you do? The ones who aren’t too busy dashing off to the doctor’s with their legs crossed or getting themselves fitted for straitjackets, I mean.”
“I tell them I write, Potter.”
“Yeah? What? Obscure and learned chemical treatiseses – whatevers?”
“Romance novels, actually. For Mills and Boon.”
“Bloody hell, Snape! You, write slushy romantic stories about heaving bosoms? What do you say if they ask you which ones you’ve written? You know, to see if they’ve read them?”
“Potter, precisely how many people have you ever met who would admit to reading Mills and Boon?”
“Well, there’s - ”
“And your aunt does not count.”
“Oh. But you know – “
“Neither does having had an appalling lapse of what little taste and judgement you possess and picked one up yourself.”
“Hey! It’s not like the Dursleys used to let me watch the telly, you know!”
Day Twenty
Harry walked into the living room to hear a familiar ticking sound. “Why am I not surprised you watch Countdown?”
“I am not watching, it merely happens to be on. I am in fact perusing a potions journal.”
Harry grinned. Snape sounded way too defensive to be telling the truth. “So why can’t I hear the pages rustling? You know, I am surprised you even have a telly, though. Isn’t that a bit, well, Muggle?”
“Do I have to explain the meaning of the term half-blood, Potter?”
“Yeah, all right. But I thought you didn’t like Muggle stuff, even if you did grow up with it.”
“As I believe I already mentioned, Potter, when in Rome.”
“Yeah, right. Because all the hordes of visitors that troop through your house every day might think it was a bit odd if you didn’t have a telly.”
“I am hardly likely to invite anyone round whilst you are here, Potter. The presence of a blind, heavily scarred, teenaged trauma victim in my house might just conceivably occasion some comment.”
Harry froze.
“I… apologise, Potter. That was thoughtless of me.”
“I’m… heavily scarred?” For once Harry didn’t care how pathetically weak his voice sounded.
“Potter…”
“Where? Where am I scarred? Is it my, my face?”
He could hear Severus getting up – he’d either switched off the telly or turned the sound down; Harry hadn’t been paying attention. “There is some scarring to your face, Potter. It is… it is not extensive. Do you wish me to touch you?”
“What?”
There was a trace of impatience in Snape’s voice when he answered. “To show you where the scars are.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think – yeah. Do it.”
Harry felt a finger come up to rest lightly upon his left temple. “There is a thin scar – probably from Sectumsempra – that runs from here to here.” Snape moved his finger down almost to Harry’s chin. “And on your forehead – I believe Bellatrix took exception to your lightning bolt. Her attempt to erase it has left what looks like a burn scar here.” He hesitated, and Harry could feel warm breath on his face. “Around your throat there is a rope burn; I believe that may fade with time.”
Harry swallowed, relieved to find he apparently wasn’t totally unrecognisable but still uncomfortable for some reason he couldn’t articulate. “What about the rest of me?”
“You will have to remove your shirt.”
Harry pulled it over his head, feeling horribly vulnerable. He jumped slightly as Snape’s finger touched his chest. “More Sectumsempra scars here and here. Turn around. Your back bears marks from what looks like a whipping – too many to trace individually.” He brushed his hand down Harry’s back anyway, and Harry heard his breathing becoming heavier. Snape found this a turn-on? Was it because of Harry, or was it some sick reaction to the scars? Or was Harry just imagining the whole thing?
“What about – lower down?”
No, he hadn’t imagined that sharp intake of breath. Wondering why the hell he was playing this game with Snape, Harry briefly considered dropping his trousers and grinding his arse back against Snape’s groin, to see if he was as turned on as he sounded, but common sense prevailed. Or it might have been fear, of course. There was a rush of air against his bare skin as Snape moved away from him abruptly. “The scarring continues across your… buttocks and legs, but is no worse than that on your back.” Snape’s voice was brisk, impersonal. “Put your shirt back on, Potter – you are getting goose-bumps.”
Day Twenty-One
Harry sat down on the sofa next to Snape, his heart beating fast. Time to do it. He’d been thinking about it all day, after a night of restless sleep and troubled dreams in which Snape’s hands on his cock played a prominent part, and he’d woken up with his pyjama bottoms stuck to him for the first time since he’d been here.
Hesitantly, he slid a hand onto Snape’s thigh, running it up and down lightly.
“Potter, what on Earth do you think you are doing?”
“Um, stroking your leg? Look, I’ve been thinking about it. You were right. It’s stupid to pretend I’m not – gay – when I obviously am. So I thought we could - ”
“Could what, Potter? This is not some adolescent fantasy, Potter! In the adult world, as opposed to the hormone-addled teenaged brain, the mere existence of attraction does not presuppose that it must be acted upon. There are other things to consider, Potter, than your prick!”
Hurt and humiliated beyond words, Harry scrambled to his feet and stumbled out of the room, banging his shins painfully on the coffee table as he did so. Upstairs, he flung himself on his bed. God, he’d been so fucking stupid. Snape didn’t fancy him – why the fuck should he? He’d loved Harry’s mother, for fuck’s sake, whatever he said about it now. He was probably only pretending to be turned on that night they’d looked at the stars, to make Harry feel better, or something. Yeah, because Snape’s always doing things just to make people feel better… Fuck it. Whatever the truth was, Snape didn’t want him. Too fucking stupid, and scarred, and young, and blind.
“Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer. What the fuck was there to say?
“Harry, you have been through a terrible ordeal, the effects of which you have not yet recovered from. To take advantage of you now would be an appalling breach – “
“That’s not what you said downstairs! You said I was a, a hormone-addled teenager! You still think I’m just a stupid, annoying fucking kid, don’t you?”
“Potter, I do not think of you as a child. Stupid, perhaps – annoying, certainly – but not a child.”
“So why don’t you want to sleep with me? Am I too fucking ugly with all these scars, or do you just hate my guts?”
“Damn you, Potter, you are not listening! I have told you my reasons! It is too soon for you to be embarking upon a physical relationship.”
“What, and I don’t get any fucking say in the matter? I’m fed up, Snape – I’m fed up with it not being my choice! Do you know how many people I’ve had sex with? Three. And two of them were the fucking Lestranges! I just – I just wanted – “ Harry was appalled to find his voice cracking on the last words. He would not cry.
“Potter, you are in no fit state for whatever it is that you imagine you want. I will not lay myself open to accusations of having abused your trust in me. You will cease this melodrama and you will come and have a cup of tea, is that understood?”
“I – oh, fuck it, Snape, just tell me – do you fancy me? At all? Or were you lying about that? I mean, I know I’m not good-looking, and now there’s all these scars – “
“Potter, if physical perfection were that important to me I should have slit my own wrists years ago. Now. Tea.”
Day Twenty-Two
Harry was in a sullen mood at breakfast the next morning, with the memory of the previous evening’s humiliation still firmly uppermost in his brain. He hadn’t slept at all well either – and when he had managed to drift off, his dreams had been full of Bellatrix screeching at him how worthless he was, as she charmed the knives to cut into his flesh…
“Potter. Your potion.” Snape sounded as grumpy as Harry felt.
“Thanks,” Harry told him shortly. Then a thought struck. “How come you knew all about this potion already – I mean, you started work on it almost as soon as I got here, it wasn’t like you had to do any research or anything, and you seemed to have all the ingredients already?”
Snape didn’t answer immediately.
“Snape?”
“I – Bellatrix was quite aware of my fondness for your mother. She used to taunt me about it – suggested that I might be tempted to leniency with you by the resemblance of your eyes to hers. She… on more than one occasion, she – “ he broke off for a minute, “she offered to one day make me a present of them.”
Harry erupted. “So – you knew? You knew that’s what she had planned for me – and you knew a list of places she might be hiding out – and you didn’t tell anyone? You couldn’t even send an anonymous tip-off to the Aurors so they could check it out? Have you any idea what it was like for me? I thought – I thought I was going to die there! Blind. Helpless. And you – you could have stopped it all from happening!”
“Damn you, Potter! I will not take the blame for the actions of a madwoman!”
“But you knew! You cowardly fucking bastard, I went through all that just so you could have a quiet life!”
“Potter, you self-righteous little shit, I have spent nearly twenty years fighting the Dark Lord and his adherents – surely I am entitled to expect someone else to shoulder a little responsibility now! You were the one who was fool enough to allow himself to be captured! You have no one to blame but yourself!”
Harry ran from the room and stumbled up the stairs feeling sick and shaky. Once in his room he curled up on the bed and lay there, trying not to think.
He wasn’t very successful.
Later, Harry made his way back down to the living room. The telly wasn’t on, but he was pretty sure he could hear someone breathing. “Snape? Are you there?”
“Yes, Potter, I am here.” Snape’s voice sounded desperately tired.
“I’m – sorry. You were right – I was stupid. Letting myself get captured, I mean. I was having a bad day – Ron had been on at me all day about splitting up with Ginny, as if she hadn’t been the one who dumped me – and I was just walking home on my own, feeling pissed off, not paying attention to anything. Must’ve been the easiest kidnap in the history of the world. It’s – you couldn’t have known that she’d actually do it.”
“Potter.” There was a long silence. “I concede that I may have been overhasty in abdicating responsibility for the – continuing fight. You may be assured that I sincerely regret the suffering my disinclination to act has caused, however indirectly. It… appears to be the way of things with me, to cause pain to those that I – to others, and to then have to try to make amends.”
Harry was suddenly hit from nowhere with an intense longing to have Hermione there, so she could help him make sense of all the emotions that were churning inside him. “Um,” he started. “Don’t know about you, but I could really use a cup of tea.”
Was it possible to hear a smile? Snape took a deep breath, and stood up. “Tea, then, Potter.”
Day Twenty-Four
They’d had Edam for lunch, and Harry was amusing himself trying to make very small models with the wax rind. It wasn’t easy, having to do everything by touch, but he thought he’d made a passable Snape’s head, and was just wondering if he should ask the original for his opinion, when he was disturbed by the sort of bing-bong sound that made him think instantly of Avon ladies.
“Snape? Was that the doorbell?”
“Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me, Potter.”
“Who – who is it?”
“Do I look like a bloody seer, Potter?”
“Hey, for all I know you dress up in drag as Trelawny when you’re at home. Snape..? Snape?”
Harry heard the front door open, then a jovial voice boomed out, “Nige! ‘Ow are you, mate? Me and the lads was getting a bit worried about you. Where you been hiding all month?”
Nige?
“I’d be touched by your concern, Andy, if I didn’t suspect it had a lot to do with the match against the Swan next weekend. But come in, come in. I’ve been looking after my nephew. Harry, this is Andy. He’s the captain of the darts team at the Fighting Cocks.”
Nephew? Darts team? “Um, hi.”
“Bloody hell, Nige, what happened to him?”
“Nasty story, Andy. Queer-bashing. Bunch of yobs saw him kissing his boyfriend and took exception.”
“Bastards! So what happened to the boyfriend?”
“Legged it, the little shit.”
“Well, that’s queers for you. Are his eyes going to be all right?”
“We hope so. He’s been seeing a specialist.”
“So anyway, you going to be around for the match..?”
Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation, it having been made quite obvious that he wasn’t going to be a part of it, and fidgeted in his chair until Captain Andy finally left.
“Right. You won’t believe the number of questions I have about that. For a start, how come your bloody mate acted like I was deaf, not blind? And you’re on the darts team? And bloody hell, Nige? You had all the names in the English language to choose from, and you went for Nigel?”
“In order, then, Potter: it is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone who is disabled in any way must also be retarded and incapable of speaking for himself; I resent your implication that I must necessarily be incompetent at all sports; and yes, Potter, I went for Nigel. It happens to be a favourite name of mine.”
“Darts is a sport now? Be in the next Olympics, will it? Right after competitive beer drinking?”
“Potter, I strongly suggest you leave sarcasm to your superiors in the art.”
“So sarcasm’s an art now? All right, all right. So who’s this mythical boyfriend who ran off and left me to get beaten up?”
“I should have thought that to be obvious. Ronald Weasley.”
“Hey! Ron wouldn’t have legged it!”
“Really? Experience would tend to suggest otherwise. However, if you prefer, feel free to imagine yourself locked in osculatory embrace with young Malfoy.”
“I bet you’re imagining it right now, you kinky bastard. And anyway, how come you told him I’m a poof but didn’t admit to being one yourself? Scared they’d kick you off the darts team?”
“Precisely, Potter. Never underestimate the casual homophobia of the average pub-going British male.”
…
“Did you use to play darts with your dad?”
“I am afraid, Potter, that by the time I was fourteen our relationship had deteriorated to the point that we were actively avoiding one another.”
“Is he, um, still alive?”
“He died of lung cancer some years ago.”
“Oh. He smoked?”
“Mostly passively. After my mother’s death, he spent most of his waking hours down the pub. And yes, Potter, he was a keen darts player.”
“Did you, um, ever see him again before he died?”
There was a silence. “He had an old witch who’d been friends with my mother send me an owl shortly before his death.”
“And you made up?”
“He apologised for his… attitude when I was younger, and I accepted his apology, so I suppose you might say we made up. He died the evening of my visit.”
“Um. At least – you knew him.”
“Yes, Potter, I suppose there is that.”
Day Twenty-Eight
“It is time, Potter.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you said a month, right? So it’s been what, twenty-eight days? Maybe we should go for thirty-one, just in case they meant one of those months? Or, or longer, just to be on the safe side - ”
“Potter, as I am quite sure you are aware, a month, in magic, means a lunar month. Kindly remember that you are a Gryffindor.” Snape unwound the blindfold, muttering the counter-charms for the spells that had kept it in place.
“I can – tell it’s light, Snape. It must have worked a bit, at least.” Which was good, right? At least, even if this was as good as it got, he’d be able to tell if it was night or bloody day, which was better than not knowing-
“Potter. You need to open your eyes.”
What if they didn’t open? What if they’d, they’d healed shut? Would Snape have to cut them open?
“Potter! Open your eyes!”
Oh. Harry blinked at the watery image of Snape that appeared in front of him. “Your hair’s short.”
“Potter, that is news to neither of us. How well can you see?”
“Um, well. I mean, really well. I mean – I don’t need my glasses any more! Hey, you fixed my eyesight!”
“That is… not unexpected.”
“Hey, we should have done this years ago!”
“That, Potter, would scarcely have been appropriate. Although it is possible it might have saved us all a great deal of trouble.”
“I need a mirror. I want to look at me.”
“There is a mirror in the bathroom. Potter – your eyes are… not as they were. You should be prepared for that.”
“Too bloody right they’re not. These ones work! Hey, Snape, did you know your stair carpet’s pink? You ought to change that, or people’ll be getting the right idea about you! And bloody hell, the bath’s avocado?”
Harry stopped, reaching the washbasin. He stared in the mirror above it, horror creeping upon him. “Those – those aren’t my eyes. They look like… hers. Bellatrix Lestrange’s. Fuck, Snape, what did you put in that potion?”
“What the hell do you think, Potter? I told you it was Dark Magic. Would you rather I had left you blind? She took your eyes, Potter. This was the only way –“
“So you gave me hers? Fuck, I’ve been drinking – and now, now she’s sat in a dungeon somewhere, staring at nothing, just like I was?”
“No, Potter, she is dead, as have I told you. Therefore, she can have no use for her eyes.”
“So, right, be a pity to waste them? This isn’t Dark, Snape, it’s fucking sick!”
“An eye for an eye, Potter. An ancient form of justice. Potter, I realise this is… shocking for you, but would you rather be blind? Know that she has blighted your life forever?”
“I – no – I need – “
“A cup of tea. Come on, Potter, let us put the kettle on.”
Harry stirred his second cup of tea moodily. He’d found a small shaving mirror in the kitchen (why in the kitchen?) and was staring at his reflection like he was Gilderoy bloody Lockhart. “Do you put Calming Draughts in this stuff?”
“Possibly. Are you feeling calmer, now?”
“I – yeah – I just – I don’t even look like me, any more. I mean, what does anyone think of when they hear Harry Potter? Green eyes, glasses, a lightning-bolt scar. I haven’t got any of those any more.”
“You still retain that appallingly unruly bird’s-nest upon your head.”
Harry grimaced. It made the scar down his face stretch and twist alarmingly. “I should get an eye-patch, and a pirate’s outfit.”
“If you think I shall allow you anywhere near me whilst brandishing a cutlass, you are very much mistaken. I might, however, be persuaded to lop off one of your hands for verisimilitude.”
“Is that how they make Hands of Glory?”
“No, Potter, they are grown in jars from discarded fingernails. Obviously that is how they are made.”
“Do you think pirates used to fancy each other?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most naïve thing you have ever said. You have a group of men whose morals are even looser than that of the populace at large, out at sea for months on end, sleeping in many cases three to a bunk - ”
“Oh. So you reckon they were all shagging each other blind, then? Well, I s’pose that’d explain why they all had eye-patches.”
Day Twenty-Nine
They were sitting in the lounge, Harry enjoying the novelty of actually watching Countdown for once, instead of just listening to it. It made the anagrams an awful lot easier, but he still wasn’t much good. Snape always got them in about ten seconds.
“Um, Snape? I was thinking.”
“That would account for the strained look.”
“Ha ha. Well, you know Muggles do organ transplants – “
“I have heard of that gruesome butchery, yes.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. Well, sometimes the organs get rejected. So maybe I should wait around here for a few days. Just to make sure my eyes don’t, um, get rejected.”
“Potter, this is – oh, very well. But you can damn well start doing some washing up.”
Day Thirty-Two
It was a gloriously sunny day. Had he been able to tell, before, when it was sunny? By feeling the warmth on his face through the windows? Already Harry was finding it hard to remember. He smiled at Snape, who scowled reassuringly.
“You know, maybe we could go out? To the pub, maybe. You could teach me how to play darts!”
“Because I was so spectacularly successful when I attempted to teach you potions and Occlumency?” Snape sighed. “Potter, you need to return to your life. There is no reason for you to stay here any longer.”
Right. No reason. So why the bloody hell was Harry so reluctant to leave? “Do you like me?”
“What?” Snape had turned to him in obvious disbelief.
“It’s a simple question. Do you like me? I mean, I know you didn’t, before, but do you, now? Now we’ve, um, got to know each other a bit better?”
“Potter. You are quite aware that I find you attractive.”
“That’s not the same as liking me. Do you, you know, like talking to me?”
“I confess I have been known to derive amusement from your continual displays of the most appalling ignorance.”
“So will you miss me when I go?”
“Potter, I have potions to brew. Do try and make yourself useful in my absence.”
Day Thirty-Three
Snape was watching some nature program with lions messily slaughtering other, cuter animals. Harry sat down next to him, just in time for the lions to start shagging each other instead. “You need to get a proper porn channel,” he commented.
Snape raised an eyebrow. “I have a collection of DVDs, if you’re interested,” in a don’t-try-to-outbrazen-me-sonny-boy tone of voice.
“Gay or straight?”
“What the hell do you think, Potter?”
“You actually walk into shops and buy gay porn DVDs?”
“Don’t be absurd. Mail-order is far more discreet.”
“Or you could just Obliviate the shop assistant.”
“Because being caught on CCTV waving a wand around is the very definition of keeping a low profile.”
Harry grinned. Snape’s hand was resting on the sofa beside him. It looked a bit lonely.
“Potter, what are you doing?”
“Trying to hold your hand.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
“That is not answering the question, Potter.”
“Neither is that.” Harry’s heart skipped a beat as Snape’s long, thin fingers shifted – and he smiled, as they curled around his own. They sat there for a while, as the lions carried on doing what came naturally. Pretty soon, by the magic of television sweeping all that tedious gestation stuff under the carpet, there were cute little cubs to look at, but then there was drama as a rival lioness attacked. Mum fought savagely to protect her own, and the challenger retired, bloody and limping. After that, the presenter seemed to get bored of lions, and moved on to okapi, about which Harry found it hard to muster any enthusiasm, so he turned to study Snape. Short hair really didn’t suit him, he thought. It made his nose seem even larger, and the scar on his neck stood out all the more. Somebody really ought to kiss it better.
“Potter – “
“I’m kissing your scar. You can kiss mine, if you like. Might take you a while, though.”
“Potter, this is… not advisable.”
“’S all right. I’m not that good at taking advice anyway.” Snape’s shirt collar was getting in the way a bit, so Harry undid the top button, exposing a ridge of collarbone. That was better. He gave Snape’s scar another kiss, then a lick, just to see what it tasted like, as he slid a hand in between the next two buttons to touch Snape’s chest. Snape was breathing quite fast, now. But then, so was Harry.
“Potter… “
“It’s all right. I mean, there’s a few things I don’t want to do, but I think we can work around them. You don’t mind if I keep my shirt on, do you? Because I don’t think I’m up to getting completely naked. Sorry. But you can get your kit off, if you want. I mean, I’d like you to.”
Snape breathed in sharply, then all at once Harry found his head taken in Snape’s hands, and his mouth seized in a deep, searching kiss. Nervousness flaring for the first time, Harry broke away. “I think – I think I need to be in control. If that’s OK?” he said, willing the flutterings in his stomach to cease.
“Potter, you will be the death of me,” Snape told him. Then he lay back on the sofa, passive. Or possibly, just playing dead to prove a point. Why he wasn’t deafened by the sound of Harry’s heartbeat Harry would never know. Straddling Snape’s hips, Harry moved his hands wonderingly over that chest, and then bent down to kiss Snape on the lips. Yep. Definitely better with him on top. Just to make sure, he did it again. Snape’s hands ghosted lightly over Harry’s hips, not holding, just reassuring. It was almost perfect. Harry sat up straight, reluctantly.
“You need to undo that shirt. Or, you know, I could do it for you.”
The corner of Snape’s mouth turned up in the most genuine smile Harry had ever seen from him. “That will be acceptable, Potter.”
Harry’s fingers were very pleased about this arrangement indeed, although clearly they needed a bit more practice at this sort of thing, as they fumbled a bit with Snape’s shirt buttons. But by the time they’d got to the bottom, they seemed to have got the hang of it. Harry thought they deserved a reward, so he ran them gently over Snape’s chest. It was nice: thin, but hairier than you might expect, showing the first signs of grey, with dark nipples that hardened obligingly under Harry’s touch.
Harry looked up at Snape’s face. His eyes were darker than Harry would ever have thought possible, and he was gazing intently at Harry. Harry held his gaze for a moment, then bent down to kiss those nipples, one after the other. He couldn’t resist swirling his tongue around them at which, impossibly, they hardened even more. He could hear Snape’s breathing getting harsher.
One of Harry’s hands had struck out on its own and was gently rubbing at Snape’s groin. Snape’s trousers were definitely in its way, though, so Harry started to undo them. Snape’s cock twitched, as if impatient to get in on the action. Luckily Harry was in an obliging mood.
He looked at Snape’s cock as it sprang free, large and red but somehow, not threatening. Inviting, actually. Friendly. He stroked it a few times, which it seemed to like. “Can I suck it?”
“That, Potter, is quite possibly the most idiotic thing you have ever said.”
Grinning, Harry bent down. Nervously, he opened his mouth and, remembering to shield his teeth with his lips, took Snape’s cock in as far as it would go – which wasn’t very far, as it turned out. Still, Snape didn’t seem to mind, as he let out a weird sort of strangled grunt that Harry took as encouragement. He’d never done this before – although once, when they’d had a bit too much to drink at a party, Ginny had done it to him. He’d lasted all of five seconds, and she’d looked absolutely revolted when he’d come in her mouth, spitting and slapping him.
Drawing back a bit, Harry licked the head of Snape’s cock, which earned him another strange moaning sound. It tasted salty, a bit like a packet of crisps, only with less potatoey overtones. And attempting to crunch it would probably be a very bad idea, he thought, trying not to laugh around his mouthful of Snape.
“Bloody hell, Potter!”
“Was that good?”
“Quite… tolerable… Potter.” Snape seemed to be having trouble remembering how to speak. Encouraged, Harry started to suck. Funny how something that tasted so weird could be such an amazing turn-on, he mused, trying to press his groin into Snape’s leg.
“Potter?”
“Mmm?”
“Desist.”
“Oh. I thought you were enjoying it.”
“I was, Potter. Far too much.”
“Oh. That’s all right. I want to make you come. Can’t taste worse than that potion, anyway.” Harry lowered his head and took Snape’s prick back into his mouth, wrapping a hand around the base of it for good measure, which was probably just as well as after a minute or so, Snape’s hips started bucking upwards, as if he was trying to shove his prick down Harry’s throat. Harry was just wondering how you learned how to deep-throat a bloke, and if Snape would be any better at giving lessons at that than he was at teaching potions, and thinking if anything, he’d probably be worse, when Snape grunted and stilled and hot spurts of come hit the roof of Harry’s mouth. Harry swallowed reflexively, managing not to gag, and looked up, wiping his mouth. He suspected he was grinning like an idiot. Did it look sinister, with his new scars? He’d have to check in a mirror later. “Was that all right, then?”
Snape looked – languid. Harry hadn’t known he could do that. “Apparently, Potter, chasing the snitch and risking your foolish neck are not the only things you excel at. Would you like me to reciprocate?”
“Um.” Harry wasn’t sure how he’d react to that – would it feel too much like her, riding him? “Use your hands?” he suggested, scooting forward, still straddling Snape, and was rewarded by Snape’s long, supple fingers coiling around his cock like snakes on a tree branch. “Oh, yeah!” he breathed. Snape set up a pace that was nice, but frustratingly slow. “Mmm, bit faster,” Harry murmured.
“I think not,” Snape said, with an evil smile. He did, however, send one hand scuttling downwards to play with Harry’s bollocks, which certainly appreciated the attention.
“Yeah, that’s… that’s good,” Harry breathed. He was getting used to the slower rhythm, and could feel the waves of sensation building up. “Oh, yeah.”
“You see, Potter? Slow and easy wins the race.”
That was from the tortoise and the hare, wasn’t it? Come to think of it, how on Earth did tortoises manage to shag? Didn’t the shell get in the way? Maybe they had really long pricks. That curved…
“Potter! Do try to pay attention!”
Harry grinned. “Well, maybe if you speeded it up a bit…”
Glaring at him, although Harry was almost certain he didn’t really mean it, Snape started to move his hand more quickly up and down Harry’s shaft. This time, the build-up was an intense crescendo that took Harry’s breath away.
“God, I’m so… ahhhhhh!” Feeling like his whole body was clenching in sympathy, Harry came, his spunk shooting straight up in the air and landing messily on Snape’s bare chest. Harry thought it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life, although admittedly he probably needed to get out a bit more. Finally spent, he collapsed, panting, on top of Snape, not caring that he was smearing come all over the front of his sweatshirt. By a lucky chance, he was in just the right position to kiss Snape’s scar better again, which lent a nice circularity to the whole proceedings. Snape’s hand came up to gently stroke his hair.
Harry closed his eyes blissfully. “Um, I was thinking I’d sleep in your bed tonight. With you, I mean. If that’s all right. Which it’d better be. And, um, Snape?”
“Yes, Potter?”
“I s’pose it’d sound really girly if I said I love you, wouldn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Thought so. Sorry.”
“However, I might be prepared to overlook the transgression, just this once.”
Harry grinned, and taking Snape’s hand, dragged him upstairs to bed.
Day Thirty-Four
When Harry woke up, he felt – different. Off. And not in an I’ve-just-shagged-a-bloke-for-the-first-time sort of way. Not even in an I’m-in-love sort of way. Maybe he should just lie here a bit and see what happened.
“I think he’s waking up. Harry?”
Oh. That happened.
“Mate, can you hear us?”
If he opened his eyes, would they scream and run away? Would he?
“Oh, Harry!” Apparently Hermione was more into crying and hugging him. Actually, that felt quite nice. Ron seemed to think so too, as he was obviously struggling not to be quite so obviously girly.
“What happened?” Harry asked, when they’d given him some air.
Ron grimaced. “We were hoping you could tell us that, mate.”
“Don’t you remember anything, Harry?” Hermione had her concerned face on again.
“Um, yeah – but not how I got here. This is St Mungo’s, right?”
“Yes. Someone brought you in last night, unconscious, and just left you at the desk. No one knows who it was. They – they weren’t sure it was really you, at first, but they did some tests – oh, Harry, we thought you were dead!“
Harry grinned. “Boy Who Lived, remember? Um, I need to get out of here.”
“You sure, mate? Looks like you had a pretty rough time, wherever you were.”
“Yeah, but I’m OK, now.” Harry swung his legs out of bed, and looked down. “Um, clothes. I need clothes.”
“We’ll see what we can do – but are you sure you’re all right to leave? I really think we should get a mediwizard to discharge you – “
“I’m fine. Where are my clothes?”
“Just – just wait there, Harry. I’ll get you some.” Hermione bustled off, looking troubled.
Harry looked at the colourful things she’d given him. Those aren’t Snape’s clothes. “Those aren’t my clothes.”
“Yes they are, Harry, I brought them from Grimmauld Place.” Hermione had moved from concerned-face to distinctly-worried-face now.
Harry shrugged. “Oh. I need some new clothes, then. More black, I think. Go with my eyes, now, won’t it?”
“Um, mate, I’d been meaning to ask you about that - “
“Ronald!”
Harry looked at them both, halfway through pulling his trousers on. “It’s OK. She did it.”
“She?”
“Bellatrix Lestrange. I thought – well, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”
“You killed her, mate? Bloody well done!”
“No. But she’s dead.” Harry hoped his tone sounded final.
Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, what did happen to you? Harry?”
“Mate, are you OK?” Ron was doing concerned-face too now. It made him look slightly constipated.
Harry shook himself mentally. “Sorry. I’m all right. Just – stuff happened. Which I don’t want to talk about. Let’s go, all right?”
“Um, just wait a minute – “ Hermione was looking fidgety, the reason for which was explained when a tall wizard in Healer’s robes walked in. “Harry, this is Healer Ignavus. I just thought – “
Harry sighed. “Right. Healer Ignavus. Thanks for, for, whatever it was you did, but as you can see, I’m fine, so I’ll be going now. C’mon, Ron, Hermione, we’re leaving.”
“Healer Ignavus! I’m sure you need to – “
“Miss Granger, he does appear to be fine. Perhaps you could call us if there are any problems.”
Hermione shot the healer a look of betrayal as she scurried after Harry and Ron. Opening the door, Harry steeled himself to walk through the hospital to the Floo. There were so many people. And they were all staring at him – OK, that was nothing new, but was it because they knew who he was, or because he looked like a freak, or both –
“Mate, you OK?”
Harry took a deep breath. After all, what would Snape say, if he saw him? Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, yet he can’t even face a few idiots who’d probably piss themselves if they ever saw a Death Eater? “Yeah, I’m fine. ‘S just a bit – busy, that’s all. But I’m fine.” Squaring his shoulders, Harry marched through the hospital, vowing to buy some dark glasses as soon he could work up the nerve to go shopping.
Being back at Grimmauld Place just felt wrong, somehow. The rooms were too old and there wasn’t a proper garden, let alone one surrounded by twenty-foot evergreens, and there wasn’t even a telly. Why had he never got a telly?
First things first, though. “I need an owl – I mean, one of my own. Hermione, can you get me an owl?”
“Well, yes – but don’t you want to choose one for yourself?”
“I – look, I can’t face shopping right now. Just get me a decent owl, all right? A smart one.”
Harry waited tensely with Ron for the wholly unreasonable amount of time it took before her return, bearing a cage holding a horned owl that reminded Harry uncannily of Snape.
“Here you are, Harry. His name’s Orion.”
Harry grinned, remembering a drizzly night. “Where’s his sword belt?”
Hermione looked worried. “Harry, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
Quill in hand, his new owl perched on top of the bureau, Harry wondered for the first time what the hell he was going to write. In the end, he settled for
Snape, you’re a bastard.
I’m fine. I miss you.
Write back soon?
Harry
PS I haven’t told anyone about you.
Then he settled back anxiously to await a reply. It wasn’t long in coming.
Potter, you’re an idiot.
What on earth would I have to write about? You saw me only last night.
I am pleased that you are well, and have not succumbed to your usual tendency to babble incontinently about whatever enters your lamentably empty head.
S.
Harry grinned happily, and got out his quill.
Snape
When can I see you again? And don’t say never or I’ll tell the Ministry to take away that posthumous Order of Merlin I made them give you.
Harry
The next reply was a long time coming. Harry had time to drink several cups of over-sweetened tea, persuade Hermione to take him Muggle clothes shopping somewhere quiet, and polish his broom three times, only one of them figuratively, before Orion eventually returned.
Harry
You need to readjust to your life. In a few months time, if you are still desirous of seeing me again (which I doubt) we may make arrangements.
S
Snape was sitting in the kitchen, moodily staring at Harry’s empty place at the table, when the owl came.
Snape
Bugger that. Hey, do you know how fast an owl can fly? It’s pretty fast, but it can’t beat a top-of-the-range Firebolt.
The letter was unsigned. Feeling a strange, unsettled feeling in his stomach that was undoubtedly due to the milk in his tea having been on the turn, Snape looked up. And straight into the grinning face of Harry Potter, just emerging from under a Disillusionment Charm.
He sighed. “Potter, I went to a great deal of trouble to return you to the bosom of your adoring friends.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not staying. I just came round to tell you I’ll be seeing someone on Friday night.”
“You ungrateful little - “
“Bloke called Nigel Fairfax. Grumpy old sod, always jumping to conclusions. Don’t know what I see in him really. We’re going to a little restaurant not far from my house – it’s a Muggle place, so it’s up to you if you want to, er, change. I thought you could come round about seven, so at least I’ll know what you look like.”
“And what, Potter, makes you think I have Polyjuice prepared for such an occasion?”
“You’re Snape. You’re always prepared. But, um, try and make it someone believable, right? You know, that I’d fall for?”
“If you wish me to turn into a replica of the youngest Weasley – “
Harry shuddered. “Bloody hell, no! Um, I was thinking, more in the tall, dark and handsome way? And older than me. I like older men.” His smile slipped a little. “Unless, you know, you really don’t want to see me again, and last night was just you being kind – “
“Potter, I am not kind, and I would thank you not to accuse me of being so.”
Harry grinned happily. “Right then! Seven o’clock, my place.”
“Tall, dark and handsome?” Snape asked sardonically.
“Well, tall and dark, anyway. Or at least, a couple of inches taller than me, and dark. And slightly longer hair would be good too. I just can’t get used to you having short hair. It’s against nature, or something.”
“It’s a damn sight easier to keep clean, that’s what it is,” Snape muttered. “I hope you realise just how bloody difficult it’s going to be to steal hair to order without getting myself arrested for stalking. And in any case, precisely what makes you think I wish to go along with this ridiculous idea of yours?”
Harry raised an eyebrow, pleased that the constant practice in front of the mirror had finally paid off. “Well, lots of things, really. For a start, the fact that you spent about a hundred and twelve hours brewing a really icky potion to give me back my sight – “
“Bravo. You have mastered simple multiplication,” Snape muttered sourly. “Give the boy a prize.”
“Shut up. And there’s all the times you looked after me when I was throwing a wobbly – “
“Somebody had to snap you out of your hysterics, Potter, or the neighbours would have complained.”
“- But most of all, there’s this,” Harry finished triumphantly, and kissed him enthusiastically.
“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” Snape commented when he was finally released. “But I will concede that you may, for once, have a point.”
Fin
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-24 09:01 pm (UTC)"That would be due to her lack of a penis, then" This just about had my coffee over the keyboard.
Thank you for a great read.
Liz.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-26 07:30 pm (UTC)