I: An Arrangement

Harry hesitated outside the dungeon door. I passed my NEWTs, he reminded himself firmly. No detentions, no points to lose. He steeled himself and lifted his hand. The door opened abruptly before he could knock.

“Mr. Potter. I could feel you standing out here. What is it?” Snape managed to be imposing despite the fact that he’d taken off his robe and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Why aren’t you celebrating the improbable feat of your passing the exams with the rest of your little friends?”

Harry gaped. His carefully prepared speech fell away. “I— May I come in?” He looked at Snape’s forearm and had a sudden memory of the Dark Mark dissolving.

Snape stared at him. “Why?”

Okay, so this wasn’t going as planned. Think fast, Harry. “Well, I— I’d like to talk to you.” He realized his hands were clutching each other. “Um. Please.” I passed, I passed. He edged forward.

Snape fell back slightly. “Very well. But make it fast.”

Harry followed him in. He’d never been in Snape’s rooms before. He looked around. Boxes everywhere, piles of books, papers, potion ingredients. “What are you doing?”

Snape gave him a look. It was the ‘Mr. Potter, your inability to grasp the obvious never ceases to amaze me’ look. “Packing.” He put a stack of folders into a box.

“Why? Are you leaving?”

That Look. “Yes.” Snape sealed the box with a wave of his wand.

“You— you’re not going to stay here and teach?” So much for the rumors that Snape would finally be the DADA teacher.

The Look again. Third time in as many sentences. Harry thought that might be a personal best. “Mr. Potter.” Uh-oh. “What about the past seven years could possibly have given you the impression that I enjoy teaching?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth. Finally he managed to say, “So why did you do it? And where are you going?” Snape had already answered several of his questions, much to Harry’s surprise. Perhaps he’d get answers to these as well.

Snape sighed. “Go away, Potter.”

Or perhaps not. He stood stubbornly in the middle of the floor. “I passed. You can’t order me around.”

The thin lips twitched. “Oh no, Mr. Potter. I think you will find I can indeed tell you what to do, and with great pleasure. Now get out.”

Harry’s feet tried to walk him out the door. There had been a magical suggestion in that last order. He resisted, and broke it. “That’s not fair.” He sighed. “Please. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Another look from Snape. Harry didn’t recognize this one. Finally the taller man shrugged. “I won’t get any peace until we have this little talk of yours, will I?” He motioned Harry to the sofa. He took a bottle and a glass from the mantelpiece, hesitated, then picked up a second glass. He sat in the armchair angled by the sofa and poured out the scotch. He pushed a glass to Harry. “Sip, don’t gulp. And don’t try to keep up with me.”

Harry sipped carefully. The smooth burn flooded his mouth. “Mm.” He smiled.

“So. Get on with it. What do you want to say to me?” Snape seemed to brace himself.

Harry took a deep breath and tried to remember his speech. In his tower room, looking out the window, it had seemed so easy. Now, here in Snape’s rooms, feeling those dark eyes on him and smelling the mint/lemon scent that seemed to follow Snape around, he struggled for words. “Well, I— I wanted to thank you.”

Snape looked surprised. He disguised it by taking a swallow of his scotch. “Why?”

“Um. For everything, really. For helping me all those times when you didn’t really want—”

“No, Potter. Not, what are you thanking me for. Why do you want to thank me?”

Harry blushed. Snape’s eyebrow quirked at that. “That’s— here’s another thing I wanted to say.” He mumbled into his glass. “I like you.” The words fell into the silent room, hung there. He dragged his eyes to Snape’s face. The other man was frozen. The firelight cast soft shadows over his stark face. Harry’s heart was pounding. He looked again at Snape’s bare forearm and stretched out his hand, letting his fingertips hover over the warm skin.

Snape twitched his arm away. “You’d better leave now, Potter. Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

Harry stared at him. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I liked you.”

“Yes, very touching. Now sod off.” Flatly.

“No, I mean—” Harry stood up. I passed, I passed. He put his hands on the arms of Snape’s chair and leaned over him, trapping him. “I like you.” He leaned forward. Snape’s breath was warm on his face. He pressed his lips to Snape’s. A moment that stretched long enough for Harry to think that perhaps he’d misinterpreted some of the looks Snape had been giving him over the past year. But the other man’s mouth was astoundingly soft against his, and he stroked the lips with his tongue inquisitively. He made himself open his eyes. Snape’s were closed; the surprisingly long lashes lay in dark crescents against his pale cheek. Then a strong hand clamped onto the back of his neck, the mouth opened under his, and a hot tongue plunged past his lips, met his own, explored his mouth expertly. A slight scrape of teeth against his lower lip. He moaned.

Suddenly the hand shifted to his shoulder and pushed him away violently. He stumbled back, barely catching himself from falling into one of the innumerable boxes. “Shit!”

“That’s enough, Potter. You won the bet, or the dare, or whatever it was. Go back and tell your friends how the nasty, greasy Potions Master kissed you and once again you lived to tell the tale.” Snape sounded unutterably exhausted. He had his head in his hands.

“What!” Harry tried to collect himself. “It wasn’t a bet, you— you prat!” In desperation, he grabbed Snape’s hands away from his face and tried to lean in for another kiss.

Snape shoved him aside. “For god’s sake!” He leapt to his feet and loomed over Harry. “If this is a sample of your seduction techniques, Potter, I’m flabbergasted that you’ve ever managed to get laid.”

This was definitely not going as planned. He was blushing furiously. “I— I just— it wasn’t a bet,” he repeated helplessly.

Snape turned away. “Then what was it.” Not even a question.

“I— it was— it was a kiss!” No kidding. He forced the next words out. “I want... I want you.” He wanted to see Snape’s face, but was afraid. Just as well that the dark hair was curtaining the other man’s expression. There was a long pause. Harry didn’t dare to speak, to move.

Finally Snape sighed. He returned to his chair. “Sit.”

Harry obeyed. At least he hadn’t been thrown out. Yet. He still couldn’t read the look on Snape’s face. After years of trying to figure out what the man was thinking, he’d become an expert on his various expressions. It was more than a little disconcerting to see something completely new there.

“You look confused, Potter. Things not working out quite the way you’d expected?”

Damn, he hated it when Snape read his mind.

“Let me guess. You thought you’d offer your nubile body to the decrepit, sex-starved teacher, who would fall on you with cries of glee, ravish you all night, and send you off with a kiss and wave the next morning to your illustrious career as a professional Quidditch player. Goodbye, thanks for the shag, don’t bother to owl.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. He shut it when he noticed Snape’s sardonic look. “I— um, I hadn’t got quite that far,” he confessed. But parts of the scenario did sound awfully appealing.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, I fear I must decline your all too kind offer.” Dry, almost bored. But Harry saw that Snape’s hand was clenching his glass tightly.

I passed, I passed. His new mantra. “Why?”

Oh. The Look again.

Harry stuttered on. “I mean, you want to. Don’t you?”

Snape closed his eyes. “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action.” The dark eyes opened again, stared into the glass. “That, Mr. Potter, would be why. And now, I really do think you should leave.”

“NO!” Harry gulped in a deep breath. “You’re ashamed because you want to shag me? Am I that revolting a person? Where are you going? Why are you only leaving now, if you’ve hated it all this time? Talk to me!”

Snape blinked. Wow, he was surprised again. Hell, Harry had surprised himself. He took a thoughtless gulp of his scotch, and sputtered slightly.

“I’m going to take up the position of head of the Potions Research Laboratory at Whiztel Magical Designs.”

Harry nodded. That sounded important. He waited. For a long time.

“I came to Hogwarts when I left the Death Eaters. When I tried to leave. You know what happened.”

Another nod. He’d heard this from Dumbledore. But: “You didn’t have to spy from here.”

“No.” Snape poured himself another scotch, drank it quickly. “But you came.”

Whatever Harry had thought he might hear, that wasn’t it. He was mesmerized. Snape continued speaking, all the condescension, scorn, arrogance drained from his voice. “You came, and you were so powerful and so— vulnerable, and you had no idea. No. Fucking. Idea. It was all a game. Sneaking around, looking at things you shouldn’t have seen, breaking into forbidden areas. And Albus encouraged it. To toughen you up. But he was always there to bail you out. I didn’t— I wanted to make sure you could take care of yourself. If I... If I wasn’t there.”

Harry’s heart was pounding against the walls of his chest again. He was afraid to move, to speak, to breathe. Afraid to break the spell that kept Snape saying these incredible, delirious things.

“So I stayed.” Another sip. “You lived up to everyone’s expectations and Albus was right. There’s nothing left for me here, Harry. Why did you think I would stay?” Again, the exhausted voice.

“Severus.” It was the first time he’d said the man’s name aloud. “Thank you. For telling me.”

“Mm.” A noncommittal sound.

The flood of speech seemed to have halted. Harry tried to start it up again. “About the— the other thing? The waste of shame? That’s about sex without love, right?” He was blushing again. He hated that.

Snape nodded sharply, but didn’t speak.

“Right. Um. I— I don’t mind.” He really hoped Snape would understand what he was trying to say.

“Potter.” Bad sign. “I mind.” From bad to worse in three words. Snape had broken the land speed record for making Harry feel like shit without use of the Unforgivable Curses.

“Oh,” he whispered. He drank the rest of his scotch without thinking. His eyes started watering.

“Harry?”

Shit. “No, I drank this too fast.” His eyes were still stinging. Shit shit shit. He dragged in a deep breath.

“Harry.” A hand touched his shoulder. “Look at me.”

Oh sure, now Snape was being nice. He shot him a quick, blurred glance. The hand still rested on his shoulder. “Don’t.” He shrugged it off.

A pause. “Harry.” Snape didn’t sound quite as tired now. “I’m not— it’s not right for us to... be together.” Another long pause. “Now.”

Harry perked up. “I passed my exams. I finished school.”

“Yes,” Snape said dryly, “approximately thirty hours ago.”

He did his best impersonation of Snape’s quirked eyebrow. The other man’s lips twitched.

“Tell me something, Potter.” But the voice was almost. Almost soft. “What do you want?”

Harry mustered up his courage. “You. I want you.”

“Mm. For how long?”

Snape seemed to have gone into interrogation mode. Ron had once made a really awful comment about it stemming from Snape’s Death Eater days. Best just to answer the questions without thinking about why he was asking them. “Um. I guess since— last year some time? Spring? I started—”

“No.” Exasperation. “How long do you want me for? A night? A week? A month? That seems to be how long your little flings usually last.”

Oh, low blow. And— “What do you know about my ‘flings’?”

“More than you think, I expect.” Snape poured them both some more scotch. “I don’t care to be a notch on your broomstick, Potter.”

He couldn’t really argue with that, but he tried anyway. “Maybe you wouldn’t be?”

“That’s not very convincing, Potter. At any rate, you don’t need to be saddling yourself with an old teacher. Go away from Hogwarts. Play Quidditch. Meet some new people. Have sex.”

“I’ve had sex!” He was indignant.

“Bully for you. Have more. Grow up, Harry.”

Oh now, that was rich. “I am grown up. I’m almost eighteen. And I’ve been through—”

Snape lifted his hand. “Spare me the ‘I’ve seen more in seventeen years than most people do in seventy’ speech. I know about the childhood in the cupboard, the horrors of fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and all that. You need to experience something other than that. Life outside Hogwarts. There is such a thing, you know.”

Snape being right was up there next to Snape reading his mind on the list of things Harry hated. “And— if I do?”

The other man looked at him.

“If I do— what you said, then can we—”

“Stop it.”

Harry shut up obediently. But he kept staring at Snape.

“Harry. Decide what you want first. Don’t make promises you won’t be able to keep. Not even implicit ones.” The smoky voice was soft again.

He nodded. “Can I— can I at least owl you?”

Snape smiled slightly. “Gryffindor tenacity strikes again. Yes, you may. But now, it really is time for you to leave.” He stood, and Harry followed. He wanted to kiss Snape again, to feel all that power unleashed on him once more. He leaned toward the other man. A hand on his shoulder halted him. “Not a good idea.”

Harry tilted his face up and closed his eyes. “Just a little smooch? One for the road?”

Snape laughed. He’d never heard that sound from Snape: a true laugh. He savored it, eyes still closed. He felt warm breath ghosting over his eyelids, cheeks, lips, and shivered. At last the soft lips touched his cheek briefly. “Goodbye, Harry.”

“Goodbye.” He walked out the door. He was strangely happy. It might have just been the scotch, but somehow he didn’t think so.

II: The In-Between Times

Harry picked up the quill and stared at the parchment. He wrote, “Dear” and stopped. “Dear Snape”, although that was the way he thought of the man, didn’t seem to strike quite the right tone. “Dear Professor” was clearly out of the question. “Dear Severus” seemed incredibly presumptuous. But he had called the man that to his face, and hadn’t been struck down. All right.

“Dear Severus,” Lonely as hell and wishing I had a friend here? Exhausted from training, professional Quidditch is hell? Or, having a great time, getting laid regularly?

He put the quill down with a sigh. He’d waited a seemly six weeks before deciding to owl. No, that wasn’t right. He’d wanted to owl the day he left Hogwarts. He’d waited the six weeks so Snape wouldn’t think he was a desperate teenager. Even though he was. At any rate, it seemed that it was going to take another six weeks to write the damned letter, by which time Snape would have forgotten all about him. Snape would have started seeing someone else, probably a— a handsome young lab assistant. He would finally get the letter and throw it away unopened when he didn’t recognize the handwriting. No, he would open it and laugh about it with the handsome assistant... Harry wallowed in this fantasy for a while.

“Dear Severus.” The automated quill popped up on the parchment. ‘It looks like you’re writing a letter. Would you like some help?’ Tempted though he was to scribble, ‘yes,’ he knew that would only end in disaster. ‘NO,’ he wrote firmly. The quill shook itself sadly and disappeared.

“I hope you’re enjoying” — but he couldn’t really imagine Snape enjoying anything. He hadn’t even appeared to take pleasure in Neville’s more cataclysmic Potions moments. He started over. “I hope things are going well for you at Whiztel. Are you researching anything interesting?” God, that sounded idiotic. As if he were twelve again and writing to some unmet pen pal at Beauxbatons. He scratched out the last sentence. “at Whiztel, and that the work is more satisfying than teaching” — too snippy, even considering that he was writing to Snape — “at Whiztel, and that your work is presenting you with a satisfying array of challenges.”

All right. Obligatory comment about the other person, check. On to: “Professional Quidditch is astounding. We spend ten hours a day practicing or training. I’ve never spent so much time in the weight room” — no, that sounded as if he were boasting about his muscles. He was amazed by the rapid changes in his body, but that didn’t mean Snape would be, even if he hoped... He drifted into another, more pleasant fantasy. “or training. As a reserve I practice against the first-string team. It’s” — humiliating. Embarrassing. Pitiful. “humbling.” Harry was pleased with this.

Description of work, check. Next: “I decided to share a flat with one of the other reserves, Amaryll Canasta. She’s a Chaser. We each have our own room” — too desperate to make it clear he and Amaryll weren’t shagging. He crossed it out. “The flat is spacious and so far the arrangement is working well.” That was an accurate description, as Amaryll spent most of her time out at clubs or sleeping it off, when she bothered to come home at all.

Description of domestic situation, check. He thought he was supposed to move into the realm of the emotional next, according to the letter-writing precepts they’d had in the supplementary fifth-year etiquette course Hermione had made him and Ron take, muttering something about ‘barbarians of Gryffindor.’ “I am”. He stopped. Was he fine? Was he happy? Sad? Lonely? Yes, he was. But writing down all those adjectives would only make him sound like even more of a fruitcake than Snape probably thought he was. “I am learning a great deal.” A burst of honesty overtook him. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. I did need to find out about life outside Hogwarts. Living in the wider wizarding world— and not just fighting in it— is eye-opening.”

Harry decided to quit while he was ahead. A fresh dilemma presented itself. Love, Harry? Ick. Yours? That probably fell under the heading of “implicit promises”. Sincerely? Warm regards? Those made him sound like a funeral director. He gave up and just signed his name.

He looked at the parchment. It was a scribbled-over mess of crossed-out phrases and words. He sighed and recopied it neatly, addressed it, and tied it to Hedwig’s leg. “Severus Snape,” he told her. She looked at him in apparent surprise. “Yes, I know, but I mean it.” He opened the window and she flew off. He looked at his watch. It had taken him two hours and twenty minutes to write the damned thing.

The reply arrived eight days later, when Harry had almost given up hope. He was at practice when the unfamiliar owl swooped by and dropped the letter, distracting him momentarily from the Snitch and allowing the first-string Seeker to snag it. He almost didn’t care. He stowed the letter inside his robe and flew down for the daily berating by the coach. Idiotic... blind... slow... He only half-listened until Coach Whippet shrieked, “Not worth the Galleons we pay you to be our pet celebrity! If it weren’t for the publicity we get, you’d be a junior Auror and happy for it!”

He jerked to attention and looked around. A couple of his teammates were nodding. More, however, seemed embarrassed. One leaned towards him and whispered, “Just ignore her. She likes to find your weak spot and work it.” Harry just wanted to get away and read his letter. He’d worry about Whippet’s comments later.

Finally he was back at his flat. He pulled out the letter and stared at it. “Harry Potter”. The handwriting that had spilled so many caustic comments across his Potions essays. He opened it with shaking hands.

“Dear Harry,

I received your letter, although it was a bit mangled. Your owl was reluctant to give it to me. Despite what she may have tried to communicate to you, however, I did pay her.”

He looked over at Hedwig and read that part aloud. She shifted guiltily on her perch.

“The potions laboratory here, as I should have expected, has been under the management of incompetents. Arranging things so that they function efficiently, and retraining the staff to perform at the level they should have all along, has demanded a great deal of my time. I would have written sooner—” Harry’s mouth fell open at this admission. “—but my assistant rivals Longbottom in sheer stupidity. As he is the nephew of a Whiztel director, I must continue to suffer the ceaseless assaults of his complete inability to carry out the simplest of tasks.” Harry snickered. “Whiztel is close to my family home so I have returned there for the time being. As my immediate family is dead” — this sounded a bit stark—”I have a modicum of peace and quiet here. An enjoyable change.” That was more reassuringly Snape-like. “To the best of my recollection, you have never before admitted that I was right about anything. The novelty was most refreshing.” And it was signed “Severus Snape.” A cue from Harry’s letter? The same paralyzing inability to decide on the appropriate farewell?

Harry re-read the letter. He couldn’t believe he’d waited EIGHT DAYS for a rant about Snape’s job. And the man had skipped the realm of the emotional entirely! The snarky comment about enjoying the novelty surely didn’t count. He read the letter again. And again. He smelled it, but if it had ever smelled of mint/lemon, that was gone. At length he locked it inside his desk. Then he took it out and read it again.

A knock on his door. He stowed the letter away quickly. “Harry?” Amaryll leaned around the edge of the doorframe. “Want to come out with us tonight?”

Go out to a Muggle club with Amaryll and her gaggle of friends, or stay inside brooding over Snape’s letter and Whippet’s “celebrity” remarks. “All right. Let me change.”

“Ooh! I’ll help you pick out some clothes!” Amaryll came in and opened his closet door. “Merlin’s balls! There’s nothing in here!” She pulled out a dresser drawer. “Shit, Harry, I thought you wore your Quidditch gear all the time because you liked it.” She looked at her watch. “We have time to go shopping.”

Harry found himself dragged out to a Muggle shopping center. Amaryll had turned into a veritable whirlwind. She noticed his astonishment and confessed, “If Quidditch doesn’t work out, I’m going to be a personal shopper. Wizards really need someone like me. So few have any sense of style. Now try these on.”

Harry submitted to her attentions. She was surprisingly efficient. In slightly less than an hour he had several large bags of new clothes. He drew the line at his glasses, however. He’d tried an ocularis charm on his eyes once and had found it impossible to see the Snitch (a common psychological phenomenon, Hermione had explained, or tried to). But he let Amaryll dress him in loose black trousers that glimmered slightly and a tight dark-gray pullover shirt with the same glimmery effect. She gelled his hair so that bits of it stood out on purpose instead of accidentally, and pronounced him ready.

The outfit worked astoundingly well. Three hours later Harry was dancing with a woman who didn’t have the faintest idea who “Harry Potter” was and apparently wanted to be with him anyway. He reminded himself to owl Dean and Hermione thanking them for the Muggle dance lessons they’d inflicted on the Gryffindor common room last year, even if they had been embarrassing at the time.

Four hours after that, Harry rolled over and stared at the clock. Again. Sixteen minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked. That made a full hour since he’d slid off the woman, who had proceeded to snuggle up to him and try to make conversation. He’d pretended to be asleep, and she’d drifted off soon enough. He sat up.

“Mm?” Shit, she was waking up. “Harry?”

He cast about for her name. “Helena. I have to go.”

“Mm... Stay for a bit.” Her hand latched onto his leg. He scooted away, stood up, began dressing.

“No, I have—” Think, Potter. “An early meeting tomorrow.” True enough. Quidditch practice started at eight.

“Maybe we can meet for lunch? Dinner?” She was really awake now.

“Well, I—”

“Why don’t you leave your number? I’ll ring you.”

Harry was getting desperate. He leaned over her, took her face in his hands. “Helena. Go. To. Sleep.” A magical suggestion. She was out like the light Harry flicked off on his way out.

He took a long shower at his flat. He’d obeyed Snape, but it felt more like betrayal. Somehow he didn’t think this particular episode would make it into the next letter.

III: A Brief Snape Interlude

Severus Snape drank his scotch wearily. The Whiztel job was far more exhausting than he’d told Harry in his guarded letters. He flipped through the post absently. Work, work, an invitation to lecture at Durmstrang— that could be interesting; a few fliers for new potions companies; Witch Weekly— what the hell? He certainly did not subscribe to that particular waste of parchment. He picked it up. The pages opened to a picture of Harry, looking tousled and, well, adorable. “Harry Potter, Wizarding World Savior and— Lowly Quidditch Reserve?” A note fell out. “For your enjoyment. RL.” Snape sighed. He didn’t know if he liked Lupin’s odd new sense of humor. Harry grinned shyly at him from the photo, then blushed. Snape hastily drank some more scotch and turned his attention to the text.

“WW lunched with Harry Potter at the Leaky Cauldron recently. The modest celebrity arrived promptly and responded politely to the various fans and well-wishers who greeted him on the way to our table. Over a meal of roast chicken and salad (Coach Winifred Whippet has put the Wasps on a no-carbohydrate diet), he talked about his new life.

WW: How do you find professional Quidditch?

HP: Clearly, it’s much more intense and demanding than the amateur level. I feel very fortunate to have this opportunity.

WW: Winifred Whippet is notorious for her locker-room tirades and for insulting her players. How has she been treating the Boy Who Lived?

HP: Coach Whippet is very successful. I wouldn’t presume to question her methods, because they work. [Potter refused to answer any more questions about Whippet.]

WW: Are you disappointed that you’re still a reserve?

HP: I have a great deal to learn. Floris [Thrimblemere, the Wasps’ first-string seeker] is an extremely talented player. I’m nowhere near her level.

WW: How do you feel about the fact that WW readers recently voted you “Wizard most in need of a makeover”?

HP: [laughs] They did? I’ll have to tell my flat mate. [Potter shares a flat with teammate Amaryll Canasta.] She’s taken me shopping a few times.

WW: What about the rumors linking you and Canasta romantically?

HP: False. Amaryll is a delightful person. We’re friends.

WW: So, what about your personal life? Any special witch— or wizard?

HP: My personal life is personal.

WW: Does that mean yes?

HP: It means— [Potter paused.] It’s personal. This has been a delightful lunch. Thank you.

Snape looked at Harry’s photo. “Didn’t like the interviewer much, did you? But you learned tact somewhere along the line.” The impossibly green eyes glared. Snape found himself smiling slightly. He saluted Harry with his glass and drank the rest of his scotch.

IV: Is This a Date?

Harry read over the letter one last time.

“Dear Severus, The team will be playing the Tutshill Tornadoes in three weeks. I am enclosing two tickets and locker room passes in case you would like to come to the game. Feel free to bring someone.” He’d agonized over that last word. ‘Friend’—he couldn’t really imagine Snape with friends. ‘Acquaintance’ made it all too clear that he couldn’t imagine Snape with friends. He definitely didn’t want the man to bring a ‘date’ or ‘companion.’ “I understand that your work schedule continues to occupy the majority of your time, so if you like, just give the tickets to someone who can use them.” Trying not to sound too needy. He signed his name and sent it off. Hedwig had stopped giving him dubious looks after the third letter. Now they were corresponding at decorous six-day intervals. But Hedwig had a note tied to her leg when she returned later that day. “Harry— Thank you for the tickets. I will make every effort to attend. Severus.” He gave a whoop and clapped his hand over his mouth before Whippet could read him the riot act again for receiving personal mail on the pitch.

No more letters came before The Game, as Harry had begun to think of it. He actually got to play for fifteen minutes when Floris went out with a fractured elbow. He didn’t catch the Snitch. He hadn’t caught the Snitch in so long he was beginning to forget what it felt like, fluttering against his clenching hand. But at least the Tornadoes’ Seeker didn’t catch it either. That didn’t stop Whippet from ripping him a new one when she sent Floris back in with a new elbow and Harry returned to the bench.

After the game, freshly showered, he walked out of the locker room with his teammates. Reporters from Quidditch News and the sports section of the Daily Prophet clustered around them. Harry looked around hopefully and— saw Snape. Standing off to one side, expressionless. Alone. No, he was with a midget. No, a child. Harry couldn’t quite wrap his brain around that. His eyes returned to Snape’s face. He seemed almost exactly the same: stern, forbidding, imposing. Well, you idiot, it’s only been five months. Harry had to remind himself to breathe.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Floris growled.

“Um...” Harry gave up. He edged his way through the crowd.

“Harry.” The dark voice. Still no change of expression.

He smiled. “Hello.” He looked at the child. A girl, perhaps nine. She was staring at him wide-eyed. A brand-new scarf in the team colors adorned her neck, and she was clutching a program desperately. He glanced at Snape.

“Miranda is the daughter of a colleague of mine. Miranda, may I introduce Mr. Harry Potter? Miss Miranda Quentin.”

Harry leaned down and shook Miranda’s hand gravely. She was speechless. “Would you like to meet the rest of the team?” She nodded frantically. Harry looked back at the dispersing knot of reporters. Floris was openly staring at him and Snape. Shit, that idiot interviewer from Witch Weekly was there, too, also staring. Ogling. The next issue would probably have something about his and Snape’s love child. The sardonic look in Snape’s eye reassured him, and he took Miranda to meet the team. They signed her program, sending her into silent delight. Snape stayed in his corner throughout, rebuffing the approaching Witch Weekly reporter with a glare— the ‘Your very presence makes my life a misery, so I strongly suggest you leave before I turn you into a blackened pile of ash’ look. Harry returned with an incandescent Miranda. He and Snape looked at each other for a long moment.

“I need to return Miss Quentin to her parents.” A pause. Snape was uncharacteristically hesitant. Harry waited. “Perhaps, if you do not have other plans, you would like to join me for dinner. At my house.”

Harry nodded. He felt like Miranda, struck speechless. Snape handed him a slip of paper. Directions. “You may Floo in, or fly. Seven o’clock.” An order, not a request. Harry nodded again. Snape beckoned to Miranda and swept off. She scampered after him, turning once to wave. He waved back. His hand felt weak.

He flew in. Falling out of Snape’s fireplace covered in soot didn’t strike him as an appropriate beginning for their— date? He realized he had no idea what this meal meant. He lifted his hand to knock. It opened before his knuckles touched the dark wood.

“Harry. I felt you standing here. Come in.” He followed Snape into the entry hall, was led into a large sitting room. The familiar green velvet couch was there. Snape handed him a glass of wine and motioned to a small table set for two.

“We’ll eat in here, if you don’t mind.”

Dinner was served by an amazingly silent house elf. Clearly another creature who had received some Snape training. They ate quietly, just a few comments about the food, Snape’s house, the game. The elf cleared the dishes. Snape stood and motioned to the sofa. Harry sat there obediently and gazed into the fire. A glass of scotch appeared in front of him. He sipped.

Snape was looking at him seriously. The same unfamiliar air of hesitation. He had sat, not on the sofa next to Harry, but in the armchair next to it. So.

“I don’t know what to say,” Harry heard himself confessing. Wonderful. Another suave moment from the Potter corner. But Snape’s lips were twitching in the way that signaled his version of a smile.

“You don’t need to say anything.” A reassuring murmur. “I’m simply—” He broke off suddenly. “You played well today.”

“No,” said Harry disgruntedly, “I played like crap. I’m only on the team because I’m a celebrity.” Good god, he was in full-blown confessional mode. But the words kept coming out. “They use me for publicity. But since I hate interviews, that’s not working so well. I think they’re going to cut me.” He hadn’t even realized that until he said it.

The odd uncertainty from Snape. “I may— my presence today might have made things. Worse.” He topped off his drink. “Winifred Whippet has never been fond of me.” A deliberate swallow. “Her brother was killed by Death Eaters. Before you were born.”

Harry’s head jerked up.

“No, I wasn’t one of them. But...” Snape paused. “You should know that. Er. Being seen with me could hurt you.” In a very quiet voice. “I shouldn’t have come today. But I—” He stopped abruptly.

Harry realized he was holding his breath. “You—” wanted to see me, wanted to see me, wanted to see me. Please let that be it.

“But I did.”

Well, all right. He drank some scotch to cover up his disappointment. “You were cleared by the Ministry.” In a blanket pardon that had taken in Sirius as well as Remus, although no one would tell him exactly why Remus needed to be pardoned. “You were fighting beside me when we killed Voldemort.” And the Dark Mark had sizzled off Snape’s skin, and he’d fallen to his knees clutching his arm and making a strange sound that could have been laughter or a sob...

“People remember what they want to remember.” Flatly. “Most have trouble with complexity. They’re like children that way. That’s why—” He cut himself off again.

Harry was perched on the edge of the sofa. “That’s why what?”

A sigh. “That’s why I was the villain when you were a child.” A pause. “You needed— categories.”

Harry thought about that for a while. In a way, it had been comforting to divide his world into good/evil. “Yes. I did. Then.”

Another twitch of the lips. Harry had a sudden flash of their softness against his mouth, cheek. Snape made a little noise. Harry realized he was staring at the other man’s lips. He dragged his eyes away.

“You’d better go now.” Gently.

“But I—” He stopped. Don’t beg, don’t plead. Don’t even ask. “All right.” He stood up reluctantly. Snape walked him to the door. They looked at each other for a minute.

Harry stretched out his hand, and Snape took it in his.

“Harry.” A quick squeeze of the long fingers, and he had his hand back. It tingled faintly.

As he flew away, he brought the hand Snape had touched to his face. Mint/lemon wafted up to him. He smiled.

V: Tabloids

Three days later Harry walked into the locker room to change before practice. A strange hush fell over the room as he approached his locker.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. There was a page stuck to it, clearly blown up from the latest Witch Weekly. The bitch had had a camera! “Boy Who Lived With Death Eater Lover” blared the headline over a picture of him and Snape, in profile. Snape looked the same as usual; his shuttered face gazed down intently at Harry, who was. Shit! SHIT! Staring up at Snape with an extraordinarily fatuous look on his face. At least they weren’t moving. As he thought this, he saw his image extend a hand to Snape, who took it in his. Just as he had after dinner. It couldn’t even be passed off as a handshake. Harry started banging his head against his locker. It was surprisingly soothing.

Amaryll touched his shoulder briefly. “Harry, stop it. Get changed. It’s time for practice.”

He obeyed mechanically, dragged himself onto the pitch. He had to owl Snape. He had to talk to Ron and Hermione. They were going to kill him. Oh god, Sirius. He had to—

“Potter! Get up there!”

He had to practice. Amazingly, he caught the Snitch. Whippet was in a tremendously foul mood and shrieked at him anyway. Winding up, she yelled, “And keep your personal life out of my locker room, you little pervert!”

If it had happened to anyone else, Harry would have laughed when his teammates’s heads all swiveled towards him as one. Instead he was abruptly enraged. “Hey! I’m not the one who posted that article on my locker! Besides, you wanted publicity!”

Whippet gaped briefly. Until now all he’d said to her was, “Yes, Coach.” She recovered quickly. “Not publicity about your disgusting off-pitch shenanigans! There’s a morals clause in your contract, you know! Grounds for termination!”

He wanted to shout that he and Snape weren’t even— but he didn’t want to blurt out any more about his personal life. “Prove it,” he said instead. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed several people looking impressed. By this point, people who talked back to Whippet had usually had their tongues tied by her second-favorite spell. The first, it was rumored, was an emasculation charm.

“What?”

“My ‘shenanigans.’ You’ll have to prove that I’ve engaged in them. And—” he paused, but people on the team clearly hated him anyway, so what the hell. “And you’ll have to prove that I’m doing something worse than my teammates.” Several of whom stared at their feet intently. Including Amaryll. He felt like a heel about it, but he would make Whippet cut him on talent or lack thereof, not because she wanted to punish him for holding Snape’s hand.

“Get out of my sight! This meeting is over!”

One down, two to go. Back in the flat, Amaryll avoiding him pointedly, he wrote to Snape quickly, without bothering too much with his wording. “Dear Severus, I am enclosing a clipping from Witch Weekly in case you haven’t seen it yet. Once again, you were right. Whippet was furious. I should have met you elsewhere, but—” Why hadn’t he? He’d known somewhere that having Snape meet him in front of the team would reveal their— whatever it was they had; if they had anything at all— to at least a few other people. But Snape had known that too, and come anyway. Interesting. “It didn’t seem like it would be a big deal. I’m sorry if this causes you problems. I got Whippet to back down.” He stared at his quill thoughtfully, and added, “In my opinion, it was worth it.” He signed his name and sent Hedwig off before he could think about it any more.

Finally, he Apparated in Ron and Hermione’s flat that evening and was met by a barrage of questions. Why hadn’t he told them? Why Snape, of all people? Why hadn’t he told them? What was he thinking? Why hadn’t he told them? He let them rant until they fell silent and stared at him. The way that they were picking up one another’s habits was disconcerting. He sighed.

“Can I have a drink?”

Ron summoned a beer. Harry drank half of it in one pull. “Thanks.” They were still staring. Waiting.

“We’re not— not—” Finally he blurted out, “We’re not having sex.” And blushed. Would he ever grow out of that? At least Ron and Hermione seemed embarrassed too. “The other day was the first time I’ve seen him since I left school. But we owl. Honestly, I don’t really know what’s going on. That’s why I didn’t say anything to anybody.”

“Is he— harassing you?” Hermione asked. Oh. That probably was how it would seem to most people.

“No. In fact, he... um... He turned me down. Kind of. But not really. It’s hard to explain.”

“Obviously,” said Ron. “Harry, I just don’t— Snape?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. They waited. Perhaps he could practice on them, get ready for the confrontation with Sirius. “You really want to hear this?”

They nodded, Hermione a bit more eagerly than Ron.

He drank the rest of the beer. “Um. Well, you know, I started to like him in fifth year.” He added hastily, “Not like that.” Ron relaxed slightly. “I started to see him better. What he’s like. And then after a while...”

“Right, that’s enough,” said Ron quickly. Harry grinned.

Hermione had her inquisitive face on. She could be almost as bad as Snape in Death Eater interrogation mode. “So, Harry, what is he like?”

“You mean, what do I see in him?” He hefted his empty beer pointedly. Ron got him another one. “Well, for one thing, he’s incredibly brave. I can’t even imagine hanging out with Voldemort on a regular basis, but he did it for years. He’s clever— and funny,” he said reluctantly.

“FUNNY?” Ron’s eyes were actually bulging. Harry had never seen that on anyone before.

“Well, didn’t you ever want to laugh in Potions? And not just at Crabbe and Goyle.”

They shook their heads dumbly.

Okay, so maybe Harry had been the only one who thought some of Snape’s snarky comments were hilarious. He shrugged again. “I suppose— I just feel right with him.” He drank some of his beer. He’d explained as much as he could.

“Well. I still don’t understand it, and I don’t like it, but I know how you get.” Ron laughed suddenly. “At least it’s not Malfoy!”

“Oh, Ron, that’s disgusting!” Hermione snickered. She turned serious. “Do you—what do you want, Harry?”

A sigh. “Good question. I think I want to—” he looked at the floor. Much easier to talk to the carpet. “I want to be with him. But I— we—” He started over. “I’m not sure what he wants, and we— haven’t talked much.”

They did the creepy staring in unison thing again.

“Can we change the subject now?” Harry asked. “I brought tickets for the next few games, in case you can get off work.” This successfully distracted Ron, although Hermione kept looking at him thoughtfully. All in all, however, the conversation hadn’t gone as horribly as he’d feared.

VI: Presents and Presence

Harry stared at his calendar. The Quidditch All-Star Break and Valentine’s Day were still in the same two-week period. He hadn’t seen Snape since their—whatever—in early November. They had continued to owl, the same slightly stilted notes, at regular intervals. Whippet and his teammates had calmed down somewhat when it became apparent that Snape wasn’t going to act like a typical groupie. Harry entertained himself for a few minutes with the image of an infatuated Snape trailing around after the team, perhaps baking little treats for his favorite players. No, brewing special potions. The calendar was still there when he snapped out of this enjoyable fantasy. So was his piece of parchment.

“Dear Severus, The Quidditch All-Star Break runs from 5 February to 19 February. As I won’t be participating in it, I have two weeks free. Perhaps we could see each other at some point.” That sounded good. Only after Hedwig had departed did he realize he’d signed it, “Yours, Harry.”

He returned to the flat six days later to find two letters awaiting him. He opened Snape’s first. “Dear Harry, If you like, perhaps you would care to spend some time at my house. I will have to work, but the hours have stabilized somewhat as the director’s nephew was reassigned to another division after my repeated requests, and I was able to take on a slightly less imbecilic assistant. 9 February to 17 February would be the least disruptive time for your visit.” Disruptive! As if Harry were some wayward child. But perhaps Snape did still see him that way... “I would like to see you.” Harry grinned. “Yours, Severus.”

His heart sped up. He read the letter again, then set it aside and opened the other one.

“Dear Harry, I know the Quidditch All-Star Break is coming up and wondered if you wanted to come stay with Remus and me for a few days. We’d love to see you; it’s been ages.” He’d seen them at Christmas, five weeks ago. Not really ages. It had been ages since he’d seen Snape. “Love, Sirius.” He reminded himself to thank Remus again for concealing various copies of Witch Weekly from Sirius. He owled them that he had other plans, but thanks anyway; owled Snape accepting his invitation; and set off to Diagon Alley for some shopping.

Ten days later, Harry said, “It’s not going well.” He was lunching with Ron and Hermione. Which was nice, but since he was visiting Snape, he’d hoped to be ensconced in the man’s bed at best, with him at the very least. “That’s why I thought I’d come by to see you. He’s at work all day and half the night. Something about a sudden emergency in the lab. What kind of emergency can you have in potions, for crying out loud?” He sighed and stabbed at his fish. “And I’m really, really tired of this no-carb diet.”

Ron was completely failing to look sympathetic. Hermione was doing slightly better.

“Have you been able to talk to him at all?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Herm. I’ve barely seen him since I got there four days ago. I get up, and he’s already gone. I wait up for him, he stumbles in, eats dinner, has a scotch with me, doesn’t say anything, and goes to bed. ALONE,” he added just to see if he could make Ron blush. Success.

Ron sought revenge. “At least now you know what it would be like to live with him. Like being a Muggle housewife.”

Harry sighed again and picked at his broccoli morosely. “Whatever. Anyway, I don’t want to take up your whole day off, so I’ll Floo back in a bit.”

He fell out of the giant fireplace in Snape’s sitting room. A young man was standing there. “Oh. Hello. Harry Potter, isn’t it?”

He really hated that scar sometimes. He brushed himself off. “Yes.”

“Julian Whistleton. I’m Severus’s laboratory assistant.”

The handsome assistant! Tall, trim, blond hair and blue eyes. A charming smile. With dimples. Harry hated him instantly. And why was he calling Snape “Severus”?

“Nice to meet you,” Harry gritted out.

Snape swept into the room carrying a tray of phials. “Julian, here’s the— oh, Harry. Hello.”

“Hello.” Harry wanted to sulk. Snape and the assistant instantly fell into a highly technical conversation about potions. Harry could only follow about ten percent of it. He plopped onto the green sofa. Wasn’t the assistant standing awfully close to Snape? The dark head bent next to the blond one as they looked at the phials. Vengefully, Harry shook some more soot out of his hair and onto the sofa.

“Harry, I need to go back to the laboratory. I’ll see you later.” Snape and the assistant were out the door before Harry could say goodbye.

Dinner came and went with no sign of Snape. Harry gave up and went to bed. He shot awake some time in the early hours. What— oh, right. He’d activated the spell that would alert him when Snape returned. He got up, threw on his robe, and went to look for the other man.

He heard the music before he saw him. Snape was sitting in his study in near-darkness, listening to Muggle rock music. A husky, vaguely familiar voice was singing,

//Walk down the streets of this city
See all the girls look so pretty
All the smiling faces go and pass you by
It don’t make a difference no matter how hard you try//

Harry was poised on the threshold. He saw that Snape had a glass in his hand; his eyes were closed. His face for once was unguarded. He seemed exhausted, and sad.

//Sometimes you get that old lost feeling
Sometimes it hits you when you’re feeling down
It’s that old feeling honey brings you down
I said it makes you crawl//

Snape opened his eyes suddenly. He waved his hand, and the music shut off. “Harry. I know you’re there.”

He stepped into the room cautiously. “What were you listening to?”

A pause. “Nothing important.”

“Right. That’s why you’re in here at—” he looked at his watch— “three in the morning, drinking and playing records.” He shifted so he could see Snape’s face again, but it had returned to being closed-off. He sighed. “I really wish you’d talk to me.”

Silence.

Harry waited.

“Talk to you. About what?”

This was his chance. So why couldn’t he think of anything to say? Perhaps because Snape’s tone suggested that he couldn’t possibly imagine talking to Harry about anything that mattered. “I— anything. Work. That song you were listening to. Why you drink scotch. Why you invited me here to spend the week and then ignored me!” He realized he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t stop. “I thought I was coming here so we— so we could—” He faltered.

“Yes? Do go on, I’m riveted.” That condescending drawl. A tone he hadn’t heard from Snape, at least not directed towards him, since he left school. Since the night of their kiss. Which seemed very long ago now.

Harry muttered, “So we could work on our relationship.” He sounded like one of the more awful articles in Witch Weekly.

“Our. Relationship.” Only Snape could make two innocent words sound so loathsome.

“What do you call it, then?” Harry couldn’t remember ever having been simultaneously sleepy and pissed-off before. Yet another new reaction Snape roused in him.

Snape whispered, “I don’t call it anything.” He drank his scotch quickly. “I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same.” He stood.

Harry’s simmering anger threatened to overflow. He controlled it quickly. He’d lost his temper once and made all the glass in the room explode; he didn’t want Snape to see a display of that magnitude. “Severus. Please.” Great, so he’d beg instead.

Snape walked past him. “Harry. Leave it until the morning. I really— not now.” He left the room without another word.

He’d fucked up and he didn’t even know what he’d done. And he was still wildly angry. He felt trapped suddenly. He wandered back to his room absently, stood there staring at his still-packed bag. He hauled out the book he’d bought for Snape. Like a besotted fool, he’d brought a Valentine’s Day present. He put “Dark Potions and their Antidotes” by Rotolibius Castellat, 1553, one of twenty-seven known copies in circulation, on the small table by the window. Then he grabbed the bag, went to the sitting room, and Floo’d back to his flat. He’d owl Sirius in the morning, see if he could still visit.

VII: Discoveries

A day and a half later he was flying circles around Sirius, who had decided to take out his bike. “See, you look cool, but I’m kicking your arse!” he shouted gleefully over the purr of the engine and the roar of the rushing wind.

Sirius wasn’t listening. “Someone’s here,” he yelled. Sirius and Remus still had their elaborate set of wards and anti-apparation spells up; most people had taken theirs down after Voldemort’s death, but Remus simply said, “They stay.” They landed and headed to the house on foot. When they entered the living room, Sirius, a step in front of Harry, came to a dead stop. Harry crashed into him.

“What the HELL is he doing here?” Sirius sounded absolutely enraged. Harry had only heard him like that a few times before, usually in reference to— oh no. He craned his neck around Sirius’s wide back.

“Black. I’d say it was nice to see you, but I’ve taken a vow of truth-telling.” The smoky voice. The dark eyes flicked to Harry briefly, warmed slightly.

Harry pushed past Sirius’s resisting body. “Hello.” He was tense.

Behind him, he heard Sirius muttering something. Then he burst out, “Remus, he’s in our house! What does he want with you?”

Harry blurted, “It’s me. Um. I think. And— why would he be here to see Remus?”

Remus’s head jerked away from Sirius. “Severus. You haven’t told him?”

A blur of voices then: “Harry! Snape’s after you? I’ll kill him. I’ll kill—” “I thought... Er. I thought you would tell him.” “You evil bastard!” “Tell me what? Sirius, calm down.” “You need to be the one to tell him.” “Tell me what?” “You— you come after everyone in my life! Why can’t you just stay the fuck away?” “SIRIUS.”

Harry was impressed. He knew how hard it was to stop his godfather in full cry, and Remus had done it with a single word. Sirius slumped onto the couch, still glaring at Snape. But: “Tell me what?”

Snape and Remus glanced at each other. A terrible suspicion was starting to make its way to the surface of Harry’s mind.

Sirius mumbled vindictively, “Tell you that—”

“Sirius.” Remus looked at his lover. “That’s enough.” He turned to Snape. “You need to tell him. Now.”

Harry’s hands shook. He clenched them together.

“Harry.” Snape made as if to take a step closer to him, checked himself. “Lupin and I— Remus and I—” He swallowed. Harry knew what was coming. It was like the moment in which he fell off his broomstick: knowing disaster loomed, powerless to do anything but let the wind push him inexorably downwards. “We were... together.”

“When?” Harry whispered. He glanced quickly at Sirius. His godfather radiated anger and misery in equal proportions. “At school?”

“Harry. Could we— discuss this elsewhere?” Now Snape did take that step towards him.

Harry licked his dry lips. “No. Now. Here.”

Remus sat on the sofa next to Sirius, drew one of his hands into his own.

“Was it when you were at school?”

Snape looked supremely uncomfortable. “In a manner of speaking.”

Harry was falling off his broomstick again. “Oh, no. No. No. No.” As if he could make it not be true.

“Yes.” A low voice. “When Remus was the DADA teacher.”

“No. No. Oh god.” His stomach roiled. He looked at Remus suddenly. “So when I told you Snape would do anything to get the job, I was only half right. He’d do anything to get the teacher.” He clapped his hand to his mouth and bolted out of the room. He managed to make it to the kitchen sink before he retched up his breakfast.

A hand touched his back soothingly. Sirius. He stuck his head under the tap. The water sluiced down his hot face. The hand was patting him uncertainly. He didn’t know if he could actually drown himself in a kitchen sink. It seemed like an undignified way for the Boy Who Lived to go. He spat and straightened up. Sirius handed him a towel. He buried his face in it.

“Harry. It’s— it’s going to be all right.”

He emerged from the towel. Sirius stroked his hair as if he were a child. “If that’s true, why were you so—” pissed off. Outraged. Frantic. “Upset?”

Sirius sighed. “Because I’m an idiot.” He grinned half-heartedly. “No surprises there, right?”

“Are they—” He didn’t know what he wanted to ask. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?” He blurted out, “I was at his house before I came here. He wouldn’t talk to me.”

Another sigh. “It’s... a really long story. And Snape— well. Most of it isn’t my story to tell.” Sirius looked at him intently. “For god’s sake, Harry. Snape.” He stopped short. A remarkable display of self-restraint. It only lasted a few seconds. “What the hell are you thinking! Are you trying to drive me completely mad!”

Cleansing anger flushed through Harry. “This isn’t about you, Sirius!” He felt instantly guilty. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know—” He whispered, “I don’t even know.” Louder. “If this— if I— would you be all right with it?”

Another deep sigh. “Eventually, I suppose.”

Harry just looked at him. Sirius was really an atrocious liar.

“Well, probably not. But I— I’ll give it a damn good try. It’s just— it’s a shock.” Sirius stroked his hair again. “I think I always thought you’d end up with one of the Weasleys.”

“Ew!” Harry exclaimed without thinking. “I mean, they’re all so— red. And pink.” He shuddered. “No. Yuck.”

Sirius laughed, then sobered. “Come on. We should go back.”

As they headed back down the hallway, Harry heard Remus saying intensely, “What is it? Do you want me to say that I’m sorry? I can. But I’m not sorry for—” He broke off as Harry and Sirius approached. “Harry. I—” He stopped.

“It’s—” He couldn’t bring himself to say, it’s all right. He looked at Snape. “I want to talk. Will you?”

Snape seemed— grateful. “Yes. Yes.” Harry felt, not reassured, but slightly better. “Come home with me.”

They Floo’d back. Harry stood in the middle of the sitting room. He looked at Snape, then sat on the sofa. He pointed to the spot next to him. Snape hesitated long enough to make Harry’s stomach knot up again, then fetched a bottle of Macallan and two glasses.

“It’s early, but—”

Harry nodded. He accepted his glass, took a sip. Snape sat next to him. There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable.

“Harry. This— may be. Will be. A— difficult— conversation for me. But I want to have it. Need to have it.”

Harry waited.

“I... I don’t know how— where to start.” Snape shot him a glance. It said, help me.

Oh. He should start with something easy. “Why did you come today?”

Snape hadn’t been expecting that. “I found the book this morning.” His face softened slightly. “It was for me, wasn’t it?”

A nod. “It was right... for you.”

“Yes. I’ve— been wanting it for some time. There’s a copy at Flourish and Blotts, but they won’t sell it to me.” His face was stark again.

Harry tried to imagine the scene, and failed. “If it makes you feel better, that’s where I got it.”

“Ah. Yes.” A brief pause. “So. I found the book. I realized— I knew I had to see you. I went to your flat. I’m afraid I woke up your flatmate. She was not pleased to see me.”

Probably an understatement, knowing Amaryll in the mornings.

“She told me where you were.”

Harry was intent on the other man’s face. A wing of dark hair had fallen forward over Snape’s cheek. Unthinking, he reached out to push it back. He’d never touched Snape’s hair before. It was surprisingly soft. Not greasy, but shiny. Snape was very still under the slight caress. “Can you tell me about— about you and Remus? Um. Just—” He remembered Sirius’s words. “Just the parts that are yours to tell.” He added quickly, “What you want me to know.”

Snape looked into his glass. “I’ll try.” He sipped. “We were both— we were in similar situations. I said that to him once. Er. The song I was listening to. When you—”

“Yes.” Harry didn’t want to make Snape say it.

“That was Remus.”

“Do you mean— that was what he was like?” //That old lost feeling brings you down, it makes you crawl.// He’d wondered occasionally about Remus’ life during the twelve years Sirius was in Azkaban. //Makes you crawl.// God.

“Mm. Yes. But— he wrote that song. What you heard was him singing it. And I— felt like that too. So.” Another sip. “He wasn’t in love with me. I always knew that. He told me once that werewolves don’t mate for life. But I know he did.”

Harry’s stomach was painfully tight. “What about you?” He put his glass down on the table, clasped his hands together.

Silence. The tightness was moving up into his chest. Then Snape touched his shoulder lightly. “This is one of the difficult parts.” He brushed his fingers lightly over Harry’s cheek, his chin, turned Harry’s face toward him. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. But I did.” A whisper. “Love him.”

The tightness was in his throat now. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. But he made a little sound. Snape’s fingers were still on his jaw. They gripped him by the chin abruptly. “Harry.” He tried to pull away. The fingers didn’t let him move. “It’s over. It was over almost five years ago. Even if Black hadn’t returned, it would have ended. Your godfather simply— precipitated matters.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He shut his eyes.

“Harry. Look at me.” Pause. “Please.” The fingers gentled suddenly, caressed his cheek.

He could resist Snape’s strength, but not his weakness. He opened his eyes.

“I’m not in love with Remus. There’s— you—” the other man broke off.

A little thread of hope spun out behind Harry’s eyes. A few things were starting to make sense. He gathered his thoughts, his courage. “Severus.” He’d said the name so few times it still felt strange on his tongue. “I want to be with you.” The long fingers stilled on his face. “Do you want to be with me?” Say yes, say yes, say yes. A pause. SAY YES! His heart was thundering.

“Yes, but—” Another one of those maddening pauses.

Harry wanted to scream in frustration. “But WHAT?” He turned his face and kissed the warm hand. “I love you,” he mumbled into the palm. “Can you please get over him?” Oh, no. I will not speak without thinking, I will not speak without thinking... But when he forced his eyes up, Snape was staring at him. Unguarded. He looked amazed. Almost— happy, Harry realized.

“You— what?”

“I love you,” Harry repeated more loudly.

Definitely something like happiness there. In fact, that strongly resembled— wow. A smile. “Thank you.”

Harry felt a matching joy swell up inside him. He grinned. “You love me too, right?”

A pause with the air of mischief in it.

“Right?”

“Loath though I am to admit it, Mr. Potter, you are indeed correct.” Snape was clearly perking up.

Harry laughed. “I’ll just sit here for a moment and enjoy the novelty. The ‘refreshing novelty’, if I recall correctly.”

Snape tugged at his arm. “Why don’t you sit here?” He pointed at his outstretched legs.

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to— sit on your lap?”

“Mm.” He quirked his eyebrow. “You might like it too, you know.”

He did want to make Snape happy. Awkwardly he scrambled onto the other man’s lap. He’d never sat on anyone’s lap before. Well, when he was a baby he probably had, but he didn’t remember that. Snape settled him so that Harry was sitting across his legs, leaning against one of Snape’s arms. “Your turn to be right. I do like this.”

“Good.” A little sigh.

Harry rested his head on Snape’s shoulder. “I think we have some more things to talk about.”

Snape leaned forward carefully and picked his glass off the table. He took a sip, handed it to Harry. “Yes. It’s probably your turn to confess about your previous affairs.”

“I thought they were just little flings. And that you knew all about them anyway.”

“Indeed. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Cassandra Jenkins. Theo Palmer. Miriniti Sabelius and Fiona Cartwright.”

Harry gaped. Snape did know everything. “It’s not like I had a threesome with Miri and Fi.”

“No, it was so much more interesting. Breaking up with one to date her best friend. Sowing dissent among the ranks of the loyal Hufflepuffs. You acquired a bit more cachet among the Slytherins for that particular stunt.”

Harry blushed. “I— it seemed like acceptable behavior at the time.” When he thought he was going to die in the near future.

“So. Do I know all about your relatively unsordid past?” Snape’s grasp tightened minutely around Harry.

Well, he’d practically been ordered to do it. “Um...”

The embrace grew more forceful. Harry gasped. He felt Snape compelling himself to loosen his hold.

“Once. A Muggle. I— in August. It— it was ‘a bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe.’” He could read, too. “You know.” He decided to change the subject. “What about you?”

Snape plucked the glass out of Harry’s hand and took a deep swallow. “Oh, the usual. Death Eater orgies, the occasional one-night stand. Remus.”

Harry blinked. “Orgies?”

“Yes, you know. Deviant sadomasochistic practices, ritual deflowerings— I’m sure your godfather would be happy to tell you all the rumors, if he hasn’t already.” A little pause. “Harry. It’s a joke.”

Harry giggled. Giggled! God, he must be nervous. “Good, because I’ve seen some of those Death Eaters. Ick.” He rested his head on Snape’s shoulder again. “Why don’t you just skip to the parts with me in them?”

The smoky voice whispered in his ear, “We haven’t had any of those yet.”

Harry shivered. It took a moment before he managed to say, “But we will, right?”

That mischievous pause again.

“Right?”

Snape tipped his head up and looked at him. “Harry.” Very serious now. “Are you... are you sure that this is what you want?” The dark eyes were burning into him. “I’m twice your age. A former Death Eater. And you— well. You can have anyone. Do anything.”

What did the man want, an engraved invitation? Oh. He probably did. Or the emotional equivalent. Harry stared back. He knew he had to get this right. “I found a better poem than that lust in action one.” He took a deep breath, trying to get the lines straight. “‘In my arms till break of day let the living creature lie, mortal, guilty, but to me the entirely beautiful.’”

Snape was completely still, staring at him. Harry went on. “I know what I want. Who I want. I want to be with you. I want— I want to make you smile again. I want to listen to your snippy, sarcastic comments. I want to hear all about the bungling incompetents at your lab. I want to take you to Diagon Alley. Hell, I want to read about us in Witch Weekly.” The memory of that photo made him blush. “Perhaps without pictures, though. I want to— I want you.” He whispered, “The entirely beautiful.” He stole the scotch back, drank. “Yes, you’re older. That seems like a big deal now because I’m eighteen. But in ten years, it won’t be.” He heard Snape make a little noise, plowed on determinedly. “Like this other thing I read.” He quoted again, “‘Only our love has no decay; this, no tomorrow has, nor yesterday; running it never runs from us away, but truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.’”

Snape appeared unwillingly impressed. Harry grinned. “I’m usually too tired after Quidditch to do anything but read.” He didn’t know how Amaryll did it, playing all day and clubbing all night. “And look at Dumbledore and McGonagall. He’s eighty years older! When she was eighteen, he was ninety-eight!”

Snape was distracted. “You know about them?”

“Well, yes.” He confessed, “Once the twins had these X-ray vision glasses they wanted me to try out, and I saw her grabbing his knee under the table at dinner.” The memory still made him a little queasy. He sipped the scotch again.

A chuckle. Then, more seriously: “It won’t be easy. Being with me.”

“Probably not, but you know I like a challenge. And you’ll have to put up with me, too.” Time to turn the tables. “Are you sure about this?”

“YES.” No hesitation whatsoever. Harry’s heart started pounding. “Harry. I need to tell you something. It will most likely sound— peculiar.”

Harry nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.” He could really grow to like the whole lap thing.

“I knew we were— I knew you were.” A little exasperated noise. “I knew we would... be like this.”

Harry was puzzled. “Well, yes. I mean, I kissed you.” He was still astounded by his own daring. Idiocy. Whatever.

“No.” Snape took his glass back. He drained it and set it on the table. “This is the— peculiar— part. I knew before that. I always knew.”

Harry blinked. “You— when I was—” That was pretty creepy to think about. “When I was a kid?” He shifted slightly.

Snape looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t. But I knew.”

Harry chewed over that statement for a moment, then gave up. “I don’t understand. How did you know? And—” He went for broke. “Did you want me— back then?”

“No!” Relief flooded through Harry. “NO. You were a child!” Snape rubbed his hand over his face. “God, you must think I’m some kind of— you must think I’m sick.”

Harry reached up and touched the soft hair again. “No. I’m just— I’m trying to understand. How did you know, if you didn’t— if you weren’t— attracted?”

An expression of acute embarrassment crossed Snape’s face. He mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said, I. Had. A. Vision.” Defiantly.

Taken aback, Harry laughed. “You had a vision. Professor “Divination is the province of charlatans” Snape? Professor “Divination is the last refuge of the magically unskilled” Snape? Prof—”

“Yes!” The other man snapped. “I had a vision. The summer before you came to Hogwarts. I saw myself— my older self— with a young man, and I knew he was my— well. Imagine, if you will, my horror when I saw you in the Great Hall, a scrawny, obnoxious, eleven-year-old twerp, and knew that you would grow up to be that young man. And— and then I had to make you loathe me.”

“Well, you didn’t do a very good job of it,” Harry said bracingly. “Obviously.”

“My heart wasn’t in it.” Dryly. “At any rate. I chased around after you tidying up your messes, trying to keep you from killing yourself, and struggling— often in vain, I might add— to teach you so that you’d know what you needed to in order to stay alive. And one day I looked at you, and I saw the young man of my vision. That was your seventh year.”

“Yes,” breathed Harry. He was deeply moved by this. “I felt you looking.” His heart was threatening to burst out of his chest again. He twined his fingers through the silky hair and tilted his face up. All he had to do was lean in a fraction and— and then Snape’s mouth was on his. The arm around his back pulled him close. He let his tongue slip out. Snape made a tiny noise, opened his mouth. The kiss stretched out; Harry nipped at Snape’s lower lip, stroked his tongue over the space between upper lip and teeth, felt Snape bite him gently. He moaned. The hand on his back slid up into his hair, wrapped around the back of his skull, pressed him even more firmly into the kiss. It was better than flying. Hell, he was flying. His mouth tingled when the kiss finally ended. He realized he was hard as his broomstick, and that his thigh was resting against a similar hardness.

“Harry.” Snape bent his head and kissed Harry’s throat. “I don’t want to rush you.” But the warm lips were still working over his throat.

“Sev, it’s been almost a year. Longer if you count it from all those steamy looks. That’s not rushing anything.” He shivered as Snape’s teeth found his earlobe. “Oh, god. That’s—”

“Steamy looks, hm?” Directly into his ear. Another nip.

“Yes.” He squirmed. “Like you wanted to eat me alive.”

A third bite. “I see you’ve added mind reading to your undoubtedly long list of talents.” Snape’s free hand started working on the buttons of Harry’s robe, stopped abruptly. “You’re sure.”

“YES.” Harry tried to encourage the hand to continue unbuttoning, but it resisted.

“Not here. Bedroom.”

Harry slid off the other man’s lap reluctantly, stood shakily. A sudden thought occurred to him. “What about work?”

“Fuck work,” Snape announced unexpectedly. Harry gave a snort of surprised laughter. “No, Julian can take care of things. He already knows I’m taking the day off.”

“That sure of yourself?”

Snape stood and took Harry’s hand, began leading him out of the sitting room. “If you— if.... Well. I wouldn’t have been in any condition to work.”

Harry drew Snape’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it as gently as he could. “I don’t like your assistant,” he heard himself confessing.

They were halfway up the stairs. Snape paused on the landing and simply looked at Harry, eyebrow arched. Harry muttered, “He’s too good-looking.”

The eyebrow twitched again. “Harry. Do you ever look in a mirror? Besides, Julian is an insipid twit.” He started up the stairs again, head turned away. “What perplexes me is why you’d look twice at me.” A very quiet voice.

Harry laughed again. “My turn to ask if you ever look in a mirror.” He caught up at the top of the stairs, turned Snape to face him. He ran his hands up the long arms. “I want you. In every way.” They kissed again. This was even better, since he was pressed fully against his— against his lover, he thought with a shimmer of delight. He rubbed against him deliberately.

Snape broke away. “Bedroom. NOW.”

Snape’s bedroom was huge. Actually, the bed was huge. Harry raised his eyebrows. “Expecting company?”

“You insolent brat. Come here.” Snape unfastened Harry’s robe quickly and pushed it off his shoulders. He pulled the T-shirt out of the waistband of Harry’s jeans and hauled it over his head impatiently. “Oh. My.”

Harry grinned. “Like what you see?” Whippet’s training schedule was about to pay off in ways she’d probably never dreamed of. Since he joined the team, he’d added a layer of muscle to his frame. He wasn’t bulky, but defined. The look on Snape’s face made the grueling hours in the weight room more than worthwhile. Long fingers stretched out and trailed from his shoulders down his arms, tracing the lines of his deltoids, triceps, biceps. He turned slowly; the hands explored the flare of his lats. A kiss to the back of his neck, and Snape rotated him again. The fingers moved over his stomach muscles lightly, tickling; he twitched and giggled. He really, really hated it when he giggled. The fingers tickled him again. “Knock it off!” Giggling. A tickle. “Sev!” The touch turned firmer, zeroed in on his chest. Harry gasped when Snape reached his nipples and began pinching them lightly. Then the delicious touching stopped.

“Harry. Are you sure?”

“AARRGGH!” Then he noticed that the corner of Snape’s mouth was twitching. “I’ll show you sure, you arrogant bastard!” He launched himself at Snape, sent him tumbling backwards onto the enormous bed. Harry straddled him and began unbuttoning the other man’s robes. Snape reached up to help. Their hands met halfway; Snape took hold of Harry’s hand and brought it to his mouth. Deliberately, he sucked in two of Harry’s fingers. “Oh...” His free hand moved feebly over the unending row of shirt buttons that now confronted him. He liberated his hand reluctantly from the wet heat of Snape’s mouth and started working on the shirt.

“I’m buying you some new clothes. With zips. Wonderful invention, the zip.” Finally he bared the other man’s chest. Snape slid out from under him, sat up, unfastened his cufflinks, and shrugged off the robes and shirt completely. Harry stared at him. “Wow.”

Harry wasn’t the only one who’d been working out. He ran his hand over the firm chest, threaded his fingers through the smallish patch of black hair between the pectorals. He was painfully hard. Snape wrapped his arms around Harry and kissed him again; this was even better than the embrace in the hallway. Snape fell back, taking Harry with him so that he was stretched out full-length on top of the other man. Strong hands ran down his back and grabbed his arse. He moaned into Snape’s mouth and ground his hips into Snape’s erection. That won him a full-fledged groan. Pleased, Harry repeated his actions. Snape flipped him over suddenly, then edged off him. He slid his hand over Harry’s stomach again, touched his belt.

“May I?”

“Please.” Harry threaded his fingers through that enticing mass of soft hair as Snape unbuckled his belt and, after a second, unzipped his jeans. There was a pause. Harry’s hips jerked up involuntarily. Snape chuckled softly, then began working the jeans and boxers off. He stopped. Harry froze until he realized that Snape had moved to untie Harry’s trainers and pull them off along with his socks. Snape started massaging his feet gently.

“God!” It felt amazing. It seemed that everywhere Snape touched him sent arrows of burning pleasure flying through him. Then Snape sucked one of Harry’s toes into that hot, wet mouth. He was in paradise. He’d died and ended up in one of those afterlives where you got to be attended by creatures dedicated solely to sexual pleasure. He whimpered. After a moment he realized that Snape was trying to drag the rest of Harry’s clothes off. He shifted his legs to help the process along. And then he was naked, and Snape was staring at him avidly. He should have felt embarrassed, but the look on the other man’s face was incredibly arousing. Hmm... He brought his hands to his own torso and started touching himself, fondling his nipples. Snape was breathing heavily. Harry let one of his hands travel slowly downwards until he touched his own erection. He trailed a finger over it, rubbed the leaking tip lightly. Snape licked his lips. Harry put his finger in his mouth and sucked it.

“Oh god. You little—” Snape pounced on him. A ferocious kiss; the long body pressing into him, hips moving against him; his erection pushing into Snape’s flat, slightly-furred belly. He twined his legs around the other man’s, grabbed a handful of dark hair, and tried desperately not to come yet. Snape was kissing Harry’s hot face, his ear, his neck, and whispering to him in that incredible voice. “You are so gorgeous, Harry. I want you.” He bit at Harry’s collarbone.

“Anything you want,” gasped Harry. He was awash in delirious sensation. It occurred to him that Snape was still half-clad, and that he had his glasses on. He reached up to his face, but a hand stopped him. “Leave them on.”

He looked his question.

Snape kissed him. “I like them.”

At least someone did. He pushed at the other man’s shoulders weakly. “My turn to undress you.” Snape moved away reluctantly. Harry sat up, back to Snape, and bent forward to deal with the man’s shoes. A gasp from behind him. Harry realized his new position showed off a great deal of his arse, and blushed as he pulled off Snape’s shoes and socks. Snape had a ring on one of his toes. It was strangely familiar— oh.

“What is it?”

“The ring. Remus—” He’d seen one on Remus’s foot. Remus was always walking around barefoot, muttering about how his accelerated werewolf metabolism made him hot.

“Harry.” From close behind him. Snape had sat up too. “It’s a magical device. For transporting the wearer. Not a—”

“This metal— Sirius and Remus have matching bracelets.” He didn’t know quite what to think.

“It’s the same device. It works like a portkey, except it takes you to the other wearer, not a specific place. I—” A sigh. “Remus tends to be a bit... paranoid. Well, he has reason. So. If he needs to use it, needs to escape, he can. And if necessary, he can bring Black in.” A gentle touch to Harry’s back.

Harry made himself relax. After all, he was naked in the man’s bed. “All right.” He turned and kissed Snape. “I don’t mean to—”

Snape stroked his hair. “You have every right.”

Warmed, Harry kissed him again. And again. He was intoxicated with his lover’s mouth, the expert tongue that roamed over his. His renewed erection reminded him of his abandoned task. He unfastened Snape’s trousers— more of the damned buttons— and hauled them off. Black boxers; he should have expected those. They came off too. He pushed Snape back so he could look his fill. He loved how tall the other man was, the long lines of his body. Harry had grown a couple of unexpected inches in the last year, but he seemed to have topped off at a hair shorter than Remus. Snape still had a good seven inches on him. He drew his hands over the muscular chest and flat stomach, down to the hips. He leaned down and ran his tongue along the underside of the twitching cock. Snape groaned. Harry fastened his mouth over the head and began sucking gently, then increased the pressure slightly. He gradually took more and more of Snape into his mouth. He wrapped his hand around the base and fell into a slow rhythm of stroking and sucking. Snape was panting. Harry felt a hand trying to urge him up. He lifted his head, but kept his hand stroking almost lazily up and down. Snape was flushed, lips parted, hair beginning to tangle around his face.

“Harry. I want to have you.”

“Oh yes.” He went into his lover’s arms. Another long kiss.

Then Snape sat up, reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a small jar. He leaned back against the pillows stacked up against the headboard. “Come here.” He pulled at Harry until he got the idea. Into Snape’s lap again. Snape arranged him so that he was sitting astride the other man’s thighs, back to front. A hand on his back pushed him so that he was bending over, almost double. A good thing Whippet prized flexibility in her Seekers. Snape moaned.

Harry looked back over his shoulder and realized that he was in almost the same position he’d held when he took off Snape’s shoes, but now, with his legs spread wide by Snape’s thighs, his arse was completely exposed to Snape’s burning gaze. He blushed. Warm, slick fingers trailed over his entrance. A hand touched one of his cheeks, massaged firmly, while the fingers continued to rub over and around his opening. This delicious torment went on and on. Harry found that if he moved his hips, he could slide his prick slightly against Snape’s thighs. The teasing fingers kept stroking over his hole. Occasionally they drifted down and played with his balls, but always returned to pet and fondle his entrance. Harry heard himself whimpering again. And that velvety voice was speaking to him.

“You are so enticing. So erotic. I want you, want to touch you everywhere, kiss you everywhere, make you come—” Harry moaned. One of the long fingers began entering him leisurely. He tried to push back onto it, but Snape held him still with his other hand. The other fingers kept petting the skin around his opening. All sensation in his body seemed to be there, and in his cock, which he kept pushing against Snape’s thighs. The finger was completely inside him, unmoving. Harry pressed his hot face against Snape’s leg. Then Snape started fucking him with his finger, brushing the sensitive gland with every stroke. Harry was going to die from pleasure. “Boy Who Lived Goes Out With Bang.” And he wouldn’t regret one minute of it— another finger slid in. He shouted.

Snape halted. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” He lifted his head and looked around again. “Don’t stop!”

Oh no. Snape had that ‘I’m about to have a great deal of fun torturing you’ look on his face. The fingers pushed in deliberately. “Don’t stop that?”

Harry moaned. His head dropped once more. The fingers searched out his prostate again, and pressed it firmly. He whimpered. “Don’t stop that?” The fingers withdrew entirely. “Hm?”

“Sev...” He wiggled his arse. It brushed against something which Harry realized was Snape’s cock. He wiggled again. Snape’s turn to moan. Then the strong hands were pulling him upright.

“What—”

“Shh.” He was turned slightly and given another one of those devouring kisses, then lifted off Snape’s legs. “I want to try this.” Harry found himself kneeling upright, Snape behind him, also on his knees. Snape pushed Harry’s legs apart and resumed his torturous rubbing and caressing of the sensitized opening. Harry’s eyes closed. A hand fisted in his hair, hauled his head up. “Open your eyes.”

When Harry obeyed, he saw that Snape had conjured a full-length mirror to hover at the foot of the bed. It showed Harry a startlingly erotic picture: himself, pink-cheeked and panting, cock fully erect and pulsing; Snape behind him, the dark head bent to Harry’s exposed neck.

“Keep watching.”

The fingers re-entered him; as they stroked over the gland, Harry saw his cock jump. And again. He groaned. Snape’s tongue flicked over his ear, and the smoky voice whispered, “I want to see you come. Just like this.”

Harry couldn’t resist. He put his hand on his own prick. Snape pulled it away. “Just. Like. This.” His fingers pressed insistently inside. Snape was holding Harry’s wrists together behind his back. Harry’s reflection, arms pinned behind him, writhed helplessly as the exploring fingers probed, pushed, caressed. “I want to see you come,” Snape murmured again. “And I want to see you watching yourself come.”

The words, the image added to the intensity of sensation. Harry forced himself to keep his eyes open. They focused on the reflection of his jumping cock. Fire was racing along his nerves, tingling down his spine, concentrating in his balls. Snape pushed again and again on his prostate. Harry saw his own head fall back slightly, saw his whole body tense; felt his arse clench around the knowing fingers, felt the lightning explode through him; saw the come spurting thickly out of his cock. He shouted hoarsely. He slumped backwards onto Snape, who eased his fingers out cautiously. Then he was wrapped in Snape’s arms and kissed thoroughly.

“Oh yes, Harry. That was perfect.” Somehow Severus had conjured up a damp cloth and was gently cleaning Harry off.

He grinned. “High praise, Professor Snape. And all I had to do was have an orgasm. Wish I’d known that in sixth year.”

Severus petted his hair. “Don’t get too self-satisfied, Mr. Potter. I have more planned for you.”

“I rather thought so, judging from this.” He took the other man’s prick in his hand and squeezed lightly.

Severus gasped. “Don’t— I want to—” He folded Harry in his arms again. “I want to wait until you’re ready.”

That sounded good. Better than good. Harry luxuriated in the delightful feeling of being enclosed in Severus’ embrace. An elegant hand touched his face, neck, shoulder.

“Mm.” He licked at Severus’ neck, bit the tender skin at the side of his throat. He was already getting aroused again. He pressed his hardening cock against his lover’s belly.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Potter.” The hand curled around him and began pumping him slowly. He grew harder.

He smirked. “Hey. I’m eighteen, remember?”

“How could I forget?” A kiss. “It’s fortunate that there are potions to help slightly older men keep up with their young and dynamic lovers.” Another kiss.

“There are? Why didn’t we learn about them in class?”

A chuckle. “Discipline was difficult enough without the lot of you mixing up aphrodisiacs and slipping them to one another on the sly.” The hand on him sped up a fraction.

“Ooh, discipline.” He bit Severus’ neck again. “So if I fed you an aphrodisiac, would you give me detention?” And when had he started thinking of him as ‘Severus’ instead of ‘Snape’?

“Harry, you are an aphrodisiac.” Severus tilted his head back. Harry worked his way downward to the firm chest.

“I only asked because—” He bit at a dark nipple. “Discipline could be fun.”

“I’ll... add it... to the list.” Around gasps.

Licking. “You have a list?”

The hand fisted his cock demandingly. “Harry. I have a very long list of things I want to do with you. And after we’ve worked through them, I want to start all over again.”

Harry moaned. Hearing the exquisite voice say those things was clearly destined to drive him out of his mind with lust. He pushed into Severus’ hand. “God, yes.”

Severus sat up and leaned back against the headboard again, pointed to his lap. All right. That had been working rather damn well. “Facing me.” Harry straddled him obligingly.

Severus ran his hands down Harry’s back and clamped them on his arse. Their erections were rubbing against each other. Severus retrieved the jar of lubricant and coated his fingers. He pushed two of them inside Harry, who jerked in abrupt pleasure. The maddening finger-fucking started again. Harry was gasping for breath by the time a third finger slid in.

“Now. Please.” He panted.

“Are you—”

“If you ask me if I’m sure, I’m leaving.” A completely empty threat, but it got Severus to withdraw his fingers, grasp Harry’s hips, and position him over his slickened cock. Harry pressed down. It hurt more than he expected. He bit his lip and pressed down again.

“Wait— I’ll—” Severus caressed his hips and arse, leaned forward and kissed him deeply. “You’re so tight. I don’t want—”

“It’s. Fine.” Harry exhaled. He eased up slightly and pressed down again. “Just— it’s been a while.” It was getting better. One of the beautiful hands moved to his prick and began stroking him. Harry pushed down once more. “Ah!” A sudden jolt of pleasure. He shifted again. Severus was gasping for breath, face flushed, and staring at Harry as if he wanted to consume him utterly. One more push, and Severus was completely inside. They stayed like that for an untold moment, until Harry began to move. All pleasure now, radiating out through his entire body. Severus continued fisting his cock with one hand; the other roamed over Harry’s torso, fastened onto a nipple, pinched it, skated away again. It felt like he was being touched everywhere. He leaned in and kissed the open mouth. A hard pinch to his nipple. Harry rode the impaling cock, caught in a bright circle of pleasure. Then Severus grasped his hips and carefully rolled them over so that Harry was underneath him.

A moment to adjust; Harry wrapped his legs around Severus’ waist, and Severus was thrusting into him. The long fingers encircled his prick again. Dark hair trailed over Harry’s face. He reached up and stroked it, touched the hot cheek, the panting mouth. Severus flicked his tongue over Harry’s fingers and drove in hard. Harry moaned. He was so close— so close— he moved a fraction, and the thrusting shaft rubbed over his prostate. That, with the hand on him, pushed him back into the shining circle of bliss. He felt it break open over him. He came with a cry that he muffled in Severus’ shoulder. Severus pushed into him even harder and faster, propped up on his hands above Harry, still staring intently at him. Harry gripped his shoulders, ran his hands down to the dark red nipples and stroked over them. Severus drove in once more and stayed there, hips jerking, as he came with a low groan, head thrown back. He lowered himself onto Harry, letting his face fall into the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry ran his fingers through the soft hair.

Severus disengaged himself and fell to the side. Harry pulled him into his arms again and kissed him. A warm, slow kiss. He was incredibly pleased with himself. And sleepy. He let himself drift off, holding his lover loosely. He woke after a short time to Severus touching his forehead. Touching his scar.

“You know, I thought it might fade. Go away,” Harry murmured, without opening his eyes.

The caress didn’t stop. “After Voldemort? Like—” the Dark Mark.

“Mm.” He kissed the patch of skin in front of him. It turned out to be Sev’s cheek.

“Do you know why it didn’t?” A kiss in return, on the scar.

He shook his head slightly. He pried his eyes open. It was worth the effort to see Sev’s relaxed, unguarded face. He looked happy.

“It’s not like the Dark Mark. It wasn’t put there by Voldemort. It doesn’t symbolize evil.” Severus paused. “Did you think it did?”

Harry thought briefly. “No, just that he caused it. And it seemed like its purpose was all— tied up with him.”

Another kiss to the scar. “He didn’t cause it. Your mother’s love did. That didn’t go away, so the scar won’t.”

That made sense. He nodded and stretched. “It annoys me sometimes. To have something that identifies me so easily.” //Mr. Potter. Our newest celebrity.// His stomach growled suddenly. “Sorry.” He realized he was ravenous. “What time is it?”

Severus rolled over and fished out his watch. “Three o’clock. We’ve whiled away half the day in bed, Potter.”

“Oh, come on. We had to have THE TALK. That took a while.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” The black eyes gleamed. “We could while away the rest of the day here too, you know.”

“Right. Don’t you need to take a potion or something?” He smirked.

“You, Mr. Potter, are an impudent scamp.” Severus grabbed him. Without warning, the long fingers sought out the ticklish spots on his ribs. Harry shrieked and giggled. He squirmed frantically. Severus was actually smiling again. The tickling ceased, and Harry received another warm kiss. “Do those appalling noises your stomach was making indicate that you would care for some sustenance?” Oh, Sev was definitely happy.

“Yes, please,” Harry said meekly. “Can we eat in here?”

“Excellent idea. You could have a shower while I organize it.” He got up and threw his robe on.

The idea of a shower was the one thing that could have pried Harry out of the fantastically comfortable bed. “We could shower together,” he said hopefully.

Severus turned on his way out the door. “We could, but I’d like to save some of the activities on my list for another day.” He shut the door behind him. Harry blinked, then headed to the huge bathroom. When he came out, Severus had clearly made use of another bathroom; his hair was wet and the mint/lemon smell hung around him. They settled in on the bed with trays of food. Harry gazed woefully at Severus’ baked potato.

“No, Harry. I’m already on Winifred Whippet’s bad side.” Severus ate the potato with sarcastic enjoyment.

Harry dug into his grilled chicken. “It will be worth quitting the team just to eat bread. Scones, muffins, biscuits. Cake. Pasta. Rice. Pancakes, waffles. Baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, roasted new potatoes, chips...”

Severus was staring at him. “You’re quitting?”

Oops. That was going to be a surprise. “Well, I thought I’d wait until the end of the season. I don’t think they’ll actually cut me after all; that would be really bad publicity. But I— you know, it’s not as much fun as I thought it would be.” He chewed his asparagus thoughtfully. “It’s really quite boring. I’d like to have a conversation at least once a day that’s not about Quidditch. Or training. Or diets. Or broomsticks. Or—”

Severus yawned theatrically. “Point taken.” He sipped his wine. “What do you plan to do instead?”

“Er. That’s— I have an idea. But I want to get it all arranged before I tell you.” Because if it didn’t work, he’d look like a complete idiot. He decided to change the subject. “Can I ask you something?”

A nod.

“It’s about something you said earlier.” It had perplexed him a bit at the time, but he’d put it aside during the ensuing, er, distraction. “You had a vision about the two of us.” That still amazed him. “But... um. You were— you weren’t acting like—”

His lover took pity on him. “I wasn’t acting as if I knew this would happen.”

“Right. I— I couldn’t even tell if you wanted it to.” A fist clenched around his heart. He really didn’t want Severus’ behavior to be due in some way to a sense of duty to an eight-year-old vision.

Severus set their trays on the bedside table. “I can see that there was yet another deficiency in your Divinations training.” He pulled Harry to him. “Visions show us what may happen, not what will happen.” He kissed Harry soundly. “Rest assured, I definitely wanted this to happen. Even if— even when—” he sighed. “Even when I was behaving like an utter fool.”

Wow. Sev was apologizing. Harry thought perhaps he should start keeping a journal, just so he could keep track of these astounding events. “Oh, well. It worked out all right.”

“Only all right?” A hot kiss.

“Mm... Okay then, it worked out spectacularly well.” He was rewarded with another kiss.

“Harry.” Seriously. “I know you think I’m being. Strange. About this. But have you really thought through all the implications of our— of this?”

Harry examined his lover’s face. “I think you’re really asking if I want to go public.” He waited. No response. “You know, I’m beginning to dislike the way you keep testing me.” The body in his arms tensed, tried to pull away. He held on. The Quidditch muscles were proving extremely useful. “I love you. You’re just going to have to get used to it. I’m not going anywhere— well, aside from back to Wimbourne in four days, I’m not going to leave you, and I’m not going to hide. And this thing about your being a former Death Eater ‘making things difficult’ for me is getting really old!” He realized he was starting to shout. He forced himself to calm down. “If I gave a shit about that, I wouldn’t be here now.” He took a deep breath. “I never use this.” He touched his scar. “Never use it to make people do what I want. But I will if I have to. To get them to—” acceptance was unlikely. “Not bother us. So just— just get over it, all right?”

Severus blinked. “Since you put it that way...” He kissed Harry. “Mm. I have a present for you.” He got up. “It may not be appropriate now.”

“What is it, a chastity belt?”

“Ha ha. And I thought I was getting away from the juvenile humor of teenagers.” Severus opened a cupboard. “I got this for you a few weeks ago. Er. Happy Valentine’s Day, I suppose.” He shoved something into Harry’s hands. How romantic. The parcel was done up in brown paper, strikingly familiar. Harry unwrapped it. It was a book, an old book. “The Noble Sport of Warlocks”, Quintius Umfraville.

“Oh, Sev.” He caressed the cover. “1620! The first edition!” He used a corner of the sheet to open the book. “Oh my god.” It was annotated. He squinted. By Umfraville. “Oh wow!” He grinned. “I love it!”

Severus looked relieved. Something else to write in his journal. “When you said you were quitting the team, I thought—”

“Oh, I’ll always love Quidditch. I just don’t want to breathe, eat, sleep and dream it. And Whippet is one of the most horrible people I’ve ever encountered who wasn’t an actual Dark Lord.” He turned back to his book. “Oh amazing, these notes are all the things the publisher wouldn’t let him put in!” He realized he was being rude. “Sorry. I’ll read it later.”

A slight smile. “Don’t worry. Why do you think it took me so long to get to Remus’s today? I found the Castellat book at six in the morning.”

And he’d shown up at ten. Harry laughed. “Nice to see where I fall on your list of priorities.” He set the book aside carefully, wrapping it in its protective paper again. He stretched his arms out; Severus slid back onto the bed and drew him into his arms.

“I had a great deal to think about.” The beautiful voice was very quiet. “Harry.” A long pause. “Harry,” again. As if Sev just wanted to say his name. He kissed the other man.

“I’m here.”

“Yes.” The arms tightened around him. “Yes.”

Harry felt total peace wash over him. He wished he could share this with his lover. But as he was folded into an affectionate embrace, he realized he already had.

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