Dark Chocolate

Part 1

"Seventh Year"

Prologue

Slytherin, as a rule, was a very stylish house.

In essence, the Slytherins, who resided deep under the ground in their cavernous, damp rooms, were the epitome of class and prestige. Most, if not all, were from respectable families with dark pasts, and there were rarely any Muggles placed in Slytherin. If there were, they knew better than to say anything.

Slytherins were conniving, bitter, intelligent, cunning, bold, and more oft than not, miserable little shits.

That’s not to say they were an unfavorable house. No, of course not. Heros born and lived different lives wherever they were placed, and many hero’s had been found in Slytherin when Hogwarts was at its darkest hour. Their sheer crafty brilliance, paired with Gryffindor foolhardy courage, made one hell of a formidable weapon.

That’s not to say they were a strange house. Where the Gryffindors were blatantly blind and stupidly gutsy, the Slytherins had a dark, sneaky kind of slyness that cut quick to the bone with its ingenuity and wit. While the Ravenclaws and ever sweet, ever good Hufflepuffs were studious, hard workers, Slytherins often skimmed by on the skin of their teeth; they lied, cheated, bribed and charmed their way through their lives.

That’s not to say they were a bad house. No, not at all. They were just...Different. Sometimes, Different wasn’t always Good, especially in the current day and age.

The three hundredth and sixty third generation of Slytherins to come through Hogwarts was no different. They took their house pride to heart, and did their best to preserve the honor of their forefathers in everything they did, even if it meant putting Tangling Truss in the Gryffindor’s racing brooms, or dumping entire buckets of sewage on various enemies (mostly in the shape of Weasleys) from the high turrets of Hogwarts castle. They thought it not a prank, but their god-given right to uphold the honor bestowed on their house for countless generations.

There was one honor, one prestige that was cast on Slytherins in particular to stand up for. It had gone through several incarnations and dozens of names but for the last fifty years or so, they were known as the Slytherin Capers.

Every year the sixth and seventh year Slytherins bet and gambled therir way through the Capers; the seventh years showed their respect to the previous generations by doing something spectacularly wonderful (often terrible) to Hogwarts and its denizens, and the sixth years learned, to preserve the tradition.

The Hogwarts Express had just dropped off the fresh faces and old friends for the start of a brand new year.

And Draco Malfoy didn’t think he could contain his glee, for this year, of all years, he knew just what he wanted to do, and to whom.

And so it began.

Slytherin first years were initiated into the ranks with threatened words, heated glares, and a few idle threats. After all, they could perform magic with one leg, couldn’t they? Hell, Millicent Bulstrode only had one good eye. And if she could throw a flawless Jelly Legs curse, than these young whelps who grew bolder and bolder with every passing year could stand up for what was right.

That evening after the Welcoming Feast, the Slytherin seventh years, a few trusted sixth years, and one often-hated Potions Master met in the classroom yet to be sullied with frog legs, snake venom, rat hairs or Longbottom’s exploding cauldrons.

They sat in a circle, wearing the snake wreaths on their heads with the house crests, the hundreds of scales showing all the names of the people they had been adorned by. Twenty candles lit in the middle of the room reflected silver and green light on the people surrounding them, turning them an odd shade of very pale green. It was an honor, a privilege to be in this particular room at this particular instant, one that lesser years envied, one that lesser years would one day participate in. Draco almost felt like he was experiencing a little bit of history in the making, and the awe and power of it made him giddy with delight.

"You have had all summer to explore a game plan, Draco," came the silky timbres of Snape’s voice, quiet and powerful, with a hint of rich amusement. A voice Draco had memorized by now.

"Of course. My father was in Rome all summer," h dropped lightly, smiling at the jealous stares of his classmates. "I didn’t want to go. After all, I had a lot of planning to do, and things to get ready."

"Mmm." There was the amusement again. Snape was really enjoying himself...he must have known where this was heading. "Why don’t you grace us with your plans then, Draco."

"I love to destroy peoples lives in such a way that it doesn’t seem to be destroyed. I love messing with people. I love making them think things they wouldn’t normally, I love putting people on edge, but most of all, I love just screwing with people’s heads. The ultimate mind fuck; and I’ve got someone in mind, someone that will just embarrass Gryffindor to no end, to see fall."

"Really." Snape’s eyebrow rose high.

"Two words."

"Hmm?"

"Harry Potter."

Silence.

And Snape’s lips twitched.

"I’ll assume we will keep total discretion."

"Of course. But you see," Draco leaned forward into the candle light, and the other seventh years followed suit. "I’ve got a way to do it that will turn some very, very useful information I found out during last term to our advantage."

"And that is?"

"The Boy Who Just Wouldn’t Die, Hero of the Wizarding Rebellion.... He’s gay."

The roars of laughter ricocheted off the walls for what felt like an eternity, the sounds oddly making the candles hiss at them even as they laughed. It was strange, but not as disconcerting as it should have been, or as odd as Harry Potter being as gay as the driven snow. Slytherins were known for being bisexual or more, but a Gryffindor being a queer? Harry Potter being a queer? That was just too good to pass up.

"Is he?" Snape managed, still smirking with mirth, still levitating one eyebrow.

"Oh, he is. Found out by a very reliable resource, and passed on to me. But, this...my plan, Plan Gay Gryffindor, requires a certain participation on your part. Before you take offence, Professor, we all find you to be a handsome and charming man," Draco edged in with care, Crabbe tensing beside him. They’d been on their Head of House’s dark side once before, and it was most certainly not a place they wanted to be ever again, "but Potter hates you."

"He does." Snape stopped, as if considering, eyebrow raised and eyes slightly out of focus. He sat there for a half a moment, as if chewing on the information, and Draco held his breath.

Then smirked, when Snape chuckled darkly. "Are you proposing what I believe you are, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, yes."

"You always were a wicked child."

"Thank you, sir."

Chapter 1

"The Offer"

Seventh year had been a year Harry Potter wasn’t sure he looked forward to, or dreaded beyond the telling of it. The tell-tale tightening in his belly had begun as soon as he’d boarded the train to Hogwarts, had lasted all through the Sorting and the Welcoming Feast, and followed him all the way up to his dorm room. It had persisted to rip at his intestinal walls and claw at the back of his throat as he climbed under the covers that night and all through the next morning, when he had a spectacular case of the runs and came to breakfast pale and shaky.

This was his last year at Hogwarts.

A year from now, he was going to be asked to leave and go make his fortune.

He hadn’t voiced it, because he was, after all, a Gryffindor. Gryffindors never worried about such trivial things as the rest of their lives, and they most certainly didn’t let the worry get to the point where they got the runs and vomited up everything they ever ate in their entire lives. They lived in the moment.

Harry just wasn’t so sure he wanted to live in the moment anymore.

And this year, this year of all years, it was worse; so much worse. He’d received his class schedule from McGonagall, and had spent ten minutes staring at it, clutching a still revolting stomach. No. It couldn’t be. No, no, no.

There, in tidy handwriting, was, "Double Potions, 707, Dungeon class 452, Mon. Wed. Fri., 1 p.m."

Well, really. Why wouldn’t Merlin, chose to humiliate him like this when it was such an ample opportunity for humor?

If Harry was honest with himself, really and truly honest with himself, for once in his pathetic excuse for a life, he could admit that his view towards the slimy, greasy Potions Master had turned into images of all that dark, silky hair pinned back with a velvet green ribbon, and slacks so snug they outlined all the juicy bits that made his mouth water. Harry had agreed, wearing less while battling Voldemort had been more, and if he hadn’t been so utterly depressed and furious at the time he was sure he could have appreciated Snape’s lack of clothing. Maybe he could have stopped himself from putting Snape on a pedestal of teenage hormones and carnal lust. But, honestly, the man had saved his life, and, honestly, under all those billowing robes, Snape was built like..well, like a well built man. In Harry’s wild thoughts, he had a penis the size of–

All right. Well. Not thinking about that now.

"You all right, mate?"

Harry met Ron’s gaze and quirked a little haphazard grin at him. Anything to keep the slightly obvious erection rubbing his stomach a secret. Thank Merlin for voluminous robes. Curse Merlin for creating seventeen year old bodies, one which was still queasy at the thought of food and yet reacting like this. "Fine. We’ve got three classes with Snape every week, though."

"Three?!" Eyes enormous, Ron leaned over and peered at Harry’s schedule, as Hermione rolled her eyes before them and crunched on her toast. "Rotten luck. We can’t ever catch a break, you know. Can you imagine? Three days a week in that greasy git’s chamber of horror. We’re never going to get the stink out of our hair."

"Actually, sulphur and several other ingredients in most potions are wonderfully beneficial." Hermione said casually, as she sipped her juice. "They’re supposed to make your skin and hair very pliant and soft. Like having a pro-vitamin bath every day."

Ron stared at her and Harry hid the chuckle behind his hand. "Come on, we better get going. Ron and I’ve got Divination, first. You’re going to Runes?"

"Until ten. I’ll see you in History of Magic, and after the luncheon break we’ll go to Potions together. And don’t forget!" Hermione pushed the planners she’d bought especially for their NEWT year (probably ages ago) towards them both. "We need to keep up a tight studying regimen. I expect you both in the library at four."

Before either Ron or Harry could get a word in edgewise, she took up her satchel, tossed her bushy hair over her shoulder, and flounced out of the Great Hall.

"Wonderful. Studying with Hermione every day. Why doesn’t someone just put me out of my misery?" Ron sighed, deeply.

"Actually, Mr. Weasley..."

Harry’s eyes flew up. He hadn’t even heard the man coming, and very rarely did, if truth be told, but suddenly there he stood, the center of all of his nightmares and fantasies for the last seven years, peering at the both of them from above his beak of a nose. "Studying for your NEWT’s in a timely fashion, instead of cramming for them at the end of the year, will make sure you pass. In your case, by the skin of your teeth." His dark, beady eyes flickered from Ron to Harry, and Harry felt his belly drop out. Carefully, dramatically, Snape slid an envelope from one of the many pockets in his robe and set it down in front of Harry. "However, you will find that others have ripe potential and waste it uselessly and piteously on such trivialities such as sports and toys. I hope you, Mr. Potter, will find that your priorities have...changed, this year?"

Harry stared up at him, willing his mouth to work. "Yeah, I’ll try," he blurted lamely.

Amusement flickered over that face, gone in a moment, and Harry could only stare. "See that you do. Mr. Weasley?"

Ron looked up.

"Ten points from Gryffindor. Tuck your shirt in. We have a dress code at Hogwarts, or have you so soon forgotten?" Snape seemed almost relieved to have taken points, and gave a pleased smirk. "Good day."

And just because he couldn’t help it, just because he was so hopelessly addicted, he turned and watched as Snape walked away. Then again, everyone else in the room was watching, so it wasn’t too obvious that Harry stared after him.

The voices returned to a dull roar around him, as Harry stared at the envelope. And he would have opened it, he would have, if everyone around him hadn’t been staring and the clock chimed that there was ten minutes to make it to Divination.

"What do you think....?" Ron whispered, eyes wide as he stared at the envelope. "Don’t touch it. It might have poison on it."

"Ron," Harry rolled his eyes. He picked the envelope up and stuffed it in his book bag, spelling it closed so no one could get into it, and heaved it over his shoulder. "The man saved my life. He wouldn’t want to take it away now, now would he?"

"You never know!"

And so they argued, all the way to Divination. While Ron kept sputtering every dark and nasty thing he could in relation to Snape, Harry dreamed. The suspense, he was sure, would almost be better than what was in the letter, if Harry knew Snape at all. And he did. All too well. He knew how brave he was, how cunning, how careful and quick, and how deeply he wanted Harry to survive. He remembered Snape throwing himself in front of the Cruciatus Curse as Voldemort threw it at Harry, and he remembered it was the last distraction he’d needed. Instead of using magic, though, Harry experienced one of the few epiphanies in his life and trusted his hands instead of his wand.

The crunch of bones under his hands as he broke Lord Voldemort’s thin, brittle neck had been deeply, deeply satisfying in a way which nothing else could be for the rest of his life.

Old Voldie hadn’t been expecting that.

But, now was most certainly not the time to think about it or all the other emotional rampaging going through his system as he crawled up the ladder into Trelawney’s House Of Hell. It was just so bloody hot with the fire roaring and the incense burning. Harry always felt a little light headed when he walked in.

Sometimes he had to wonder if it was only incense she was burning.

Class began as usual; they all took out their new books and Trelawney started to lecture in that windy, trembling little voice of hers about palm reading. Boring as all bloody hell as usual, and Harry took the opportunity to fish the green envelope out of his bag. It wasn’t very big, the size of a letter, and very light. His full name was written in flowing script along the front, and he particularly liked the way the ‘H’ melded with the ‘y’ with a little ribbony line. It was beautiful, and he realized, sitting there, that he’d never seen Snape say his name, let alone write it.

He could get used to it.

Carefully, so he wouldn’t rip the envelope, he slit it open with his thumb and slid the letter out.

Harry gaped. Several times. Like a fish out of water.

Apprentice? Under Snape? The idea was ludicrous, insane, unbelievable...and yet, sorely tempting. Not just because he’d be in the man’s presence all the time, but because Snape was an incredibly intelligent wizard and could, very likely, teach him more than he could ever learn just taking regular classes. He wasn’t too crazy over the Potions thing, but Defense Against the Dark Arts? Snape was brilliant in the field, and really, it wasn’t a wonder he had always wanted the job so badly. He probably could have taught them so much.

Did he mention the sexy pants?

Harry was blown away.

And then he wished he could have been when he realized all eyes were on him.

"Did you hear me, Potter?" Trelawney asked, her bracelets clinking and annoyance in her eyes.

"Yes. I did. I.....Jupiter?" Harry supplied. Usually answers taken out of his ass could prove to be disastrous in other classes, but in Divination? Mercy was shining down on him today and Trelawney just glared, sniffed, and continued on with her speech.

Wow. Okay. Did he ever have to talk to Ron about this. There would be time, in History of Magic–Binns never looked up from his lectures. For now, though, Ron was peering at him from the corner of his eye, and Harry pushed the envelope under the table towards him; might as well fill in Hermione when they saw her.

More than that, though, Harry really and truly valued his friends opinion. Ron was his best friend in the whole world, had fought by his side when there were fifteen Death Eaters ready to rip their lungs out, had braved anything and everything for him.

And Ron’s opinion, though most of the time sorely unjust, meant the world to Harry.

This time? He didn’t know how on earth he choked the laughter down as Ron first turned a violent shade of red, before paling to a near-white that Sir Nicholas would have envied if he’d been there to see it.

While Trelawney was putting on her show at the front of the room, Harry watched Ron rip a piece of parchment out of the one stuffed into his book, and took out his quill.

Harry blinked at the little paper, and looked up at Ron. He thought after six years in the Wizarding world he’d learned everything, but he was yet again proven wrong. Even Hermione, a Muggle born, knew more about this world than he did.

It left a vaguely unsettled feeling in his stomach, battling the dread and anxiety already there for seniority, as he took Ron’s quill and scratched, Do I look that obvious?

A little grin from Ron, at that. Just a bit. Hermione can explain it better than me...it’s a real honor. Too bad it’s from that greasy git, you could have accepted it, and found a good job after we graduated. Being a tyro, especially at Hogwarts, is this huge honor. Percy was one for Professor Vector, few years ago, Arithmancy. Remember, the funny looking robe he had to wear?

Harry did. At the time he’d thought it was something to do with Prefects, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. I feel stupid sometimes.

Harry was sending a sharp glare at his snickering friend when they began their in-class assignment.

Chapter 2

"The Disbelief"

Of course, as fate would have it, Harry didn’t get a chance to talk to Hermione about the potentially life changing, completely preposterous offer he’d been given by one Severus Snape until the end of History of Magic. Binns had droned on and on and on, but there was a pop quiz expected at the end of the class, so they’d actually had to pay attention.

Harry wondered how his brain hadn’t dribbled out of his ears.

Or lapsed into a coma.

Needless to say, by the time he turned in his homework and finished his quiz, he was ready for caffeine and sugar of any kind. Talking about the letter he’d received was definitely not something to discuss at the lunch table, unfortunately, so they ate quickly, Hermione taking her toast with her, and they found an empty classroom ten minutes before the next hour.

Harry fished the letter out of his satchel, admiring the curly ‘H’ once more before handing it to his friend.

And could honestly say he hadn’t been expecting Hermione’s squeal of approval.

"This...it’s wonderful!" she cried, waving the paper about like a flag and throwing her arms around Harry’s neck. "Are you joking? This is amazing! I’m so jealous! Being a tyro is a huge honor, Harry!" She nearly squeezed the life out of him as Ron stared, glaring, in what Harry assumed was jealousy. He grinned cheekily at his friend just for the hell of it.

"Thanks, Hermione. But I’m not going to accept it."

After that he was sure the cries had gone supersonic, and if his brain hadn’t dribbled out before...

"What do you mean you can’t accept it?? You’ve got to accept it! The only way you can’t accept it is to forfeit all of your placings in Potions! You’ll be sixtieth in the class!"

Oh.

Oh!

Harry glared, darkly. "He failed to mention that little tid bit. He would, too. Ron said you know what it entitles?"

"Of course I do. Honestly, I’m buying you both Hogwarts, A History for Christmas." Hermione glared and Ron had the good sense to look ashamed. "A tyro is an apprentice, though not in the classical sense of the word. Being a tyro means you have the talent to be something you never considered, and you need a tutor, or a master, to bring it out in you. Every few years the Hogwarts teachers take on a tyro if they find someone who will live up to their legacy. Everyone except for the professors in the Potions department. No one has been a Potions tyro in years. You’re breaking like, a twenty year record, Harry." Hermione positively beamed at him. "The last person to be a tyro in Potions was Professor Snape himself."

Wow. Talk about too much to take in at once. Harry sank down into a chair beside his friends, and took in a very deep breath as Hermione perched herself on the desk across the way. "What does it entitle?"

"Oh...lots of things. Like, for instance, you learn about the field you’ve been apprenticed to, and any relating fields. For you, it will be Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions, which go hand in hand," Hermione chirped, still beaming, "and he’ll tutor you in the other subjects when they bring things up that are relevant to what you’re studying with him."

"All right. Okay, Hermione. Say...all right, say I don’t want to be a tyro," Harry asked tentatively, with a glance at Ron, who by now was looking thoroughly disgusted. "What then?"

"Then you have to write a formal response to him, explaining why you’re refusing such a completely amazing gift, stating all the reasons why you don’t want to. In retaliation, it is his right to take away your Potions standing, and a host of other things. This is...huge. Professor Snape, of all people." At that, Hermione’s brow lifted up nearly to her hairline, and she traded a glance with Ron.

Which they’d been doing a lot of lately.

Which was annoying Harry. Deeply.

"What?" he asked, waving a hand between them as they spoke a hundred different things with only a look. "What are you guys thinking?"

"Well...Harry. I know that...well, you and Professor Snape haven’t exactly ever gotten along," Hermione started, quietly, chewing on her lower lip. "and this is the seventh year of school, but...have you heard about the Slytherin prank thing?"

"Slytherin prank?"

"Yes. Seventh year, they....but," Hermione shook her head. "Surely Professor Snape wouldn’t stoop that low. He’s a Hogwarts teacher, after all." She shook her head once more, her hair flying. "Never mind. Suffice it to say, I doubt this is a joke. You should really consider it, Harry, especially if....well...don’t get mad."

"I won’t," Harry muttered, adding an exasperated sigh. Flip out your entire fifth year and you pay for it the rest of your days. "What is it?"

"Well...I mean, you want to be known as something other than The Boy Who Lived, right?"

Harry nodded. He’d give anything to be known for who he was, not what he did when he was a baby, not over something he hadn’t had any control over, not over his parents death and his survival.

"Thnn this could be your chance. Snape’s not so bad, you know. I’m sure once you get to know him, and he starts teaching you, you’d learn a lot of things they couldn’t teach you in regular class." At that, Hermione gave a jealous little sigh, "Did you hear Neville got a tyro letter? Neville."

Ron visibly relaxed next to them and grinned as he rose, looping his bag over his shoulder. "He’s good at Herbology, Hermione."

"Neville!" Came then bemoaned cry from said girl. "And no one has approached me yet. I’ve worked so hard."

"At least you don’t have to worry if you’re selling your soul to the devil," Harry told her, smiling as he squeezed her arm gently. "Come on. We’re due to Hell in five minutes."

Hell was a nice term.

It was as if Snape hadn’t given him the letter than morning at all. The first class of the year and already Gryffindor had lost twenty points; Neville’s cauldron had boiled over and burned a hole through the floor, and they were set to write a four foot long essay on why mudflap doesn’t mix with elder seeds, with a bi-section on good cleanliness pertaining to ones cauldron, and Snape had given him three hours of detention for Friday night for apparently being cheeky, when Harry hadn’t said a word at all.

To top it all off, Snape was at his snarky best. If anything else, he wondered if Snape would teach him how to belittle someone so thoroughly. ...not that he was taking the tyro. He didn’t really care if his potions standing went down..he was thirtieth or so in the class, and he couldn’t get much worse than that, so what was another thirty places? And if he had to have detention, and suffer through all of Snape’s comments on how ungrateful he was, then he’d do it, too. Because, honestly, studying under Snape? Snape? The man who’d rather see his head on a stick?

The man who had saved his life and nearly bled to death on the battlefield just to save him?

Bugger.

He inhaled stiffly as he took the fire out from under his Calming Draught and turned the ladle eight times counter clock wise, as it said on the board. As the years had progressed he’d found that he was able to follow the directions if they were very, very clear, and had even managed to make some P average potions once in a while, which kept him from failing utterly. It was just so bloody hard because he couldn’t ever measure how much a pinch should be, or a dash, and what was the difference anyway?

Stupid potions.

‘The Calming Draught should be a thick, pale shade of sunflower by this step,’ was scrawled in Snape’s neat handwriting at the bottom of the board.

Harry took a glance at his bright red concoction and groaned inwardly.

And as if on cue, Snape prowled in right behind him, and took in a deep breath.

Bug. Ger.

"Mr. Potter," he enunciated in the silky, dangerous tone he often took with someone he was about to tear apart. Draco looked positively thrilled and smirked cheerfully at Harry from across the room. "I have never, in all the years I’ve worked for Hogwarts, seen such an atrocity of a potion; and that speaks volumes, considering your classmate is Neville Longbottom."

Harry sighed and looked up in time to see Neville’s crestfallen look.

"Did you add a dash, or three scruples of fig, as the instructions say? Hmm? Was that a pinch, or seventeen drachms of mugwort? Do we need to go back to Remedial Potions, Mr. Potter? Do you need a refresher course on how to add ingredients to potions? I’m sure even you could remember it. Perhaps if we got you a very clear flow chart?"

Another deep breath. Harry was in for it, and he glared up at him.

"And yet, somehow, I don’t believe that’s what this is. I believe you are just sloppy, lazy, and much too arrogant to follow something like directions for a simple recipe." A wicked, wicked smirk.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor for this abomination. Save a bottle full so I might put it on as a display of your incompetence to the younger years, and then get rid of the rest of it before you kill someone."

All right. So there was the answer to if he was going to accept the tyro or not.

What. A. Git.

Draco and the other Slytherins were snickering madly. They’d been acting strangely all class long, and Harry had a sinking feeling in his gut they were planning something. Regardless, he glared darkly at them, then at Snape as he strode away, and gathered the vile by his book. The arrogant sod. It was almost like Snape took an almost carnal pleasure out of humiliating him, degrading his work, and making sure he felt as small as possible when he left the classroom. He was a Gryffindor and Gryffindors were brave to a fault, but sometimes, when Harry talked to Neville, he could see that even Gryffindors could feel badly under all of that scrutiny. He knew he did. At least Neville channeled that feeling into Herbology, where he was number one in the class.

Harry didn’t channel anything anywhere.

His life had come to a stand still since Voldemort’s demise. It had felt like everything in his life had led up to that moment, everything he’d ever done and ever been had cultivated in the instant he murdered the cold blooded bastard and rid the world of his influence once and for all. But the thing was, once Voldemort was dead and lying at his feet, Harry’s life had ended, too. He had been born and raised to do what he’d done, to kill the most evil magician ever to be born.

What now?

He wasn’t particularly good at anything other than staying alive and breaking the rules. He had no special talent in magic, as everyone did. Everyone did. Neville was good at Herbology; Hermione at Runes, Ron was stunning when it came to charms. Even Draco was exceptionally skilled in Transfiguration and had become a registered Animagi the year before, under McGonagall’s tender care.

But Harry didn’t have anything. He wasn’t good at anything, despite the tyro he’d received from Snape, and part of him felt like it was some joke anyway. Surely, Snape couldn’t be serious. He’d made the potions because he’d had to, in the heat of battle, with his friends dying around him. He’d made the potions for Seamus and Dean, for Professor McGonagall, Colin Creevey, and Snape himself, as well as countless other nameless faces. He’d made the potions to save their lives, when no one else had been able to, when Madame Pomfrey had been up to her ears in stanching wounds and setting bones, when the other Professors were battling Death Eaters on the doorstep and Harry had been too injured himself to help them.

He’d worked for twelve straight hours with Madame Pomfrey, until his body had been one screaming ache and his soul sobbing for rest. She’d showed him, directed him, and all he’d done was stir and mix. Nothing special.

He’d gone into shock, after everyone had been helped, and had been unconscious for the better part of three days.

A year later, Harry was still walking with a limp that Pomfrey told him he would more than likely live with for the rest of his days.

So, that’s what he was good at. Being unconscious, killing bad guys, and saving the day. He didn’t want to live that for the rest of his days. Being an Auror could be fun, but as Harry saw it, he’d been an Auror for the last seventeen years. He was tired of fighting bad guys, tired of being in the heat of adventure. He was just tired.

And now, Professor Snape was offering him the chance of a lifetime, a chance to study potions and defense in an articulated, intelligent environment where he could really learn what he wanted without having to suffer through people telling him no all the time. Even if he didn’t become an Auror, at least he would be prepared in case Voldemort ever made a third showing, or even if he wanted to write a book, or create weaponry. It was the chance of a lifetime.

And then everything got sort of fuzzy in Harry’s brain. He’d been doing that a lot lately, his concentration would go amiss, and he’d just move through his life without really paying attention to the things he was doing. For instance, he supposed at some point Snape had told them they could go, because he was packing up his bag. His cauldron was already spelled clean, his things locked away in the special drawer.

He lived in his sadness. Even he knew he was monumentally depressed, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He’d rather die than tell Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall that he couldn’t handle the aftermath of the thing they’d chosen for him, simply because he refused to acknowledge their existence beyond what was necessary. If he was true with himself it wasn’t their fault, but it felt good to pin the miserable shit his life was on both of them. Dumbledore had encouraged him, Professor McGonagall had made sure he hadn’t strayed from his path, and here he was. They’d manipulated him to the ends they needed in every way possible, and had now discarded him and let him go on his merry way.

And so, the question of the hour simply boiled down to this. What now?

What now, indeed.

The tyro was an excellent chance to be led by an adult into a world his peers had been training for their whole lives. A grown wizard could help him adjust to living in a world where Voldemort was gone and he had other reasons to live now, not because he had to but because he wanted to. A place where he could forget that he’d never been truly loved by any adult, where he had been orphaned and raised by two people who should have never been allowed to procreate, let alone given a child to care for. A place where he didn’t have to think about the feelings of utmost betrayal for his parents by dying and leaving him alone with those people, who would have treated a dog better than they treated him. A place where he didn’t have to think about the first eleven years of his life from inside a cupboard, where he was starved and spanked for no apparent reason, where he’d been controlled to Dumbledore’s every whim for his ‘own good’. A place where it didn’t do to dwell on dreams, as the Headmaster had told him once, but where life was endured because their was nothing else one could do. A place where he could take Dreamless Draught as often as he needed to, where he could live his life in a half-drugged stupor if need be, to forget about the first twenty years of his life where misery had taken a first place seat in the picture show.

The only consolation was that he’d been numb for most of it, unaware he was being tricked and used to everyone else’s ends, and by the time he’d been old enough to realize what was happening to him, it was over. Except now, where did he go from here? Where could his life take him? Where could he be safe, and alone? Was there anywhere in the wizarding world where he wouldn’t be judged by the scar on his forehead?

Yes. If he was honest, ther was. He needed someone to help him, to show him, someone who was impartial to who he was and what he stood for and who looked beyond the surface to see who he was.

Snape was that person. If only he weren’t such a bloody bastard.

He knew what he had to do.

"Ron?" he looked up from his things to see his friend looking at him in that expression he had that was partly sadness, partly hope, and smiled at him. The protective shield of love and understanding his friends showed him was like a warm blanket he could feel his heart wrapped in whenever he felt he was particularly close to losing his mind.

"Mmmhmm?" Ron asked, a tinge of red hitting his cheeks as his brow rose.

"Tell Hermione I’m going to be a little late. I’m going to talk to Snape, all right?" Hermione had dashed off as soon as Snape had said they were dismissed, for no other reason than to set up for their study session, Harry was sure.

"Oh, bollocks. You’ve decided, then," Ron answered, slapping his forehead and shaking it in horror. Harry knew most of it was a show–his friend respected Snape, even a little, because the man had put himself in front of death for Harry.

If only he weren’t such a bloody bastard.

"Not yet," he answered back, offering him a smile as he set his bag on the table in front of him. "I’ll see you in the library in a bit. See if you can’t nick some of the chocolates in my trunk before you go, all right? Don’t let Madame Pince see it, or she’ll have our hides."

"Mothers milk," Ron purred, making Harry laugh again, and with a wink he and the others left.

The classroom emptied after that, Draco and the other Slytherins sneaking off to do whatever in Gods name they did to fill their evenings, and Harry took a tentative step towards the professor. He was seated at his desk, scrawling something with that long quill Harry was slightly envious of, and he quietly waited until Snape had finished writing before clearing his throat a little. "Professor?"

Snape looked up, an eyebrow arched, and scowled. "I said class was dismissed."

"Yes, sir. I was...I mean," Damnit! Breathe, Harry! "I was wondering if I could talk with you about the letter," he exhaled, all in one breath.

Snape’s other brow rose, but where there had been a scowl, now seeped amusement. He set his quill down and regarded him, and Harry was momentarily struck by how he felt like a bit of prey in Snape’s nightly meal of students. Creepy. "Have you, then."

A shift. "Yes. I..I mean," he cleared his throat again and shifted his weight. "Why me, sir? If...if I can ask."

He’d prayed the question wouldn’t offend the man, because Merlin knew Snape’s moods changed like directions of the wind, and he was rewarded now with a small smile. Sarcastic, but a smile nonetheless, and some of the dread in Harry’s heart seeped out. "Ah, yes, Potter. Have you decided?"

"Yes. I mean...I think so," Harry shifted again. "I wanted to know if you could tell me a little more about it."

"I suppose. Stop hovering and sit," Snape commanded, and Harry plunked down in the chair beside Snape’s desk before the words were out of his mouth. Better to follow the directions then endure Snape’s wrath. "I do tend to forget you lived with your adoring Muggles for the first years of your life" Snape shifted back, legs crossed and fingers steeped before him. "What questions do you have?"

A civilized conversation? With Snape? Harry’s mind boggled, and he blinked at the man twice before speaking. "Uhm...well. I mean, what would...be required of me? If...If I decided to take this?"

There was that smile again. Only way more...what? The expression was foreign on Snape’s face, and Harry was taken aback by it for a moment before it flittered away. "You will be required to move to quarters adjacent to my own. You will tutor and work with me every free moment of your day and into the night. You will more than likely find Quidditch to be a distraction, and I’ll ask you think clearly on if you would like to continue it should you accept the tyro." Quidditch meant nothing, but Harry didn’t say that, just nodded as he listened. "You will specifically wear the apprenticing robes of our field, which is primarily Potions. You will do my bidding as I require, and you will listen to and study everything that I say. You will eat, live, and breathe what I teach you. You will work hard, or you will fail," Snape answered, silkily, regarding Harry once more with a neutral expression. "As I told you in my letter, once the childish distractions around you are taken away, you have the ability to be a bright student, and after the demonstration of your skills last year, I found it prudent to offer this apprenticeship to you."

Harry nodded, silently. Half of what Snape had told him he’d expected, but moving to a new room was new. So was the faith Snape so obviously had in him. "Sir," he said carefully, making sure to make his voice as neutral as Snape’s face, "I just don’t know if you should be offering this to me on the merit of my Potions skills. I’ve..well, not failed, but almost failed every year I’ve been in your class."

"Yes, you have. Miserably," Snape answered, still looking at him carefully.

"So...I mean...why not someone like...like Hermione?"

At that, Snape’s expression twisted with anger, "Are you questioning my choices, Mr. Potter?"

Oh shit. "No. Well...kind of," Foolish Gryffindor bravery, that. "I’m not what you’d call a stellar student."

"Mr. Potter, what part of the tyro did you not understand?" Still silky, still dangerous, still angry. "Being a tyro means taking on a subject you very likely have a strong talent in, but have not developed for a score of reasons. For instance," he lifted the vile of sickly red potion from the desk where Harry had set it, "you were trying to make a calming draught, something of which you failed quite spectacularly, because you did not want to."

That was true enough. He really hadn’t felt like it. "Yes, sir."

"No. You do not understand my meaning," Snape said, making a face at him. "You did not make a calming draught because your magic regarding potions has not been tamed and put under control. Wizarding children often display raw talent...talent that has yet to be harnessed and controlled. Your natural inclination toward Potions put together, through your subconscious, a different potion." He lifted the vile, "If I’m not mistaken, this is a skin anti-inflammatory and scar remover. A perfectly made skin anti-inflammatory and scar remover." Harry stared at it, as he finally realized what Snape was telling him. He’d created a different potion because his brain wanted to? And Harry thought he’d been odd before. "You might have been thinking about your popularity before you came into my classroom," at that, Snape sneered. "Or even the battle last year, and made a potion to remove your scar, which would have fulfilled the requirement–you wanted a potion to calm yourself; so you made one," Snape explained, eyebrow raised with a smirk. "The last person to come into this classroom and show a skill like that was myself. Do you understand now why I have chosen you?"

Harry blinked a few times as he fought to take that in, and nodded. Could the little bottle really remove his scar? Had his answers lain in his subconscious all this time?

Snape seemed to realize what he must have been thinking, because his brow arched. "It won’t remove your scar. Nothing will. It’s a magical object."

Damn.

"You said I would live here?" Harry asked, changing the subject subtly. He and Snape were having a semi coherent conversation which, until now, was low on insults and barbs. It was a miracle of Merlin, in Harry’s very fine opinion.

"Yes. In the rooms next to my own, which will be opened and cleaned for you should you decide to work with me," Snape answered.

"And...and I’ll be working with you. On Potions."

"And other things." A light sneer. "I’m truly astounded you can pay attention when it serves you. No wonder Dumbledore had such faith in you."

Dumbledore. At the name, and the insinuation, Harry plastered an indifferent look on his face even as something quietly sobbed inside of him. If Snape caught it he didn’t say anything, though his eyebrow rose a little higher in that way he had.

"I’d...I’d like a few days to think about it," Harry finally said, nodding as he gathered his book bag.

"Mmm." Snape looked at him again, studying him, and Harry felt almost like he was looking through him. "You have until Friday afternoon."

"I’ll have my answer by Wednesday," Harry answered lightly, and rose with his bag. "Thank you for the interview, sir."

"Fine. Get out."

And so he did.

Chapter 3

"The Consideration"

The week was passing like it had been stuck in a particularly gooey puddle of Bubotuber puss, in Harry’s opinion. Not just because his mind was on seventy different things at once (with Snape’s confounding tyro being number one on the brain), but also because he found himself with the less than pleasant task of picking the things he was going to devout his time to this year.

And Quidditch wasn’t one of them.

"What?! You’re going to quit Quidditch?"

"Ron, calm down."

"I won’t! I will not calm down!"

Said Weasley was...less than pleased. His roars could have rivaled that of five Gryffindor lions, and he was utilizing all of his Weasley energy to scream at the top of those substantial lungs. His face had turned a lovely shade of beet red, and even Hermione was staring at him like he’d lost his bloody mind.

Which of course was drawing a crowd of less than pleased Gryffindors.

"Ron, shush!" Harry snapped, even as the few fifth years watching looked at them, in worry, from their corner.

"I will not shush! You! You!" his face was a very classy color of scarlet. "You’ve...you....you!"

"Me," Harry answered back, mildly, as he set his quill down over his Transfiguration homework. They were studying during their free hour before lunch–Defense Against The Dark Arts hadn’t exactly gone as planned. Remus Lupin had resumed his duty in the long line of professors before him to teach Defense, and had played a pivotal roll in Voldemort’s messy demise throughout Harry’s sixth year. The bad thing was, he’d paid the price for it. His left leg had been completely taken off during one horrible explosion, and he had been significantly scarred, despite the best Madame Pomfrey, and St. Mungo’s, could do. It was at times like today, a few hours before a rainstorm and the full moon was about to hit, that the pain became too much for him to teach and he canceled his classes. He’d been fit with a prosthetic leg and talked with a slight slur but despite it, he was still the best damn Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher Hogwarts had ever had.

As well as being, despite all of the recent deformities, devilishly sexy.

It was really too bad, in fact, because at one point, Harry had been certain the emotions were reciprocated. That is, until Professor Snape stopped at Grimmauld Place after a skirmish wearing nothing but torn trousers and a shirt ripped to shreds, panting and sweaty, hair tied back in a piece of ribbon and wand at the ready.

Oh. Nice thoughts.

Nice thoughts that had no precedence with the here and now, because Ron was staring at him. Glaring, really. Harry hadn’t meant for it all to come out like this. Merlin knew, but now that it was....he just sighed all over again and rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger under his glasses.

"How can you say such a thing?" Ron hissed as he righted the chair he’d overturned, and took a seat in it with a bone jarring thump. "Quit Quidditch! That’s a sin in most parts of Britain!"

"Only for boys," Hermione’s eyes, if possible, couldn’t roll any harder.

Harry was absolutely blessed to have such a practical friend, even if that practicality had infuriated him in the past. "Thank you, Hermione. Listen... I’ve done a lot of thinking."

Ron groaned, loudly, and Hermione glared at him until he shut up.

"I think...I mean...okay. I want to learn. You both...you both have had the gifts of getting ready to the outside world for the last seven years. You’ve studied, and learned, and dreamed. You have goals set up for yourself. I...I don’t have anything." He held up a hand as they both began to talk at once, and waited until they were quiet to continue. "I lived waiting for the day Voldemort would kill me. Well...he’s dead, now, and I don’t have to wait anymore. It’s time I learn to live, too, and taking the apprentice with Snape will do it for me."

When Harry put his hand down so they could speak, Ron was just staring at him with the most betrayed expression Harry had ever seen on his face. "Snape. Professor Snape. The one who’s nearly killed you?"

"Saved me. Eight times, counting the battlefield," Harry answered, quietly.

"All right, then...the one who’s humiliated you? Who’s...who’s...taken house points! And called you names!"

"Who taught me to control myself around sharp tongued individuals, how to deal with blatant stupidity, and showed me that the world isn’t fair," Harry answered instead, in the same soft tone. It was times like these that he felt that he and Ron were worlds apart. He’d already lived several lifetimes and had horrors thrust upon him since he had been a little boy, so it all felt like child’s play when it came to making decisions like this. The saddest thing was that when Harry thought about it, like now, he realized how deeply he didn’t care about the world to be able to make such easy decisions and commitments.

"Ron...I want this. I want to feel safe, and happy, and I want to control myself and my magic. I want a wizard who knows his stuff to teach me how to be that, too." Ron was staring at him, disbelieving, and Harry added, "He says I have a gift. Even if I don’t like Potions all that much, I’m a natural at them. He says I can do it. If Snape of all people said it, then...I’ve got to try. If I don’t try, I’ll kick myself until dooms day for not giving myself the chance."

It was as if Ron deflated. Somewhere along the way Harry’s words got to his friend’s heart, because those blue eyes regarded him with both suspicion and begrudging admiration. "You’re willing to give up Quidditch of all things, to see if you’ve got talent?"

Harry simply nodded.

And Ron simply sighed. "I’m not happy with this."

"You don’t have to be," Harry answered back with his most charming grin in place. He was delighted when Ron laughed, and Hermione seemed to take a breath beside them for the first time since they’d begin to talk.

"If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a crush on the old git," Ron snickered wickedly.

If Ron had known just how much that was true, Harry was sure they’d be screaming ‘Clear!’, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was, anyway, over his dead body. So he just grinned at Ron and rolled his eyes as convincingly as he could, amused just how close his friend had come to his greasy, gittish, sexy, gorgeous secret.

Ah, well.

Harry had been thinking it over, seriously, for two days straight. This afternoon would see another Potions class, and he felt deceivingly happy that he was making this decision himself and giving it to Snape as an adult. Usually he would consult Dumbledore about such a thing, but as the man had said two words to him in the last year, Harry felt it lucrative to return the favor in kind. Despite that, he found himself feeling slightly...unnerved over such a thing. It didn’t really matter one way or another–this opportunity was too good to pass up, and he’d known his answer when he read the letter.

For once in his god forsaken life he was making a decision with his best interest at heart.

And it felt bloody strange.

That feeling didn’t go away for the several hours between the conversation with Ron and Hermione, and Potions. In fact, time seemed to slow down if at all possible, and it certainly gave him time to think, in any regard. Ron had been expectantly shrill–but Harry didn’t hold it against him. His friend often times had a hard time dealing with changes in Harry’s life that seemed to change who he was–and Harry had a good inkling why that was.

So, for most of the day he paid special attention to Ron during classes–passing notes with him, snickering, sharing jokes. Harry was almost certain that Ron was terribly afraid of losing him–but what he didn’t know was that Harry was terribly afraid of losing Ron.

In the end, after making sure Ron understood he was giving up Quidditch so some other young talent could play, and so he could concentrate on his studies, Ron seemed to feel better. Harry knew he did. His friends loved him so much, and had put up with so much of his crap. No one in the world knew him better than they did–they were truly his family.

He realized, sometime between Charms and Divination, that they were the blinding spear of light in his dark, siphoned life.

And he really, really liked that.

The sad thing was he didn’t have time to tell them that, because lunch came and went in a flurry of sandwiches and juice. Days and times for the oncoming Quidditch tryouts were announced, other special clubs gave all the information for when they would be starting again and accepting new members, and then they were thrust into their final period of the day before supper.

Potions.

It was, as anyone would have delightfully agreed, a disaster in the making.

They were supposed to make a Wart Cap Draft, which would then be dried and powdered for Madame Pomfrey. It was a standard seventh level potion, but even Harry could see that Snape was having severe reservations about assigning such a thing when Neville Longbottom was looking at the board curiously. So, Snape stood there and snarled at them for a good fifteen minutes before they could even get their supplies out, threatening the life of anyone who caused their potion to have any reaction other than what was necessary. He declared it the first quiz of the year, and the person who failed this one wouldn’t be passing the mid-term. Which, of course, meant that this potion was the mid-term, and they’d have to make it again come Christmas. Hand it to Snape, the sexy bastard, to veil something that important in an insult.

It wasn’t a hard potion to make, and it was one of those rare ones that Harry could understand. Its purpose was simple enough–it was used for magical burn victims, and hardened the skin temporarily until a proper cure could be found. It also had severely volatile ingredients that would need a skilled hand to manipulate, and a decent spell caster to set the final charm on the whole thing.

Harry had been smeared with it himself after Voldemort’s final siege in Madame Pomfrey’s tender love and care, and without it, Harry was sure he’d be doing more than just limping these days.

The potion itself was very interesting to make. It utilized tubeworms and nettles as its main ingredients, and as time progressed, Harry found himself immersed in his work. When he was in his groove, or as Ron called it, in his zone, he often times forgot about the world; forgot about anything but what he was doing. His zone had become his life as of late, because he often forgot about the world during the times he was concentrating, or thinking, or hell, breathing. It wasn’t that his attention was somewhere else–it was that he was so completely focused on his task that he forgot about everything else.

A few weeks after he killed Voldemort, he heard Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey whispering about Post Traumatic Stress syndrome, but as they saw him watching, he never heard another word about it again.

This potion in particular came very easy to him because he knew exactly how it worked and exactly what its main functions were, and if he didn’t think about Sirius getting it all over his hand the first time Harry visited Grimmauld Place, it was easy enough to concentrate.

Later on, he wondered if that zone is what had nearly cost him his life.

He was used to Neville’s cauldron exploding every other week. He really was. The kid went through thirty of them every year, after all. What he wasn’t used to was having any type of warning beforehand. Or well, usually he didn’t. He didn’t realize that everyone else had already backed away, even Neville, and that Professor Snape was yelling at Harry himself to step back, before it was too late.

Harry lifted his head, caught sight of Snape’s dark, unreadable eyes and his roaring, "Get back!" from the sickly green substance overflowing from Neville’s cauldron, and Harry only had time to stand and back up a foot, two, watching with horror becoming the situation as the potion bubbled and exploded.

The boom felt like it had knocked his ear drums clear into the back of his head. He fell arse over tit, slamming back hard into the ground and stared, dazedly, as the liquid sloshed in slow motion. It was a graceful arch of frothing green acid, and it almost seemed to take on a mind of its own the seconds before it fell all over him.

It burned where it hit, and the pain was instantaneous. Harry began to scream, loudly, he was sure, as the other cauldrons were set off like dominoes after the initial explosion. Liquid was exploding everywhere, he was burning alive, screaming, pain, dear heaven, and this is where it would end. Right here. God, how embarrassing. Fight the Dark Lord, kill the Dark Lord, and where do you end up? On the floor of a Potions classroom, covered in half made, boiling liquid, screaming your head off.

Poetic justice if Harry had ever heard of it.

But he wasn’t hearing much, because his body was shutting down. What scared him most in his fading mind was that he wasn’t very frightened of dying at all. And then that minimal fear was gone as well, sliding out to join the other thoughts bleeding from his mind.

He felt a presence...dark, like night. It seemed to cloud over his body, cover it up tightly, and a moment too late he realized Professor Snape had covered his much smaller body with his own. Now that was poetic justice. Have the man where you finally want him, and you’re boiling alive in half made potions.

More rocketing explosions, one after another. Snape’s robes, however, seemed to be repelling the liquid like water. Oooh. So maybe that was why he always wore them, no matter what. Especially when Neville was in the room.

His hard body, much taller and fuller than Harry’s scrawny own, was covering him everywhere, pressing the potion into his body, and it hurt so badly that Harry was sure he was going to lose all bodily function any second. He was covered everywhere, his head too, crushed against a smooth neck and the billowing robes blanketed them like darkness.

He knew he was still screaming. He knew it. He just couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear Snape’s words as his lips moved, couldn’t hear the explosions themselves, couldn’t hear anything. Literally. Though, of course, his pain was taking up center stage in his head. Snape was trying to talk to him, his black eyes staring at him in an expression of horror that Harry hadn’t seen there since Voldemort tried to kill Harry himself. It was oddly grounding and he closed his throat against the screams, unable to breathe under the suffocating weight of the Potions Master, and unable to think through the pain.

He carefully closed the feeling off, separating the agony from his consciousness, so it was a thing he could only see in his mind’s eye. His body felt detached from it, his pain lightening all over his body but somehow, not his own. Manageable that way.

And he was just getting to the point where he could faint without the risk of dying when Snape climbed up from on top of him, shook out his still pristine robe, and lifted him up like a rag doll. Harry didn’t weigh much, and....he couldn’t remember where that sentence was going.

Harry was sure he screamed. Screamed and screamed and didn’t stop, as Snape looked down at him with fear and the world darkened to nothing.

- = - = -

The first thing he was aware of was voices. Quiet, murmuring voices, all around the blackness of his world at the moment. His body was stiff as stone and he felt that if he moved even an inch, something vital was going to break. So keeping himself entirely stock still, relishing in the cool feeling of painless nerves, he opened his eyes.

Snape was sitting beside him.

Watching him.

"Potter," Snape inclined his head. "That answers if your brain is still about you. How do you feel?"

How did he feel? Well. Kind of giddy that Snape was sitting here, actually. Strange... "Stiff," Harry’s voice grated like sandpaper, and he winced quietly at the sound.

"Don’t try to talk too loudly. You screamed yourself hoarse, not that I can blame you, this time." And now that Harry was waking up, he could see the repressed rage in Snape’s face that made him shiver. If Neville wasn’t dead, he would be soon. Harry could only imagine the chaos of the classroom. "What can you remember?"

Too much for his own good. "Mmm." Talking was for people who weren’t half conscious, so he let his muscles relax again, and let his eyes fall. Stopped...opened them for a moment. He had promised to tell Snape his decision on Wednesday, and he would be damned if he didn’t. When he made a promise, he kept it. Even though it probably wasn’t Wednesday anymore. So, clearing his aching throat, he whispered, "‘Fesser, I humbly ‘ccept your tyro."

It was Snape’s shocked eyes that followed him into dreams.

Chapter 4

"The Introduction"

In all of Harry’s many years, he’d never had something, somewhere, that was simply his own. Many times during Voldemort’s reign of death, and many times in the aftermath of his own breakdown, Harry was pushed to write his own will. He’d made hundreds of revisions by now, each time listing all of his worldly possessions, and each time, deeply, unspeakably unnerved at how little he owned. At present, he had eight books, his father’s invisibility cloak, three school robes and one pair of dress robes (too small, now), four quills, his potion supplies, an assortment of underwear and Muggle clothes passed to him from Dudley, the omnioculars from the World Cup, the Marauder’s Map, the photo album of his parents, the flute Hagrid made him as a boy, Hedwig, of course, and his wand. And that was it. His Firebolt had been destroyed during the Battle of Yorkshire, and the Sneakoscope Ron had given him smashed beyond comprehension during a fit of fury his sixth year. The other small thing’s he’d collected through his years at Hogwarts were gone, after a fit of housekeeping that Harry regretted even to this day, even if ridding himself of rubbish had significantly lightened his heart at the time.

How pathetic did it seem, then? All he had to show for himself after seventeen years of living was a few odds and ends that weren’t really worth anything to anyone else. Dumbledore surely had his own kind of Marauder’s Map, invisibility cloaks weren’t as rare as Ron had made them seem all those years ago, and the books he owned were sold in mass supply everywhere.

He had nothing.

And the fact that he had so little only made him feel all the worse as he walked into his new rooms beside Snape.

Harry had gotten out of the hospital wing just a few hours before, after spending three days there recovering from the burns. His skin was completely healed, if not a bit sore in places, and Snape had come to find him after word got out.

The rooms were amazing.

All the wood was in a light, but rich, shade. There was an enormous fire place, as well as a thick, lovely couch sitting before it that just screamed for warm nights curled on its soft, worn in cushions with hot cocoa and a good book. The apartment had been sparsely furnished for whatever reason. All Harry could see, despite the embarrassment of his few things, was the possibilities. He’d never owned anything that was distinctly his before, nothing he had the freedom of doing with as he chose.

"It’s lovely," Harry breathed softly, and diplomatically decided to ignore Snape’s loud snort as he set his trunk down.

"There’s no need to be rude. You have to fill it as you see fit, and add your own possessions as you go. You may furnish it at your own disposal, Potter," Snape answered him, and pointed towards the only two doors in the room. "Those lead to your bedroom and to my own rooms."

Now that Harry had a chance to soak in some of the sitting room, he let his eyes travel over the rest of the apartment. The room was oddly circular, with only two doors leading from the sitting room, and the first door, ornate but still practical in its way, led into a beautiful bedroom. Empty of things, but already Harry’s mind was working overtime. He could see the bookshelves he would line along the walls, and the carpets he’d put on the stone floors.

It was pathetic, but he was already in love.

He’d thought about it, several times in the days he was recovering, but Harry had honestly assumed he’d never have rooms like these. Never. Well, that was also because he was terrified of what he’d gotten himself into, but it seemed once he got used to the fact that he was going to be a tyro, the fear had settled into a thick and nauseous paste deep in his belly.

Anxiety, Madame Pomfrey called it. He was suffering from anxiety. Gave him several potions to calm it, all the while muttering about children in a heartless war and what it did to gentle young minds, which had insulted Harry deeply. He was neither gentle nor young, thanks so much.

Regardless, he took a slight glance at Snape. The man hadn’t said much of anything since coming to retrieve him aside from a snapped, "Get your things." He’d waited while Harry got his trunk, which McGonagall had Ron pack for him during Harry’s stay in the hospital wing. Snape had even waited while Harry had himself a few moments to realize he’d never sleep in the dorm again.

Despite Harry’s emotional upheaval, it had been deeply amusing to see Snape in the middle of Gryffindor Country, snapping and snarling like the overgrown bat he was.

The feeling of anxiety had only worsened, the foreboding eating at the line of his stomach like a particularly tasty treat. What if he’d made a mistake? What if this wasn’t what he should have done? Why hadn’t he stayed with Ron and Hermione? Why was he doing this?

"Potter. Are you listening to me?"

Harry snapped back to the present, blinking and looking up at the man peering at him with slight disdain. "Sorry. Just..sorry. What were you saying, sir?"

Snape rose a brow, obviously not expecting such an easy response, and glared. "Your brooding is a problem we will fix at another date. Your robes, Potter."

For the first time, Harry realized what was sitting on the edge of the bed. He set the side of his trunk down, set Hedwig’s empty cage atop it, and took a good look at the robes spread on the bed. The trousers and shirt were a hunter green, deep and dark, with a brown belt that matched the heavy brown boots sitting on the floor. The shirt was simply shaped, long sleeved and v-cut at the neck, the collar short but elegant.

The robes themselves were a deep, dark brown and were so long Harry was sure they’d sweep the ground. Much like Snape’s, actually. What caught his attention most was his house crest sitting on the right breast, with another crest, strangely designed, sitting above it.

"They are the official robes of our field, and as long as you are my tyro, these are what you will wear at all times. We will talk about those stipulations in a moment," Snape said coolly, and motioned to the crest above the Gryffindor lion. "This is the Potions crest, which has been altered to allow for Defense Against the Dark Arts, as you can see in regard to the swords. The feathers stand for Potions, as well as the cauldron beneath them. The wand emitting sparks atop stands for loyalty and guardianship. It is an honor I will not have thrown in my face."

At the sharp words, Harry looked up, looking into Snape’s angry face with shock, and a bit of anger himself. "I won’t dishonor you."

"See that you don’t." And in the usual Snape fashion where dramatics were actually okay, Snape turned in all of his black robed glory and swept from the room like a raven, gliding through the apartment with Harry to follow him helplessly.

The second door of the room led to a small, yet cozy, kitchen done in deep mahogany wood and shiny tile floors. "This is the door to my own rooms," Snape said without preamble, and before Harry got a chance to look at the warm and comfortable kitchen, was led into the sitting room. Snape’s rooms were very similar to Harry’s own, but with subtle differences. Like the fact that Snape’s had to have at least six thousand books lining countless bookshelves, stacked on the floor where they didn’t fit, and held back by mountains of scrolls in some places. It was chaos, but a subtly orderly chaos, with the feeling that Snape knew exactly where every single thing was in this room.

Harry admired it, and envied it, all at the same time.

"You are free to read any of the books." Snape must have been watching him. Harry cast a small glance up, and saw the amused sneer curling the man’s lips. Yep. Caught. "With the exception that you bring them back and put them exactly where you found them. If I find one thing amiss, you will be given the arduous task of cataloguing all of my books alphabetically, without the use of a wand."

Meep.

"Now, as your rooms were, in fact, once a cupboard, you will have to use my own facilities until the proper ones can be installed for y–"

A cupboard. He was going to be sleeping in a cupboard again. His blood roared in his ears but he fought the instant claustrophobia joining the anxiety and nerves having his stomach lining for dinner.

"..Potter? Potter."

Harry shook his head, nodded, then shook it again as he cleared his throat. Yep. He was an idiot. "Sorry."

"If using my lavatory and kitchen is so distasteful, I’m sure that your dorm would be a most appropriate place to sleep," Snape snarled, and glared at him angrily in such a way that Harry knew instantly how deeply he’d offended him.

"No. It’s not that. Look, I’m sorry. It’s just been a tough few days." Which it had been. But his lie must have sounded hollow, because Snape’s glare turned to one of suspicion for a few moments.

It almost seemed that Snape was going to call bullshit for a few, nerve wracking moments, before he began to talk once more. Harry let out the held breath in a long, silent expulsion of thanks. "We will also be using my personal work room to start the experiments, and test how deep your talent runs. However, as the hour is late, we will do so tomorrow. First, sit."

Harry turned to look at the large, lovely desk, piled high with everything from books to quills, homework to jars and boxes filled with Merlin only knew what.

"I have the guidelines for the Potions tyro outlined for you," Snape sat himself, in a sweep of black robes and dark eyes, and as Harry watched, picked a scroll from another small heap of them on his desk. The craziest thing was that he seemed to know exactly which it was because he handed it to Harry. How in the bloody hell he’d known was a mystery to Harry’s own problem solving brain, and he blinked a few times before lifting the scroll from Snape’s palm and sitting himself.

It looked normal enough, like any standard sheet of parchment, but was rolled closed with a slender length of brown leather. Harry carefully untied it, making sure not to pull too hard and rip the paper, and unrolled the sheet just as carefully. Snape’s handwriting, an elegant scrawl that moved down the page, brought him into the words immediately.

Harry took a moment to stare. He looked up...blinked...and then reread the entire thing over again. This...was more than just a small shock. He supposed he’d taken the honor of what Snape had offered him a little too lightly, and was now feeling incredibly ungrateful and completely unprepared for this. The stipulations Snape had given him weren’t terrible...restoring Madame Pomfry’s stores, once he had the skills, wouldn’t be hard. However, the penalties that would fall on him should he decide he didn’t want to do this were extreme, and Harry stared at it for a long time before looking up at the professor. "Sir, if I die at some point during the duration of this contract, what penalties will I be under?"

Snape blinked, then stared at him for a moment, as if shocked that he’d ask such a thing. "I’m sorry?"

"If I die. What then?"

Another blink. "You will be buried with full tyro honors, of course." Then he seemed to recover, because his usual sneer graced his face once more. "However, I sincerely discourage dying while under my watch. Are you planning on visiting the grave sooner than you’d intended?"

"Don’t know," Harry answered back, honestly, just to see the surprise flitter across Snape’s face. Doing this whole tyro business was worth every blink and stare of shock the man was giving him. "Never know, these days. The Death Eaters are kind of mad at me, after all."

"Yes, they are."

Since Snape seemed amused over it, Harry let it go and kept rereading. The Wandless magic part was very interesting, as Harry could do a bit of it already. Lighting candles, turning pages in books. It was definitely a handy bit of knowledge, and he looked forward to Snape showing him more. The two things he liked most, though, that cinched his agreeing to the rest of it, was that Snape understood. He got it. More than anyone else had, even Dumbledore. Snape understood that Harry was terrified of living on his own, of being alone again and that this way, he could learn how to function as a member of Wizarding society without thoroughly embarrassing everyone he’d ever met in his life. And he’d get to stay here, if he wanted to, study under Snape for all the years he chose to work at his field, and maybe take a job as a professor here at the school when he was ready.

And even though the last statement said that he was in no way to get attached to Snape, Harry knew knew he could try. At least try.

So, after reading it once more, and fully understanding what was going to be expected of him while at the same time having no clue, he signed his name with a flourish on the bottom line, then watched as his name was printed underneath magically. It flashed gold, binding the contract and making it unbreakable.

Snape was watching with an unreadable expression, and took the parchment himself after Harry was finished. He signed his name along the bottom, as well, with that quill Harry was crazy over, and glanced up with an eyebrow raised. "Dumbledore will finalize it with the School Governors by the weekend, and on Monday you will begin your studies."

"Okay," Harry answered, then at Snape’s glare added, "sir."

"Mmm," Snape muttered, as he rolled the parchment back up.

Harry studied the man now, as his head was bowed, and let himself take in the long, lank hair, the high broached neck of his robes, and the long flow of the black materiel. He’d always wondered what Snape looked like under all those layers, if he was thin as his face said or paunchy around the middle. Not that Harry particularly cared, after all. Snape’s looks, while less than clinically handsome, were still handsome in their own dark, delicious way, and coupled with the voice and the dark, sarcastic charm made him all the more unapproachable. It was his genius Harry was attracted to, his personality he found desirable. God, he was sick. "Will there be anything I need to buy?"

At that, the man looked back at him inquisitively. "Perhaps. What did you bring with you?"

Oh. Now, that caused a bit of embarrassment, which made Harry squirm in his chair like a first year. "Not much. A few books, some clothes, some odds and ends. I haven’t had a lot of time to buy stuff."

"No, I suppose you haven’t." Not pity in Snape’s voice but a weary kind of understanding that made Harry look back up, but before he could look too closely at the professor, Snape pushed a piece of parchment toward him, as well as that long quill. "Please remove the word ‘stuff’ from your vocabulary. It is an inane word used for inane purposes by inane people. And as you are not inane, and I am not inane, make sure not to utter it in my presence again. Now, write."

Harry couldn’t help but be amused, grinning to himself as he took the quill and parchment and pulled it in front of him. "All right."

"You will need a decent broom for the times when we need to go looking for our ingredients. I find that natural ingredients, rather than store-bought, make for stronger and more intense combinations. You will need four tyro quills, with our crest imprinted on them. I have the design on a parchment for the engravers to copy onto your things. I’ll expect you to have another set of robes just like the ones you have already seen, and you may switch shirts from green to black when you feel like having something different, but no other color. You will need a great deal more parchment, and I suggest we investigate how to attain Muggle notebooks, three hundred and sixty sheets each. They make for fantastic log books." Harry scribbled it all down, quickly, as Snape spoke. "You will need a pair of gloves, made of dragon hide, and although I have aprons here made of the same material, buying a personal one made to fit your body is much more elegant and comfortable." Snape stopped for a moment to look at him closely. "I have many materials here, but you may want to have your own cauldrons. You will need four, sized fifteen and a third, to eight and a quarter. You will also need a set of your own tools, though I have two sets, your hands are smaller and more slender than my own. You may want tools that are customized to you–I find that it’s easier to work when you’re not worried about the control you have over your knives."

Snape took a breath, and Harry’s eyes widened. More? "You will need a winter cloak with the tyro crest on them, as well as scarf, hat, and gloves of the same color scheme and design. I suggest new dress robes, as Dumbledore has been making rumblings about throwing another winter ball, and as my tyro, it is expected for you to be dressed exceptionally well." A threat, not a promise, and Harry couldn’t help grinning again. "We will explain your tyro to the Seamstress in Diagon Alley, and they will know exactly what you need. I also expect you to replenish your own stores of basic Potions ingredients, as well as Demiguise skin, which will be included in the first potion we will be doing."

Snape stopped to think, and Harry thought for a moment of his vault at Gringotts. He had enough, but he had to make sure. His parents had opened two other vaults while they were still alive, and the interest from the money in them was still coming into his own. On his eighteenth birthday the money that was in the other two vaults would be transferred to his own, and not for the first time, Harry thanked his parents from the very deepest part of his soul for writing a will and making sure that he would be taken care of. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything if he didn’t have his money, or would have had to ask others for money, which was something his pride and integrity wouldn’t allow. He had over fifty galleons with him right at the moment, figuring he’d need more for his last year at the begining of the semester, safely closed in his trunk. Somehow, he didn’t think it was going to be enough.

And he was still thinking about it when Snape shocked the pants off of him.

"We will go to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning to get these things. Dumbledore has already excused you from your morning classes, and has asked you to join him in a private council before we leave. I will go to Gringotts while you are with him, and we will meet in Diagon Square at nine thirty. Are we clear?"

Harry couldn’t help flushing softly, and clearing his throat. "Sir...I...I’ll need to go to Gringotts myself."

"For?"

Harry stared. Couldn’t help it. "For...well, this stuff."

At that Snape seemed to get offended, and his lip curled in anger. "You are my tyro, Potter. You misunderstand the situation–you are my own private student now. You are under my care and my protection. I will provide for you everything you need."

"But...but sir," Harry cleared his throat quietly, in mortal embarrassment and a healthy dose of fear. "This...this is going to come out to at least two hundred galleons."

"And?"

All right. So Snape had money. Not news there, everyone thought he had to be the heir to a fortune, but still, Harry was deeply uncomfortable with all of it. "And...well, I’d like to help."

"Help," a seemingly unheard of word in Snape’s extensive vocabulary.

"Yes. You know...pay for some. Whatever makes you comfortable. Half, maybe."

"What part of ‘you are my tyro’ did you not understand?" Snape asked quietly, but slowly, as if talking to a particularly dense child. "You are under my care, now. I will provide everything for you."

"But..." Harry, just shut up. "Sir, I can buy my own clothes."

Snape looked Harry up and down and rose a brow.

All right. So Dudley’s cast-offs weren’t exactly made of gold. But Harry had so little need to wear Muggle clothes that it didn’t bother him, not in the least. Apparently, it was bothering Snape, though, because Harry shifted a little in discomfort. "My cousin’s clothes. My Aunt and Uncle–," are very well off, "didn’t have a lot of money to buy me clothes." Which was true, because they never had money for him. " And I just don’t really have a need for Muggle stuff."

"But you will now. And I must insist that you not appear to be a beggar child or an anorexic," Snape graced him with a smug smile of scorn. "You will take all of your cousins things, boil them in anti tracing solution, and burn them tonight."

"Burn?"

"Yes, Potter. Have you not been paying attention for the last six years?" Seemingly amused to have answered his own question, Snape smirked. "Your clothes leave a signature behind; hair, skin, and nail particles that can be used by any skilled poison expert. Your cast-off clothes can kill you. Burn them, tonight. Tomorrow, we will go to Diagon Alley." A moment. "Add Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans to your list."

What?

Snape stared serenely back at him.

"Every Flavor Beans?"

"Mmm. And Chocolate Frogs. And perhaps some Licorice Wands."

Why was he...?

Oh.

Oh!

Snape. With a sweet tooth.

The image was so astoundingly ridiculous, so completely unthought-of, that all Harry could do was gape at the man sitting before him. "Licorice Wands?"

"Do you recommend anything else?"

Recommend? Harry just stared with his mouth slightly hanging open. "Ah...Fizzing Whizbees are good."

"I find they’re too bitter near the middle. However, if you feel like them, I think we can include them in our shopping."

Snape. Offering to buy him candy. The fog seemed to engulf Harry’s head. Apparently, that old saying about what you see isn’t always what you get was entirely true. "Sir, you...I mean..."

"Mr. Potter, the first thing I believe I will teach you is that things aren’t always what they seem. You have learned that lesson in parts and chunks over the years, but I doubt you understand it in total. What is isn’t always what is. Did you think, just because I am a thirty seven year old bastard Potions Master that I don’t enjoy things like sweets?"

"I...no. I didn’t mean to offend," Harry added quickly, filing Snape calling himself a bastard into his head for later consideration, and probable amusement. "I mean, but...you’re the last person I imagined liking those kinds of things. You always...I mean, sometimes I wonder if you’ve even got time to sleep, or let alone bother with it."

And for the first time, Harry was graced with one of Snape’s smiles. It was, by far, one of the best things Harry had ever seen. He couldn’t help returning it. It was like the sun dawned on Snape’s face, lighting his features up and momentarily casting the smudges under his eyes into shadow. He graced the world with his amusement and if this world could have things as moving and beautiful as Snape’s smile, then Harry didn’t think it so bad at all. Beautiful and gone too soon, but from that moment on Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to reconcile the image of Snape grinning at him with the image of his git Potions Master. "As I said, Mr. Potter, things aren’t always what they appear. I saw your expression when you came into my sitting room...did you think me to live in a perfectly ordered home?"

Harry took a glance around at the chaos that were potions ingredients and books, set strategically in key places, and decided that if Snape was going to be honest, Harry could return the favor in kind. "I thought everything had an organized mess feel to it. It’s lovely."

Snape’s expressive eyebrow arched. "Lovely?"

"Sure. I mean, you don’t seem particularly worried that you’ve got books stacked waist high in places, because I think you know exactly where everything is."

"Mmm," more amusement. Dear Merlin. The second conversation they’d had that didn’t include barbs and snaps. Harry didn’t think his heart could take all of this shock. "Which is why I asked you to return everything to where you found it, should you borrow it." He paused for a moment, "I find that it’s too much of a hassle to organize everything in my personal life. Make no mistake–our laboratory will be in immaculate condition, and you will organize and label everything on every jar and bottle. Everything will be where it’s supposed to be, so no mistakes and unfortunate accidents, not unlike Mr. Longbottom’s this week, should occur once more."

Well, he couldn’t quite stop the visible wince, now could he? "Madame Pomfrey told me everyone else was all right, and that only a few people got some minor burns. What.." A moment. "No one told me what happened."

Those piercing eyes took him in for a moment, watching him, studying him like a bug under a microscope. Harry had the peculiar feeling Snape could see through him, and realized at once Snape probably was. Sometimes, Harry really hated Legilimency. "What do you remember?"

"Ah...I was working. I guess I just didn’t hear everyone," at that, Snape snorted, "and when I looked up, Neville’s cauldron was just boiling over. I didn’t have a chance to move at all."

"No. You didn’t. The explosion set off a domino effect–all the cauldrons on the left hand side of the classroom exploded and doused you with half-made ingredients. Do you remember screaming?"

That had to be a trick question. Of course he remembered screaming. In fact, if memory served, he remembered screaming quite a bit. However, Snape’s expression seemed to be asking for more, and Harry’s eyebrow lifted up on its own accord. "What?"

"Do you remember what you were screaming?"

He had been screaming something? Now that was news.

Snape’s eyes were hard and soft at the same time, glaring and investigating, as he gazed at him. When he’d been a little boy, Harry had always thought that when Snape looked at him he could read his mind. Of course, Harry had been right–Legilimancy was just that, reading minds and reading emotions. So, Harry looked at him calmly as Snape looked for whatever he sought.

"Tomorrow we will talk about this small problem you have with brooding. It is unhealthy, and dangerous, as you saw this week. Learning Occlumency will enable you to have discipline over your mind, but more importantly, it will teach you how to hide your emotions."

All right. Harry felt himself get hot with both embarrassment and anger. He didn’t really appreciate having all of shortcomings put on the table so easily, and he glared at the older man. "What do you mean, ‘problem’?"

"Problem. You lose yourself in your thoughts and forget to live," Snape’s eyebrow was up just as high as Harry’s. "You get sloppy and don’t think. You could have saved yourself three days in the Hospital Wing if you’d simply been paying attention."

"I was paying attention. I didn’t hear anything else because I was paying attention."

"No. You lost yourself in your potion, in a mindless task you can perform in your sleep," Snape snarled back, "and you will not do it again."

"How do you know?" Harry felt his voice rising and decided, if his voice was going to, he might as well get up, too. He climbed up from the chair in anger, and glared as the man across from him with all the hate he’d once felt for the surely bastard. "It’s my business what I do or don’t do."

"No. It’s not," Snape’s voice had taken on that deadly, sharp glint again that sounded like caressed knives and hot honey over an open fire at the same time. "It is my business. You just signed your life to me for the next ten months, Potter, and you will do as I say or you will regret it."

"You can’t bully me around!" Harry yelled back, stabbing his finger in the air at him. "I’m your student, not your house elf!"

"You will be whatever I deem you to be, and you’ll be thankful for it, you insolent, impetuous little boy. You have no idea how much I could show you, but I will be damned first if you think you’re going to act like the spoiled, rotten child you are while in my presence!"

After the last outburst they both seethed for a long minute. Harry glared, darkly, meeting Snape’s own furious gaze, and the battle of wills roared unspoken between them.

Harry would have given an arm to have kissed him.

It was with that thought that Harry broke away from the glare, feeling the blush creep up onto his neck as he stomped back to the door between their rooms. "I’m going to get settled in."

"See that you do. Your linens are in the wardrobe. I will shower later tonight," Snape muttered. Mmeaning the shower was free now.

Right at the moment, Harry needed to cool off in the worst way.

In more ways than one.

Chapter 4

"The Interview"

Morning dawned, cool and crisp. Like a bird unfurling her wings, the sun rose and warmed the land just enough to forgo thick winter robes and wool socks. Hogwarts was a cacophony of happy students, cheerful ghosts, and begrudgingly upbeat professors, and though Harry thought he’d feel disconnected from it when he woke up the next morning, it was the opposite. If anything, he felt tied to the school even more, ingrained in its history where the possibilities were endless. For the first time in his short life, he would have a choice on how he wanted to spend that time and how he wanted to make the mark on his own history.

So it was with a somewhat lighter heart that Harry strolled down the hall towards Dumbledore’s office. He already knew the password (peach parfait, of all things), and though he wasn’t looking forward to talking with the man waiting for him, he could at least admit that he was in a better mind frame than he’d been in before he’d accepted the tyro.

That, or he’d just learned to hide it better.

He made it to the long hall leading to the Headmaster’s office, and slipped into the deserted corridor. He’d seen it countless times in countless different forms–packed with people, sleeping sanctuary to one Snuffles as Remus talked with Dumbledore, occupied with Ministry officials, or as empty as it was now. There were so many memories in this hall that sometimes it hurt Harry to look at it for too long.

Harry stopped for a moment, directly on the spot where he’d fallen. He knew later from McGonagall that Snape had lifted him up and carried him to the hospital wing, and that Dumbledore had spent the next day and a half sitting at his bedside, silent, stony. That had been, if Harry remembered correctly, a month and a half before the Battle of Yorkshire.

Better not to think about it.

"Peach parfait," he said to the statue of the beautiful griffin, and watched its wings unfurl majestically to showcase a beautiful revolving staircase made of hard marble. A neat way to get into the Headmaster’s office, and flawless, at that. The stairwell and the door were guarded against hostile magic, and more likely than not, couldn’t be manipulated with normal magic. It made Harry feel both safe and put out, because more times than one he’d needed to see Dumbledore and hadn’t been able to.

Regardless of the fact, he put it out of his mind, recognizing it as that ‘brooding problem’ Snape had called him on, because he found himself in front of Dumbledore’s office without remembering anything from the trip up.

Harry sighed, quietly, and was about to knock when Dumbledore’s face suddenly filled the doorway like a big, white, majestic bird. "Hello, Harry."

Harry couldn’t get over the fact just how tall Dumbledore was, and every time he talked to the man it was a shock to see just how much presence he had, as if it had slipped his mind only to be renewed at every visit. Even when Harry was young Dumbledore had always been larger than life–now as an adult, and a few inches of height added to his build, Dumbledore was still larger than life, though Harry was glad he didn’t have to crane his neck so far up to see him anymore.

Or maybe he was just short. Yeah, definitely a possibility. "Hello, Headmaster."

"Come in," Dumbledore shooed him in and closed the door behind him, all in a sweep of magenta robes that all but seared Harry’s eyeballs from his head. Harry followed them to the small couches and fireplace beyond Dumbledore’s desk, where tea and cakes were just being set down by Winky, the house elf Barty Crouch had fired Harry’s fourth year. "Lemon drop? Tea?"

"No, thank you. Hello, Winky," Harry greeted the tiny elf, and was rewarded with a sniff, a glare, and a humph as she skittered out. He sat down as Dumbledore himself did, sliding comfortably back onto the cushions of the exceptionally warm and cozy couch, obviously meant to greet and put its users at ease.

Dumbledore poured himself a cup of tea, chattering about nothing important, and Harry grunted his responses quietly as he snuggled closer into the cushions and sighed. This was how it always was. Dumbledore made idle chit chat, tea was poured, lemon drops offered. Then either something wonderful or something terrible dropped into Harry’s lap like a pile of stones. Absently, he wondered if this was why Snape always hated coming up here, and made a note to ask him the next time the man was feeling particularly generous.

Then he realized Dumbledore was staring at him the smallest bit, and tuned back into the conversation. "I’m sorry?"

"Ahhh. Mind drifting?" a little chuckle from the older man. "I tend to have that effect. I was merely wondering about your tyro."

How did Dumbledore...?...oh. Of course. Snape would have to finalize it with him. Regardless, it made him feel a little cold inside, as if the precious gift of his tyro could be seen by anybody. It put him on guard, a feeling he didn’t totally like. "Yes, I’ve accepted it. I signed it this morning."

"Of course you did," another beam from the older man, and not for the first time, Harry wondered if that now that Voldemort was gone, Dumbledore was letting his mind slip away. Then again, he always did enjoy letting everyone think he was a senile old man, and that Harry had been added to that group made him intensely sad. For some reason, he’d thought that perhaps Dumbledore had cared about him beyond his scar, but sometimes, it just felt like that wasn’t always the case.

Harry realized he was looking at Dumbledore, and that Dumbledore was studying him back.

And that Dumbledore was a skilled Legilimens.

He looked away, quickly, but not before seeing the flash of something in the old mans eyes that made him feel sick at the middle, so much so that he had to say something. "I’m sorry."

"What should you feel sorry for, my boy?" Dumbledore questioned gently. "Voldemort is dead, by your doing. You are alive, and mostly whole," he indicated Harry’s bum leg, "and that is something to be proud of. However, I believe...," he sipped his tea, "You are very upset with me."

"Upset?" Harry asked of him quietly.

"Mmm." The older man studied Harry again, and once more, Harry felt like Dumbledore was looking through him.

"Why would I be upset, Headmaster?"

"Because you have not come to see me, or looked at me, or even uttered my name, in many months."

Something hot, strange, and deeply uncomfortable rose in Harry’s throat. Dispassionately he recognized it as anger, but swallowed it before it could blossom into fury. "Maybe it’s you who hasn’t looked at me, or talked to me, or pretended I even existed, since the Battle of Yorkshire. Sir," Harry said evenly, "May I be honest with you, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore was still studying him, but he nodded.

"I’d rather not be here right now. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that you kept me alive for the last seventeen years. I do. But I can’t....Headmaster, I thought..." How could he explain it? How could Harry possibly say that he felt a grandfatherly affection for Dumbledore, that he looked up to the man, that for most of his life he wanted to be him? And then the ultimate betrayal of being completely ignored for the rest of his sixth year, the summer, and into this semester?

"You thought?" Dumbledore prodded, gently, still looking at him with those infuriating, gentle eyes.

"I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. I just meant, I had hoped that I was more to you than just the Boy Who Lived."

Harry was rewarded, or possibly dismayed, when Dumbledore’s teacup clinked down loudly onto the tiny china plate in his hand. "I’m sorry?"

"I thought...I thought maybe I was more to you than a scar. Through you I could see my father and my mother and Sirius, because you knew them, and I thought sometimes, I could know them, too, just by talking to you. You were there for them, and you were here for me. I thought you cared about me beyond your duty to me, Headmaster." Harry felt something cave, and wanted so badly to cry, but no tears would come. "But I know why. I’m sorry I failed you. I should have killed him with magic, to make sure he stayed dead, but I didn’t. I should have helped you kill the Death Eaters. I should have done more. But I couldn’t save Moody, or Tonks, or Sirius, professor. I couldn’t save Mrs. Weasley, and I couldn’t save Bill from being hurt, I couldn’t stop Colin from choking on his own insides, and I couldn’t make Seamus stop bleeding. I tried, professor. God knows I tried as hard as I could, but people still died. Because of me. Because I didn’t kill Voldemort with magic. If I had found the perfect spell, the Death Eaters would have died with him, and that would have been the end. I know you must be so ashamed of me, I know the Wizarding world must be ashamed of me, because I didn’t come through, and I didn’t stop their friends and family from being hurt. Even now they’re still at large, and it’s because of me."

Dumbledore was completely silent, and the only sound in the room was Harry’s own ragged breathing. This was perfect misery, sharp in his intensity, and seemed to pay a bit of the penance Harry owed to all of the lives that had been lost. Harry relished in it as it washed over his bruised and beaten soul, because admitting his sins made some of the memories that haunted his life seem more bearable. What he couldn’t stand was Dumbledore’s complete silence and his eyes, always twinkling and softly blue, filled to brimming. "Harry..." his voice broke, and when he stopped to clear it, Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. "Harry, you are not responsible for any of their deaths. I...gave you your space. I thought you would need time to distance yourself from all that occurred, and perhaps distancing yourself from me would also be beneficial. It turns out that this old man once again failed to remember what it is to be young."

"Sir, not to be rude, but I am responsible," Harry said, very softly. "I was supposed to kill Voldemort with magic. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was too weak a wizard, so I turned into an animal and killed him with my bare hands. How, how is that not cowardly? How is that not terrible? I broke his wand and killed his body in a matter of seconds. I smothered him with my hands, I killed him, even if he was Voldemort, even if he was the worst thing to ever grace the earth, I’ve killed another man. I felt his bones crunch under my hands, and I was there as he drew his last breath. I was there to look into his eyes and see that it wasn’t hate in them–but fear. Understanding, and fear. I killed him, professor, and I can’t..." He was choking on the lump in his throat, "And my punishment is to be responsible for all the deaths that have come after him, all the deaths that I put into motion because I didn’t face up to him as a wizard, as an equal. Because I was glad when I suffocated him, because all I could feel was revenge, so hot inside of me, finally being let free. I didn’t have pity, Dumbledore, I didn’t stop myself from taking as much enjoyment out of his murder as I could."

His entire body began to shake as he set his head in his hands, and though they were right there, his body still refused to let him cry. He’d cried so much since the battle that he felt he’d cried all of the oceans and all of the rivers in the world, and with every tear the weakness he was totally aware of inside of his soul tore wider, longer.

"Harry," Dumbledore’s voice then, quiet but firm, and Harry realized as the cushions dipped that Dumbledore had sat down beside him. The earthy, fresh smell of Dumbledore’s whole essence wrapped around Harry’s body like a warm blanket, just as Dumbledore’s arms came around him and held him close to his side.

And though Harry couldn’t find the tears his body still refused him, he found the extra well of emotion and began to shake in harsh, dark movements against the older mans robes. They felt like they were wrenching out of him with forceful yanks, and though hysteria leapt up in his throat Harry pushed it back down and let himself be comforted.

It was the fact that no one had ever held him like this that made his sobs turn inward and find solace in truth.

It took him several minutes to calm himself, but when he did, he realized Dumbledore was gently stroking his hair and holding him like he was a five year old. And where once that would have grated on Harry’s nerves, it now soothed and protected, calmed, along with Dumbledore’s soft voice like warm waters flowing in and out of his mind. "Harry, you are the bravest man I have ever known," he murmured gently, and at Harry’s dark snort, lifted Harry’s chin gently so they could look at one another. "You are the bravest man I have ever known. Your courage is a pliable thing, surrounding you like armor. You have braved everything, from your muggle family to the taunts of the students here at Hogwarts, to Voldemort himself. You have faced them with courage and anger, bravery and fear, and you have come out on top. Do you believe that simply because you killed Voldemort without magic that it somehow makes you weak?" He didn’t wait for Harry to answer, just speaking softly to him as he held him. "My child, you succeeded when none of us did–you killed Voldemort, who’s power rivaled my own, in such a way that you broke the spirit of the Death Eaters and their consorts. Harry. You killed him like a muggle. You took the deepest understanding of yourself, you saw that you could not kill him by using magic, so you took his hatred of all things Muggle and used it against him. You brought him down to the level of every human being on this earth. Do you understand how powerful that was?"

Harry hadn’t thought of it like that, had refused to think of it like that, and he shook his head quietly, swallowing hard as he looked at Dumbledore.

"You showed him that though you could have used magic, and more than likely killed him, you instead chose to kill him in a way two human beings kill one another. The irony, Harry, was not lost on him, which is why he understood, and feared, you. Because you were like him–human, of flesh and bone and blood. He was not immortal to death in such a way." Dumbledore gently stroked his hair back from his forehead, now more scarred than it had been a year ago. "You played Voldemort’s game, Harry, and you won. And though there were deaths because of your decision as there are with any enormous decisions such as this, I daresay it, you saved us all that day. If you hadn’t acted when you did, we would all be dead, including those who might have lived–Ron, Hermione, Professor Lupin, and Bill Weasley to name a few."

"But I should have...I didn’t..." Was it possible? Was he not to blame for all of this? The thought was so terrifying, and so exhilarating, that Harry didn’t know what to do with himself.

"Didn’t kill the Death Eaters? No, and I thank you. I like my Potions Master just where he is, not six feet under the ground." Dumbledore seemed to rethink that, and chuckled softly to himself. "Well, as he usually is six feet under the ground, that phrase doesn’t quite work with him, does it?"

Snape.

"I like him, too."

At that, Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled with a smile, and a ghost of the twinkling sparkle in them returned. "I thought you might have, but I am most glad that he has put his differences with you behind him."

"We’re going to go out today," Harry said softly, and didn’t move from Dumbledore’s side. He wouldn’t, until the man pushed him away, though Dumbledore seemed perfectly content to hold him just like this. "Buy cauldrons and things. I was really surprised that he offered me the tyro, but...he seems to know what he’s talking about, so I’ll go along with it."

"Mmhmm," Dumbledore smiled. "Have you been getting along with him?"

Ooh. At that, Harry felt his face heat. "Mostly. I really like his sitting room."

Now that twinkle was back full power, and Dumbledore chuckled in delight. "Don’t tell him, but I do, too. It’s quite homey, isn’t it?"

"Definitely not what I would have associated with Professor Snape, that’s for sure." Harry paused for a moment, and swallowed every single bit of his pride. "Thank you, professor."

"You are, and will always be, quite welcome, Harry," Dumbledore smiled back down at him. "Now off with you, you don’t want to be late to see Professor Snape. I don’t think I could handle the shame if I were the reason you were tardy for such an important expedition." More laughter shining from those deep blue eyes. "I will come down tonight and sign the paperwork, as well as include you in Professor Snape’s wards."

"Okay," Harry rose to his feet and discreetly rubbed his face dry with his sleeve. Dumbledore rose along with him, and though the feeling of guilt was still heavy in Harry’s heart, it no longer bore such a weight that it made breathing difficult, which Harry was deeply grateful for.

Then he realized that Dumbledore had called him to his office for something, and he looked up at the man in embarrassment. "Professor, you..you called me to your office for something?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I’d completely forgotten," at that Dumbledore chuckled to himself again, and walked to his desk in robes so completely blinding that Harry was surprised he didn’t have to hold a hand up to block them out. They seemed to all but radiate, and Harry found himself squinting several times and wincing behind Dumbledore’s back.

Fawkes was sitting up on his perch, preening to show off his new plumage, and Harry couldn’t help smiling as he gently stroked his carefully arranged feathers. "Very handsome, Fawkes," he said kindly, and was rewarded be another preen and chirp.

"Where is it, where is it.." Dumbledore dug through his desk, humming quietly to himself as he peered in each drawer, then suddenly rose. "Ah hah," he blew the dust off of a small box which obviously hadn’t been looked at in some time, and handed it to Harry. "There we are."

"What’s this, sir?"

"Something you’ll need for your tyro. Hasn’t been used in some time..the last to use it was Severus himself," Dumbledore hummed. "Open it later. Now, off with you, or Professor Snape is not going to be tolerable today."

Harry nodded quietly, and turned to the door. "Thank you again, Professor."

"Anytime. If you ever need me, Harry, you know where to find me."

It was with Dumbledore’s delighted expression that Harry took his leave. And somehow, because of that smile and the reconciliation that maybe Harry was carrying around guilt he could have shed long ago, facing the world didn’t seem as hard as it had an hour ago.

Chapter 5

"The Shopping Trip"

Hogsmeade was one of the most lovely towns Harry had ever had the pleasure of visiting. Harry wasn’t entirely sure why it was such a treat, but knew, inherently, that it had to do something with both the aura it held, and the mystery it provided for him as a young man. It had been a grand adventure when he was a third year, and though some of the novelty had worn off in the four years since, Harry still got a thrill out of knowing he was leaving Hogwarts and going somewhere else, somewhere where he could buy treats, or clothes, or whatever it was that he wanted. It signified freedom, what little of it he had.

Harry was upset he couldn’t spend the day loitering around the little shops and restaurants, but Hogsmeade didn’t have everything Diagon Alley would. So, with one last glance from the closed gates of Hogwarts, and an upset glance at that, Harry Apparated.

He hated Apparating.

For one, he’d been splinched the first time he’d done it, and had to wait a week before all of his bodily parts were reattached. And as it was, he was still sure something was missing inside, but didn’t bother too much with it. Whatever inside-piece was missing was safe somewhere, after all.

Diagon Alley wasn’t as crowded as Harry had expected for a week day when he emerged in the town square at the Apparating center. He signed in quickly with the public service wizard to log his Apparation time and quickly walked out of the building.

Even from across the square, the thunder clouds seeming to radiate from Snape’s eyes were keeping everyone from his path.

He stood, stiff and still, glaring darkly as Harry approached him. He looked...well, furious, disappointed, and almost giddy, thinking about all the punishments he was going to dole out on Harry, he was sure.

Shit.

"Professor Snape. I’m sorry. I didn’t..Dumbledore. And...we talked. Kept me. He did. I’m sorry," Harry babbled, forgetting all about Gryffindor nobility and courage in light of the daggers Snape was shooting him with that piercing gaze.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said silkily, turning on his heel and beginning to stalk down the long cobbled street. Harry had no choice but to walk quickly after him, scurrying amongst the crowd to keep up with the man. "I do not care for your explanations or your excuses. You are eleven minutes late. Do you realize, that if I arrived five minutes early, which I did, in hopes that perhaps in that small, insignificant brain of yours, you would be here at a decent time, that eleven minutes of waiting time actually became sixteen minutes? I have been waiting for you for a quarter of an hour, and all the excuse you have given me is an inarticulate jumble of pronouns and a name."

Harry nearly ran into him when he abruptly stopped, turned, and Snape glared. "And you are not wearing your tyro robes. I am thoroughly disgusted with you. Do you think this is a game?"

"No. No, sir, I don’t," Harry managed, terrified by the fury in Snape’s eyes, and knowing without a doubt that he was entirely at the man’s mercy. "Dumbledore called me to his office, like you know. I...we got to talking." He didn’t want to elaborate beyond that, and didn’t.

But he would have said more if Draco hadn’t waltzed by and smirked at him in that ugly way he had, tossing long blond hair over his shoulder and looking sexy as all living hell doing it. Damn his hormones. "Getting your arse chewed out by your Master, Potter? Knew it wouldn’t take you long. Hey, at least Longbottom’ll be fifty ninth in the class."

Harry’s nostrils flared and he said, enunciating as clearly as possible, "Don’t know about that, Malfoy, but I hear you’ve got it bad for McGonagall. The wrinkles turn you on? Maybe it’s the bun."

"Potter!" Snape looked absolutely shocked, appalled, furious, and perhaps even slightly amused. "Cease, at once!"

"If I’ve got it for McGonagall, then you must be head over heels for Professor Snape," Draco goaded, smirking at him. "Drooling after him like a love sick puppy when you think no ones looking, Potter, isn’t the most discreet of things. Take it as some...friendly advice."

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry muttered, and with effort, kept the blush out of his face.

Not well enough, obviously, because Draco roared with laughter and walked on, mimicking him the whole way.

Snape’s eyes were boring holes through him.

"Potter, I will beat it out of you if I have to, but you will not dishonor me or your position in public ever again. First, you are late. Second, you are not wearing appropriate robes. Third, you insult another tyro because of a petty childhood rivalry–"

"His dad tried to kill me! Twice!"

"Do not interrupt!" Snape roared, and all of Diagon Alley stopped, staring at the two men standing in the middle of the street. "Your actions directly reflect on me, and if I ever see you answering goads like that again, or talking back to me in such an insolent manner, you will be sorry. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Harry absolutely seethed. And didn’t say a word.

Snape’s eyes grew even darker with anger.

And as this was not how Harry wanted to begin his tyro, or hell, begin the day, considering Snape was going to buy all these things for him, Harry sucked in all of his pride and squared his shoulders. "Sir, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. My meeting with Dumbledore ran over late, and I would have rather been ten minutes late without my robes, then twenty with. Again, I’m sorry for having to make you wait, and I’m sorry for dishonoring you in public."

Snape abruptly stopped in the street, and Harry was sure he was going to turn and lash on him again, just positive.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the hard line of his shoulders seemed to relax a bit, and Snape grunted without turning to look at him once, before taking up the meaningful stride once more that Harry had to almost jog to keep up with.

The morning, after that, passed well. Snape was still angry Harry was sure, but they turned towards conversation regarding their new relationship, and things calmed. They had found while fighting Voldemort that they worked excellently together when they weren’t in strict student/teacher roles, and after an hour in Snape’s company, Harry felt himself flowing back into those old grooves and crevices he’d had with the professor at Grimmauld Place. As they haggled for potions ingredients and cauldrons, they talked about everything from Potions to the Ministry of Magic’s new appointees, both agreeing that a half-eaten Fudge would have been better than Jack Bones, by far the most stupid man on the planet. Over sandwiches and tea they debated on Defense Against the Dark Arts ideologies, with Harry firmly believing that children should be taught the Unforgivable, Unspeakable, Unwhatever curses so that, when the time came, they’d know how to block it. Snape completely disagreed, and painted an ugly picture of First Years hexing one another everywhere they went, and Madame Pomfrey, which Snape accidentally called ‘Poppy’ before correcting himself, would need to send half of the fifth year congregation of idiots to St. Mungo’s.

Over their candy selections their conversation turned a lot more innocent, with talk of school and teachers. Snape let slip, by accident or on purpose, Harry wasn’t certain, that Dumbledore and McGonagall were indeed a couple, which Harry found so delightful that he didn’t stop laughing for at least ten minutes straight. The image Snape had painted; Dumbledore buying McGonagall chocolates all the time and taking her on midnight strolls across the grounds was just too adorable for words, and somehow fit this new version of Dumbledore he had seen today.

Though, of course, he was still a manipulative old coot, and Harry would never forgive him for it.

It was that thought that struck him as he was selecting a few Fizzing Whizbees from the large glass container on the wall of the candy shop that he looked up at Snape. The Potions Master was critically eyeing a mountain of chocolate frogs like he would a volatile potion, selecting the star-shaped boxes randomly. He didn’t stop until he had five, and glared at them a moment before nodding to himself.

It was almost....would have been...endearing; except ‘Severus Snape’ and ‘endearing’ should never go together in the same sentence, so Harry settled on charming.

They already had a basket full of sugar quills, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Cauldron Cakes, and as Snape found the selection of chocolate preposterous, they would be stopping by Honeydukes on their way back to Hogwarts.

Yes. Definitely charming.

"Professor?"

"Mmm?"

"Whenever you go see Professor Dumbledore, does it seem to you that he uses his lemon drops as a psychological device?"

At that Snape turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Did you just figure that out, Potter?"

Harry graced him with a smile. "No. But I noticed it today in a way I haven’t before. What is it about candy setting someone at ease?"

"Because candy is directly associated with childhood, innocence, and a keen kind of understanding about the world where everything is black and white and safe. That’s what Dumbledore tries to give those who enter his office, Potter. It makes those who are susceptible to it more easy to bend to his whim, or be put at ease, depending on the situation."

"You don’t think it’s just because he likes them?"

It was like the sun was shining in the store. Snape’s lips spread and he grinned down at him with amusement Harry realized he’d caused twice in two days. Now that was something worth celebrating for. "Of course he likes them. He wouldn’t suck on them at every chance if he didn’t, now would he?"

"You’d think he’d get sick of them. But what I mean is, why does he always offer them?"

"Because, Potter, lemon drops are comfortable," Snape stopped for a moment, peering at a selection of Gluey Gum, before regarding him once more. "There was a time not so long ago when the world wasn’t safe enough to stop for a few moments of your day and just enjoy a lemon drop. Where fear and horror and pain turned what would be a sweet candy into something bitter that sat on the tongue. When we are under great emotional distress our minds decide which route to take outside stimuli–a threat, or a comfort. Lemon drops have always fit Dumbledore’s life–sour sometimes, sweet sometimes, but always good, and always with a soft, chewy center that no matter its shell, was always warm and tasty."

"Professor?"

"Mmm?"

"I still think he just likes them."

Rather than be irritated, Snape smirked at him. "Very likely, Potter. However, I am not above understanding deep psychological phenomena about candies. I’ve written several papers on the subject."

Harry looked at him and raised a brow, hefting the basket higher on his arm as Snape added a package of Cauldron Cakes. "Candy has phenomena?"

"Of course. Some of the most brilliant minds in Wizard history were sweet enthusiasts. It’s fascinating to wonder if the reason they were so brilliant was because they succumb to temptation whenever they so chose, without hindrance. It’s also fascinating to see who some of the most passionate consumers of candy are, and why they are. Many times, neglected children will eat gourds of it when given the chance–I see it every year, on All Hallows Eve."

At that, Harry felt a hot flush work up his face. The first Halloween he’d been at Hogwarts he’d eaten so much chocolate that he’d nearly gone into diabetic shock. He’d bounced off the dorm walls for four hours after that, if he remembered correctly.

Snape must have seen his blush because when Harry met his eyes again, the man’s brow was up to the hairline and his lips curved in a light smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. "Let’s pay. I trust you still have all of our purchases, yes?"

Harry nodded and avoided the sharp gaze by patting his pockets. "Still shrunk, still here."

"Fantastic." Snape handed him a bag full of coins, and pointed toward the register. "Pay. I will be down the street. Meet me in Diagon Square in exactly one hour, Potter. One hour. Not forty five minutes, not ten after. One hour. Are we understood?"

"Crystal," Harry offered a small smile at the glare Snape gave him, and as he was definitely not up to getting yelled at, turned to pay.

Missed Snape’s impressive exit, though the cashier’s face reflected surprise and a little bit of fear which Harry found deeply amusing.

It was then, as Harry was leaving the candy shop with his purchases shrunk and in his robe pocket, that he realized Snape had left him almost forty five galleons in the bag. They had been spelled to look like less so no mugger would think it held anything much, but as Harry looked inside, he realized he was staring at a small mountain of gold.

Atop of it was a small note.

Harry felt himself burn a dark, deep crimson, and sighed softly as he folded the note and slid it into his robes. Fantastic. Just what he’d always wanted–Dobby and Snape talking about the state of his y-fronts.

Well, if he was going to buy underwear, he might as well buy them well. Today, while he’d been fitted for new robes, he’d realized that indeed he’d been missing out on quite a bit. It had been very strange to slide pants on that were tapered to his every measurement, and have them fit perfectly. It had struck him, looking into the mirror, how slender but strong he looked, and how tall he’d gotten. In Dudley’s clothes he looked much shorter than he actually was (though by no means was he tall) and strangely off-putting. Like this... even Madam Malkin had agreed, he looked very dashing and handsome in his tyro robes, and they matched his eyes perfectly.

He owned three sets of them, now, and though Snape had glared, he hadn’t worn it out of the store. He wasn’t ready for that just yet–Dudley’s cast-offs had become his armor over the years if he was true to himself, like girls did with long hair and boys did with lucky charms and hats. His clothes were his shield, protecting his heart, and already he’d come too close to spilling it out to both Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape. It was going to take coaxing and several well placed compliments from others for him to get used to it, so he’d wait until class that afternoon.

He opened the door to Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occassions and smiled as she waved. She was busy, with Draco Malfoy of all people, and Harry shook his head no to the tiny witch who came bustling from the back rooms asking if he needed assistance.

He went through the tall, rickety looking rows of clothes, figuring they were being held up by magic, and after a few minutes of searching and a very embarrassing glance away from padded bras, found what he was looking for.

Underpants in every color and material imaginable. He looked at them for a moment, severely unaccustomed to buying underwear and felt a bit shy. His pants were a size ten, due to the fact that he had slender hips but well muscled thighs, and looked across the selections before picking up a pair of blue checkered y-fronts. These would do. They looked like they’d fit him, and if they didn’t, well then, he’d grow into them. He picked up four of the same kind, all in the same color, and folded them under his arm before moving to the next row.

Undershirts and socks of every color in the rainbow. It made him slightly queasy, but he figured what the hell, and got three new undershirts and five new pairs of socks. He could throw out all the ones he’d darned hundreds of times over the years, and as these were self darning, he wouldn’t need to buy new ones for some time. The ankle of them was long, for boots, and Harry added two more pair just like them but made of thick wool, for the winter.

Making sure he had everything he needed, he turned and walked to the counter. He could all but feel Draco’s sneer pointing at the back of his head, but he didn’t really bother with it. Wished like hell he’d worn the fine fitted tyro robes, but that was an empty wish, after all.

"Oh, hello dear! Didn’t you just come in a while ago? Harry Potter!" The teenaged witch who’d offered him assistance bustled to the register. "Ahhh, very nice of your Master to leave you to do this alone." She pointed to the boxers and Harry blushed crimson. "Why, my own came with me shopping for mine! Mortifying." The girl giggled and rang up Harry’s purchases quickly. "There we go, that will be four galleons and fifteen sickles."

Harry handed over an even five galleons, and lowered his voice as he motioned behind him. "Can you tell me what colors Mr. Malfoy will be wearing?"

The witch burst into peels of giggles before she could stop, slapping a hand to her mouth as Madam Malkin turned to glare at her, though her shoulders shook with silent laughter. It took a few minutes to get herself under control, but she finally did with a deeply indrawn breath. "Why, the colors of Transfiguration, of course, mauve and white."

Oh. Oh, there was a God.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, mouthed ‘thank you’, and grinned at the girl as her eyes filled with tears of laughter. He accepted his change and lifted the slender bag she’d settled everything into, and with a flick of his wand shrunk it easily. He slid the bag into his pocket with the mountain of other things, wand going back to its sleeve, and Harry winked at her. "Thank you."

"You’re very welcome, Mr. Potter, come back any time," the girl blushed.

It was a bounce in his step and a murderous gaze between his shoulder blades from one Draco Malfoy that Harry stepped out of the shop and back down the street. He passed Slug and Jiggers Apothecary where he and Snape had spent an hour of their morning, and Harry was sure the strange mixture of eggs gone bad and rotten cabbage would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He passed Flourish and Blotts, and though he was sorely tempted to go in and look now that he was alone, he didn’t dare. He only had thirty five minutes left, and he didn’t want to incur Snape’s wrath once more.

He passed Gringotts, Gambol & Japes, and Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, determined that if he had money left over, he’d get Snape something with chocolate before he met with him once more.

The thought that he’d just spent forty five minutes in a candy shop discussing the merits of lemon drops and Honeydukes chocolate was more than Harry had ever dreamed, and he chuckled to himself as he passed the Leaky Cauldron and opened up the last shop on the street, aside from Quality Quidditch Supplies. A glass shop, which had to be the place to get his glasses, Lizen Deeg’s Glass Imperium.

The place was slightly dusty and quiet when he walked in. Cheery, with beams of sunlight falling over the lovingly polished wood of the counter top, and the wares the shop offered set up in appealing ways. Telescopes, including collapsible brass, omnioculars in every shape and size, lunascopes, more telescopes, and a fine selection of wizarding glasses sat all around the shop.

Harry stopped by those, and looked across all of them. They all seemed too small for his face, but when he lifted a pair up, saw that it had expanded and Harry was certain if he put them on, they would fit his face perfectly.

He set them down and peered at the other glasses sitting on the shelves. There was a pair of light, silver rimmed ones that were oval in shape but sturdy looking. He liked them immediately, and lifted them up, peering at the glass in the middle.

"Those are lovely, Potter."

Startled, Harry looked up and looked right into Professor McGonagall’s face. "Oh, hello, professor. Professor Snape sent me here to get some glasses."

"I see that," McGonagall smiled at him, though, and set the glasses in his hand down. "You don’t want the lens so small, it does murder for the eyes. Here...what about these?" She lifted a larger version of the ones he’d just been holding, much more masculine but still very finely done. Silver metal frame, with an oval shape to the glass that was very attractive. "Your glasses aren’t wizard glasses, are they, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "No, they’re not."

"Well, then. Let’s see...Wizard glasses are unbreakable. Even if you sit on them, get blasted in the face, tumble from a broom stick. The glass itself corrects itself with your age..you will always see perfect twenty-twenty vision with them at seventeen or at seventy. And the glasses will conform to your face no matter what."

She held the glasses out and Harry took them, taking his own from his nose, and slid the new ones on.

It was like the world had just opened up.

He was immensely startled when he opened his eyes and...saw. Everything, he could possibly imagine. He stared through the glass around the shop where everything had just come into a sharp focus. He could see details of everything on the shelves like he never had, and it shocked him when he looked up at McGonagall’s smiling face. "Those are lovely, Potter," she said again. "Very different from your old pair, but much more fitting for a man’s face."

"I love them," Harry said quietly, and pulled them from his face to look at them again. They didn’t shrink this time, obviously because he’d already gotten attached, and looked up at McGonagall through the haze of blurriness that sat in front of his eyes. She was still grinning rakishly and so he smiled back, walking over to the woman sitting behind the cash register.

She was ancient. Older than dirt. Dirt was younger than she was. Her face was leathery and wrinkled with age, all of her skin seemed to have melted together to cause one big wrinkle. Harry was sure he’d never in his life met an older woman, but he was still polite as he held the glasses out for her to inspect.

"Ahhh," she whispered, voice a wheeze. "Excellent choice, excellent, Harry Potter." She beamed up at him. Or, so Harry thought, anyway. It was kind of hard to tell. "Yes, yes, put them on, let’s see."

Harry did as he was told, waving at McGonagall as the professor left the shop, and then smiled at the older woman. "I like them a lot."

"As do I, as do I, they fit you, yes, they do. Ahhh...Mr. Harry Potter, it will be a pleasure to sell them to you, yes, twenty five galleons."

"Thank you," he opened the bag of galleons and took out thirty galleons, counted out twenty five, and slid them across the counter to her.

With a beam and a giggle the woman handed him his lifetime warranty as well as his receipt written in shaking penmanship, and as Harry turned to leave, he couldn’t help it. "Madam?"

"Mmmm?"

"May I ask how old you are?"

At that the old woman threw her head back and cackled loudly, making Harry himself smile as she laughed. "My dear, my dear, I am older than even you know. Now, on with you. Your Master is waiting."

And so he was. Harry saw that he only had five minutes to get to Diagon Square, and he swiftly set his new glasses on his nose and left the store with a wave and a called, "Thank you!"

He walked, not ran, though he desperately wanted to, down the cobbled street. He turned and shifted through the crowd, for the first time thanking the fact that he was a little person, and after a glance at the enormous clock sitting beside Flourish and Blotts, broke into a run. His bum leg screamed with old pain but he ignored it, limping and running as fast as he could. He skid through people, heard Draco Malfoy’s disgusting little sneering laugh at some point, but finally slowed down enough when he knew around the next curve of shops that the open square was full of people and he couldn’t just run in and make more of an ass of himself. So, he walked, casually, swallowing for breath as he wove in and out of the patrons walking to other parts of Diagon Alley as gracefully as possible.

Snape was standing there, brutish as always, a newspaper under his arm and a glare on his face. When he saw him, though, Snape’s face softened the slightest bit to one of obvious satisfaction, and an eyebrow rose. "Quite done, Potter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your glasses have made a difference."

Harry looked up at the man, still startlingly aware of how much he could see, and knew he’d be able to catch every nuance of the mans expression now that he wasn’t half blind. "I can see now."

Surprise, in that dark face, as they began to walk again toward the Apparation center. "Your old pair weren’t of a wizarding variety?"

"No. Just muggle. I’ve had them since I was six, but I guess I never realized how much I couldn’t see until I could," Harry admitted, looking up at him. "Thank you."

Snape didn’t do thank yous well. Never had. He just glared, grunted, and motioned Harry along.

If Harry didn’t think it possible, he could have sworn a line of color had risen in those sallow cheeks.

Chapter 6

"The Admission"

Working with Snape was glorious, sensational, and probably the most fun Harry had ever had in his life. The weeks after he began the tyro were incredible–he felt like he’d learned more in a months time than he had in the entire seven years he’d been at Hogwarts. Snape didn’t hold back–if Harry was interested in a particular subject matter, that’s what they would concentrate on. Everyday there was something new to discover, and everyday the vision of Snape as a run down, surly old bastard seemed to wane and thin like a broken down visage. His face lit up when he became interested in whatever it happened to be they were talking about, and he would go on in length about a hundred different subject matters. More than once over the last three weeks he and Snape had stayed up until the early hours of the morning, debating certain idea’s and thoughts pertaining to whatever struck their fancy.

The only problem was, Harry was falling in love with him.

He hadn’t said a word to anyone about it, mostly because he couldn’t believe it himself. He saw a lot of Hermione and Ron, and though Harry had expected their relationship to change, it did not. The only difference was that Harry rarely got to go to the Gryffindor common room anymore and he wore different robes, but he still attended all of the same classes and ate all of the same meals. To make sure they stayed in contact, he, Hermione, and Ron had taken to writing each other owl post, which would be delivered in the morning, read in the evening, and written back by the next day. It was a fantastic way of keeping up with one another, and a lot of fun on top of that.

But could he tell them both that he was falling head over heels for their greasy Potions <aster? No. No way in hell. One, because he didn’t believe it himself, and, two...well, because it was his secret, one he enjoyed, too. He hadn’t had a lot of chances to be a private person in his life and this one time he relished in feeling free to keep this secret as close to the chest as he wanted.

Harry had the most peculiar feeling in his gut that it was being reciprocated.

It wasn’t anything that Snape did, really. But Harry had noticed a few things, like the Potions Master’s hair wasn’t as limp as it had once been, and he took to getting too close to Harry while they were working over a cauldron.

Of course, then Harry got berated for not paying attention, but that was another sack of worms.

His new robes were a glory. He had to admit it. The first morning he’d come to the Great Hall in the sweeping brown robes, snug working pants, an even tighter shirt and his boots, Harry had been witness to Draco’s mouth falling open. Which, in Harry’s opinion, had been worth all the tyro’s in the world.

His confidence was definitely on a level it had never been. Even Snape had mentioned it, saying in his typically surly way that he was glad he’d gotten his head out of his ass and was realizing what a skilled potion maker he was, and how talented he really was.

Which Harry was. He never thought in a hundred million years he would be, but as the weeks progressed and he reigned in the raw power with Snape’s guiding hand, he’d become aware of the fact that he was bloody brilliant at Potions. This stunning realization had opened up a whole new area of interest between himself and Snape, once Harry had come to terms that he wasn’t a total failure at the subject, and they both spent countless hours discussing the differences between Bubotuber puss and certain properties of Ashwinder eggs, or why Peruvian Vipertooth dragons had so many interesting and useful attributes.

And if he hid the guilt and the pain that plagued his life, and barely recognized himself in the mirror, that was his own business to deal with. The sharpness of another growth spurt had changed his features just slightly, squared his jaw a little more, and gave him another inch in height and a new tautness to his hips that was partly from training with Snape and partly from his own growth.

It was four days before All Hallows that Harry became entirely positive that Snape was infatuated with him.

The morning had progressed wonderfully. Snape, as per usual, didn’t exaggerate when it came to his potions, and he hadn’t been joking when he said Harry would be injured more often than not–he’d already gone to visit Madame Pomfrey a handful of times, and had always left bandaged and broken, but with a grin on his face. He was sporting a particular nasty gash along his forehead today on the opposite temple from his scar, and had it covered with a white bandage. Snape hadn’t been joking either when he said Ashwinders were particularly fearsome creatures, and though Harry’s skill with parseltongue had meant he and Snape hadn’t become breakfast, the snake still hissed magical fire at them and dropped one of her eggs.

In a fury she’d attacked them, and with a cooling charm from Snape and Petrificus Totalus from Harry, they’d escaped the Dark Forest with their lives.

Barely.

It had turned evening, and like many times in the past few weeks, they both took their supper in Snape’s rooms. It was easier, faster, and they could get on with things before starting the evenings work. Harry liked these times most of all, especially because he had thirty extra minutes to do whatever he liked with. It was a rare occasion these days when he had more than five minutes to himself to even bathe, let alone write, so he took full advantage when these opportunities presented themselves.

He recounted the tale on the long line of parchment he and his friends had kept up, knowing under his words, Hermione would sputter out a long line of horrified gasping and Ron would just think it wicked. Because the thought pleased him, Harry grinned and added below his letter,

"What is so amusing, Mr. Potter?"

Harry’s eyes drifted up from his scroll to meet Snape’s across from his desk. He’d taken to spending a lot of time in Snape’s rooms in front of the cozy fire, or writing on the edge of Snape’s desk not heaped with things. It was very comfortable for him to be right here, to be safe, which he didn’t dare utter to the man. If Snape knew how much enjoyment he took out of being here he’d be thrown out on his arse. "Nothing. Just telling Hermione about the Ashwinder. I can picture her face already."

Snape just smirked, though the wicked little smile had lost most of its edge and rarely reached his eyes these days. Instead, they were often filled with warmth that seemed foreign on Snape’s face, but that Harry had taken to recognizing when Snape spoke to Dumbledore or McGonagall.

If Harry was having a good time, then Snape must be in heaven–Harry could only imagine how long it had been since someone had shared his passion so completely. It pleased Harry most of all that those happy expressions on the man’s face were never as strong as when Snape shared some new experience with Harry.

In more ways than one, he hoped.

"Professor? Can I ask you something?"

Snape looked up from his grading again, eyebrow rising. "That depends on how inane it is."

He’d retracted his comment about inane comments sometime during the second week, and though Harry knew he should have been insulted he was charmed more than anything else.

He felt that a lot, these days.

"It’s not, really. At least, I don’t think so," Harry answered honestly, and was pleased when Snape’s lips twitched. "All right, maybe it is. But...why do you still call me Mr. Potter?"

"Ahh," Snape set the quill down and rolled another essay closed, tying it with deft movements of long fingered hands. "Why do you still call me Professor Snape?"

"Because...you are."

"And you are my student."

Harry thought about that for a moment, eyebrow furrowed for a moment. "Well...when we’re here...it would be okay if you called me Harry."

Snape’s eyebrow rose again. "Does it make a difference to you?"

"Yes," Harry answered immediately, and honestly. "It does. The only people who call me by my name are Dumbledore and my friends...even my Uncle and Aunt used to call me Potter."

"Ah," Snape said again, as he opened another essay and began to mark red immediately. Harry winced in quiet sympathy for whomever the paper belonged to, and waited patiently for Snape’s response to him. When it didn’t come for several minutes he gave up, and went back to writing.

But Snape, as always, had a quiet way of surprising him, and after five minutes had passed, he spoke up from the atrocity the paper he was grading must have been. "And you regard me as a friend, now?"

Watch your step, Harry. "Yes, of course. You’ve taken care of me for the last seven years. You saved my life. You are my friend, professor."

Snape regarded him, eyes and expression saying nothing as Harry was plainly studied. Using Legilimency on him, more than likely, and Harry carefully blocked off his more private thoughts and let the truth in his words speak honestly from both mouth and mind.

Harry, for the five hundred and sixty fourth time, thanked Merlin for magical glasses. He could see every nuance on Snape’s face, every twitch and shift of emotion, and this time, Harry plainly saw surprise, and a little bit of what had to be understanding, in that long featured face. "I see. Then perhaps, Harry, it would be beneficial for you to call me Severus while in these rooms. And only these rooms," he warned.

Severus? Weird. Not the name, but using it. Harry stared at him for a half a second and tried it out on his tongue. "Severus. Okay. I think I can do that," he grinned.

"If I catch you calling me such in public, Mr. P–...Harry, then I believe you remember what types of punishments await you."

The shudder wracked all the way through Harry’s body. The evening after the first shopping trip they’d taken together had been terrible. Harry’s punishment, for being late and not wearing his tyro robes, had been to clean out the entire workroom without a wand, until, as Snape had snarled, it sparkled.

It had sparkled, all right.

The look on Snape’s face as Harry shivered was priceless, smirk in full swing and eyes dancing. "Go on to the laboratory, I’ll be there shortly."

Harry nodded, took his own scroll in hand, and left it in his rooms along with his robe. Tonight they’d be trying an elixir than promoted longevity with whatever it was mixed with–in this case, they’d be using it with the common ingredients found in the Pepper Up Potion, which meant that the final product would promote a period of being illness free. Harry had taken it before the Battle of Yorkshire, and to this day he was certain it was what had saved his life in the long run. It had kept his fever’s down after his injuries and stopped the pain from overtaking his mind, as well as promoted healing in all of the wounds.

It truly depended on how much you took and how strong it was, but this type of draught could last for months or even years, depending on how long you needed it for. It was what Snape called a Medicinal Emote, in that it relied entirely on how much you needed it both bodily and spiritually. It worked with the aura of protection most wizards put around themselves without even thinking about it...even young wizard children did it. It seemed to ingrain itself in the protective force all wizards utilized, and in so doing, was an extremely useful tool.

Harry thought over it all as he slid into his dragon hide apron, making sure the apron was tied securely around his back before he turned on the three cauldrons they’d be needing with his wand from his shirt sleeve, and without thought, stuck his wand into his back pocket as he took down the ingredients they’d need. He only had to glance at the recipe book once in a while–he knew what he needed and when he’d need it, but as always, the measurements often left him a bit confused.

To stop said confusion, Snape had taught him how to convert baking measurement to potion measurements. It wasn’t quite as difficult as Harry had thought when he changed five milliliters into drachms and fifteen milliliters into a pinch. In fact, it was quite easy that way, and as long as he kept his measurements in order, which he did flawlessly, then it didn’t become so hard.

Snape said some potions experts just didn’t understand mathematical measurements like that, because of the way their brains were wired.

Harry took the comment as an apology for all the times Snape had belittled him about needing a flow chart.

"Is everything set up, Harry?" came from behind him, and Harry had the glorious chance to see Snape removing the heavy cloak of a robe he always wore, as well as the vest he kept on over his chest. Harry had always thought the man just liked to wear a lot of clothing, but after said clothing saved his life when Neville’s cauldron exploded, he’d finally understood their use. His own tyro robe protected him from such incidents when he wore it.

"Yes," the pleasure of hearing Snape say his name made him feel like wriggling. "I’ve got everything set up."

"I want to try adding another component to the mixture tonight," Snape answered as he donned his own apron. They always wore heavy protective materials over their chest and hands when working with particularly volatile mixtures, because one never knew when one might get blown to kingdom come. Dragon hide was expensive, but the most durable substance in the world. For this experiment, however, they only needed their aprons, and so the scale-covered gloves went into the apron pockets. "Let’s begin."

Harry stood in front of the worktable and thought over what he had to do, as Snape stood on the opposite end to watch. "What first?"

"Make sure all of the cauldrons have been set at a normal temperature, though careful not to scald the bottom of the cauldron or the density in the metal could throw the potion off." Harry recited. "Did that."

"And next?"

"Make sure the spell book is open, and all of the ingredients are within hands reach." Harry answered back, motioning to the book and ingredients he’d already set out, as well as two or three extra beakers and bowls.

Snape nodded his approval. "What now?"

"Make sure the tools, your hands, the cauldrons, and all cutting surfaces are completely sterile so that no foreign bodies get into the potion and change the compound."

"Yes. Very good." Snape picked up his wand from the table and sterilized his hands. That compliment almost did make him wriggle, but somehow he refrained. Instead, Harry sterilized the table top, the cauldrons, and his hands, before sliding his wand back into his back pocket.

Slid it out at Snape’s glare, and set it instead to the side on an extra work table. "Sorry."

"If you want to blow off your cheek, it’s your own business. However, while in my rooms, I ask that you refrain," Snape said smoothly. "What now?"

"Now, we start. First, fix all the ingredients to the stipulations in the recipe."

And so they did. It wasn’t difficult to get the lacewing flies sliced, the lionfish bones crushed, or the pepper and magnolia dashed and pinched into their bowls by exact measurements. Harry had become very skilled with his knives, and he had to agree that they were much easier to use than the school issued ones. They seemed to dance out of his hands, doing just what he wanted with barely any energy behind the movements.

He almost sliced his fingers open when Snape said all too casually, "We’re going to need your semen."

Huh? Harry stared at the man for a moment. This was the first time they’d ever even mentioned something like this, and he just blinked, even as a flush like fire rose up his neck and into his cheeks. "What?"

"Virginal semen. I want to add another compound to the potion, as I said before. I believe that the magical properties in it will add another layer to the potion that will make it more powerful than it was previously."

"Why?"

"Many reasons," Snape said easily. "Wizard blood, semen, and tears are the most powerful substances in the world. Each drop tends to carry an imprint of the very essence of your magic, copied and duplicated as many times as one would need. Your blood, your semen, and your tears, are even more powerful, because of the ward of protection your mother placed on you. However, though it is indeed powerful, that is not why we need it. We need it because you are a virgin. I haven’t been able to try this particular compound, because it would not be wise to go about the school asking for virgin boys to contribute their intimate duty over my cauldrons." Snape stopped for a moment, as if pondering. "If you are uncomfortable with it, however, I suppose we could find someone."

Semen. They were going to need his come.

Harry was absolutely positive he was beet red.

"There is no need to blush, Harry," Snape said, a little more gently. "As I said, if you are uncomfortable, I’m quite sure we could find someone else."

"No..I mean, definitely not. I’m okay with it; it’s not a big deal." Harry prided himself for being so adult about it, and with that rush of comfort, squared his shoulders easily. "How...um. How did you know I was a virgin?"

"Simple. You blushed when I said ‘semen’."

Harry blushed.

And Snape smirked at him.

"Fine. You win. I am. I haven’t exactly had the chance to be intimate with anyone," Harry said, as he moved to crush another pair of lionfish bones a little more exuberantly than was necessary.

"I suppose not. However, should it make you feel any better about your plight, I’ll tell you that many of those who were involved with the war have not been intimate with anyone, save for Dumbledore and his current liaison with a Ms. Minerva McGonagall."

Harry grinned at that, picturing Dumbledore and McGonagall trading kisses in the Great Hall just that morning, and shook his head a little. "Yeah." Then he paused, as he took in the implications of what Snape had said. "You either? Sir?"

"It’s Severus. And, no, I have not."

"Why? I’m sure there are a lot of witches who find you very attractive," Harry said lightly.

"Yes, there are. But there aren’t many wizards of who I find myself attracted to in kind."

Harry almost cheered. Almost. "Oh. You’re queer?"

Snape rolled his eyes as he added the last of the Shortshoot to its bowl. "Thank you for labeling me with an incredible offensive muggle term, Potter."

"It’s Harry. And, sorry, but what else do I call it? Besides, I am too."

Snape looked up then, over their ingredients, with surprise in those dark eyes. "Are you?"

"Yes," he shook his head lightly as he gathered the ingredients needed for the elixir of longevity, and moved them over to the first cauldron, who’s water had already begun to boil.

His uncle had beat him black and blue when he was nine years old, because he’d made the mistake of asking why men held hands in the street sometimes, and if Uncle Vernon had ever done that. A few months after that Aunt Petunia had caught him touching himself in his cupboard one morning, and had scrubbed his hands and penis with bleach, so hard that he’d gotten incredibly sick from it and spent weeks afterward urinating blood. When he’d told Petunia this, she’d called it his punishment for doing such a dirty thing such as that and hadn’t so much as given him an aspirin.

Harry had never touched himself again. He was supposed to wait until he was married, but since he wasn’t ever getting married, he’d have to be celibate his whole life. It was a terrible feeling, when sometimes he needed it so bad he could taste it, but being in a dorm room wasn’t exactly private, nor was the bathroom, or anywhere else in the castle. Not that he could touch. The feeling of irrational guilt that swept over him killed all lust instantly, every single time.

Despite all of that, he knew for a fact he was gay. For one, he found men incredibly attractive and women not. For another, he’d had fantasies over Remus, Sirius, when he’d still been alive, even Ron.

Even Snape.

And this was the first time he’d ever told someone he was gay.

"I’ve never said it to anyone." If he’d looked up, he would have seen a foreign expression pass over Snape’s face not unlike guilt. "I guess...I felt ashamed of it for a long time, until Remus told me he and Sirius had been lovers on and off since they were fourteen."

"Always knew they were flaming ponces," Snape said lightly, and Harry laughed.

The elixir was easy enough to make, and though adding the Pepper Up ingredients proved to be a bit more tricky, they were still doable. The hard part came after they added the last of the ingredients, stirred fifty times in a counterclockwise fashion, and put the lid on it.

"All right, Harry." Snape made sure the lid was on tight before walking back to the cutting table, and retrieve a small beaker. He filled it with four drops of Kelpie scales in liquid form, as well as a small dash of everyday table salt.

Harry took it when it was offered to him, and stared at the small beaker for a moment so he wouldn’t blush crimson.

Too late. Snape looked sympathetic, at least. "Don’t miss."

He swallowed, deeply, and shifted from one foot to the other. "Profe–...Severus."

"Yes?"

Harry didn’t know how on God’s earth he could say this without seeming a fool. He also didn’t know how on God’s earth he could come by himself when he wasn’t supposed to touch for so many years and had no bloody idea how to go about doing it. He struggled for a moment, Snape’s questioning eyes on him, and for the first time in his life he thanked Snape’s incredible intuition.

His face was unreadable again, silent, when he regarded Harry. "You’ve never masturbated before, have you?"

Merlin, it sounded worse when said aloud, and instead of blushing, all the blood drained out of his face. "I’m sorry."

"Why?" Snape asked quietly, "Why are you sorry?"

"Because, I...I mean...I’m a loser."

"No. You most certainly are not, Harry," Snape’s voice, unlike what it usually was, had strange, soothing overtones to it that were totally foreign to Harry. "Why on earth should you feel bad? I admit, it’s a bit odd in that you’re seventeen, but there are many people who don’t indulge in self pleasure until marriage or a stable relationship. And as you’ve said in the past, there wasn’t room for such freedoms when the Dark Lord was still among us."

"No, there wasn’t," Harry whispered, sick with nausea and embarrassment. "I’m not supposed to...to touch."

"Why not?" Snape was still speaking unerringly like he was trying to calm a skittish horse. "Why aren’t you supposed to touch?"

"Because. Because it’s not right. And dirty."

Something seemed to finally shift into place on the man’s face. "Why is it dirty?"

"I don’t know." He was close to tears and it horrified him. "I don’t know why, but I just can’t."

Snape studied him like a bug under glass, until Harry felt the creeps edge up onto his neck and he rubbed them away under his fingers. When Snape moved, which had to be entire eternities later, it was only to lower the fire under the cauldron and take off his apron. "It should keep for a few hours. Come with me."

Tension all but rang like a gong against his insides. Harry’s heart felt like a caged bird, awaiting flight impatiently and batting its wings to a rhythmic knock against his ribs. His voice croaked when he spoke, shaking with the tremor of his fear. "Where are we going?"

"Your sitting room. Leave your things here."

And so Harry did. He slipped out of his apron and set the gloves waiting in the pocket aside, and only harnessed his wand into the belt loop made especially for that purpose. Snape did the same thing, carefully unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and rolling them a little higher up on his forearms. The Dark Mark, faded and pale white against his skin, wasn’t something Snape usually showed him no matter what. The man even worked in the lab with his sleeves rolled down, at least long enough to cover the mark. Harry found it disquieting, and a bit odd, but he followed the man into his own rooms and on command, took a seat on the couch.

With a murmured word, Snape made the fire roar to life, and the happy flames licked and popped in the cozy hearth. Harry watched it, and didn’t think about the couch dipping down to his left. He had the horrified idea that Snape knew everything, everything, and it was eating a hole in the line of his stomach. He wondered vaguely if wizards had anything equivalent to ulcers, and reminded himself to ask Snape as soon as possible after all of...this.

He just horrified as to what ‘this’ was.

Snape settled down with grace and poise that normally wouldn’t have spoken much, but to Harry it screamed volumes. He was elegant and refined, talented and rich, and taught not because he had to but because he wanted to. Not only that–Harry’s problems were his own, and he just knew Snape was going to be uncomfortable talking about this, so he immediately spoke up. "Professor, I can ask...ask Ron, and he’ll help me. Really. You don’t have to talk to me about it or anything."

Snape stared at him. "I’m sorry?" Sudden realization, and the line of color Harry had been so charmed by on their first shopping trip came back to grace Snape’s high cheekbones. "No. We’re not going to talk about that...I’m sure with the right amount of encouragement you can do it on your own. It’s not difficult, after all." At that, he smirked, but as it had recently, the look didn’t quite reach his eyes. "No. I want you to tell me about your childhood."

Something hot, dark, and very uncomfortable settled in Harry’s chest, squashing the bird with itself. "I’m sorry?"

"Tell me about your childhood," Snape said again, more firmly. "Everything. And if you lie, I will know."

"You always know, don’t you?" The diversion didn’t work. Snape just glared all the harder, and Harry felt himself shrink under the gaze. "What is it that you want to know?"

"Everything. Tell me about your room. What you did. The chores you were asked to do."

"Chores."

"Yes. You did do chores, didn’t you?" No sneer. No expression that would have normally encompassed Snape’s face. No loathing, no disgust. Just a simple question.

"Yes." Harry stroked, and rubbed his fingers through his hair. "Can’t we talk about this tomorrow? I’m exhausted."

"As I see it, Mr. Potter," words wrapped in smooth silk, "you have an hour and a half left in your nightly studies. You will not get out of this so easily, and do leave your hair alone. It’s wild enough without you helping it."

It was, but Harry didn’t need Snape telling him so. "It’s my hair," he glared.

"And you’re my student. Cease at once." Snape waited until Harry’s hands were back in his lap. "Now, speak."

"What exactly is there to know? I grew up with the worst Muggles to ever Muggle, I did chores, I had a room."

"No. There is plenty more to know, Mr. Potter." Coolly spoken. "And you know there is."

Of course he did, but the last thing Harry wanted was for Snape to be going into his own personal life. He liked the man, he was an apprentice under him, and he honestly didn’t see what it had to do with any of it.

"It has plenty to do with your apprenticeship, Potter." Another glare. Damn Legilimency to the furthest reaches of hell! "When you can’t do something as simple as retrieve a semen sample for us to test in our potion, then there is a problem, and a complication I do not in any way want to keep coming up against. So, for once in your life, come clean and be honest, or I’ll break your tyro right now and you’ll go back to your dorm room."

This was serious. Harry felt the heat wash out of his face and left him cold, so cold. "Why do you want to know so much?"

"Because you are under my care, and I must know everything there is to know," Snape answered back easily.

"It’s not like I suffered."

"That is for me to determine. Now speak."

Harry was angry with both Snape and himself, but he knew for a fact he wasn’t going to get out of this. He wanted to talk. He did. He honestly did. But when he tried to speak up, he found his voice was nothing but a croak. He tried again, clearing his throat, and felt the lump trying to choke him. "I can’t." Not what he’d wanted to say, damnit! His face screwed up and his fingernails dug into his thighs. "Don’t be mad. I just can’t."

"I’m not mad," Snape said quietly. "Why don’t you lie back?" Much to Harry’s dismay Snape rose once more and took a seat in the recliner right beside the large couch. For one wild, crazy moment Harry thought the man was going to pretend he was a Muggle psychiatrist about to diagnose him or some such nonsense. Snape seemed to understand because he snorted. "I have no time in my life to convince young, confused men about their past. Please remove your shirt and unbutton your pants."

Harry couldn’t have been more shocked, or more frightened, if he’d tried. "What?"

"Unbutton your pants and remove your shirt, Harry. You want to know how to bring yourself to orgasm, correct?"

"Didn’t you just say I could figure it out on my own?" Harry demanded to hide his terror.

"Yes, but on second consideration, I’ve come to realize that if left to your own devices, you won’t. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll shy away from it like the plague." Snape raised a brow, daring Harry to argue, and when he just spluttered, Snape nodded smugly and continued. "Follow my directions. Do not make me ask again."

And so, feeling deeply terrified, ashamed, and a little more terrified, Harry pulled his shirt out of his belt and lifted it over his head. He removed the undershirt as well, unbuttoned his pants, and after a second, untied and toed off his heavy boots. His feet, small but sturdy in their socked warmth, lifted and slid onto the cushion.

"There’s no need to be frightened," Softly spoken from somewhere to the left that made Harry bark out a sound that was halfway between horror and amusement. "There isn’t. There’s no reason for me to hurt you. You’re mine, or have you so quickly forgotten?"

"Yeah, it’s just kind of hard baring myself to the guy I hated for a couple of years."

Snape snickered softly and in the sound, Harry found solace. He calmed, relaxing into the blankets at Snape’s obvious enjoyment of Harry’s proclamation, and couldn’t help grinning back. "Sorry. That didn’t come out right."

"Didn’t it?" Asked, with no little amount of amusement as Snape rose and walked across to his rooms. Harry thought he’d been abandoned for a few seconds and had just started to sit up when Snape re-emerged, with two glasses and a tall burgundy bottle.

"Brandy?"  It shouldn’t have shocked him, and it didn’t in its own way. His life was completely upside down these days, after all, so adding alcohol to it all seemed All right. Harry accepted the glass from Snape and tried not to look too stupid over it.

"I believe if you are old enough to understand subtle nuances of life, than you are old enough to drink. Sip, don’t chug, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," he said, and smiled as he sat up completely, swinging his legs onto the floor as he accepted the glass. Snape settled beside him easily and they sat there for a long moment, drinking brandy and enjoying one’s company, and where before Harry would have been shaking with nerves, now he was calm and collected. Sort of. More so than he would have been with anyone else, including Ron, anyway.

And when the brandy ran out and a nice, warm hum was running in Harry’s blood, Snape unbuttoned his own trousers, opened his white linen shirt, and removed a penis that looked enormous in Harry’s eyes from the open flap of his pants. His breath caught somewhere back in his throat as he stared at it, watching as it twitched and began to firm.

Dear God, it was gorgeous.

"Is this wrong, Harry?" Snape asked quietly, and Harry watched, dumbfounded, as the man wrapped his fingers around the limp organ and stroked over it. Deft, lily-white, long fingers moved like grace over the limp cock, hardening it with each caress like it were a much loved object of affection. The free hand, which Harry hadn’t caught moving at all, reached over and carefully moved the flap of Harry’s own trousers and his penis, already beginning to firm with interest, peaked out of its nest of curls like a curious snake. "Is this wrong, Harry?" Snape asked again, softly.

Was it wrong? Yes it was wrong! Snape was his teacher and Harry was his student and it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But at the same time? Not wrong at all.

The problem was he didn’t know if Snape was playing some mind game to break the tyro. It was a deeply paranoid thought because Snape obviously enjoyed his company and the work Harry put into his tyro, but still, it was creeping up onto the edge of his mind, begging him not to be stupid.

"I don’t..don’t know," Harry breathed, throat tightening with heat and dryness that he fought to swallow against.

"It’s not wrong," Snape said, very quietly, and his talented hands stroked the penis in his lap to firmness. It was gorgeous as it began to fill, long and thick, and Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off of it as his body began to heat with pleasure. "I’m going to show you that it’s not wrong."

"Show me," Harry breathed softly, licking dry lips and shivering. "I’ll do it good, I promise."

"I’m sure you will," Snape’s cheeks were warming with obvious arousal, his body relaxed there against the couch back. His torso, peaking out from the few buttons Snape had undone, was long and lean, crisscrossed with scars but surprisingly free of much hair. His nipples, dark and erect, were tight in the cold air.

Harry wanted nothing more than to suck on them, but as he moved forward, Snape stopped him with a touch to the chest. "No. Sit back, just like me."

Scrambling to comply, Harry settled back on the couch quickly, taking up Snape’s same calm and relaxed pose. It warmed the cushion against his spine perfectly, and he pushed a pillow under his writing elbow as Snape had done. "Like this?"

"Perfect." Soft, quiet. "Are you excited, Harry?"

"Yes!" Exploded out of him and his face heated to a harsh, ripe pink. "Sorry."

Snape just looked at him with amusement and obvious pleasure. "Don’t be upset, it’s All right. Pleasure is nothing to be sorry for. Tell me...how much have you..explored?"

Explored? "Like...touched myself?"

"Yes."

"Well...I’ve..um, touched my..my.." Harry was a hundred percent positive his face was going to light fire. "My bollocks," he whispered, very softly.

"A very enjoyable pastime," Snape answered softly in the deep, delicious baritone he had. "You do want this, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then there’s no need to blush. We’re both sitting here with our erections in our hands, Harry."

All right. So maybe Harry had to agree.

"I want you to rub your nipples, and tell me how they feel. Some men don’t get excited over them..let’s hope you aren’t one of them."

His nipples? The very thought made them harden and peak, and though Harry thought the feeling would be uncomfortable instead if electrified. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to rub them, and whispered a soft, "How?" as his fingers inched onto his chest.

"Ah. Like this," Snape’s long fingers, lightly stained from so many potions over the years, carefully scraped across his nipples. A hiss raised from his chest at the feeling but he never broke eye contact with Harry, never faltered. He rubbed, lightly, slowly, and if possible the nipples hardened even more. It was deliciously sexy, all in all, and, oh, yes, Harry had to try it.

So, as soon as he freed his very, very interested cock from the prison of his boxers, he rose his fingers to his chest and flushed softly as he rubbed his nipples.

The feeling was electrifying.

It shot spikes down to his bollocks, which felt hot and heavy and not at all like they usually did. This was already past everything he’d ever done, and he was excited and terrified all at the same time by the simple pleasure his body could experience in the right conditions and with the right people. He would have given anything on the planet to have had this freedom a year ago.

No use to dwell on dreams.

Instead he felt a raspy, soft sound escape him that he wasn’t responsible for, and very likely spoke of his undoing because beside him, Snape made the same sound in kind. "It feels good?"

It felt incredible. Wonderful. Unbelievable. "Yes," he breathed instead, and stroked the pebbled flesh softly as his back arched. "Good!"

"Wonderful," Snape murmured softly, and that voice, which had always been whiskey and honey, now was so unspeakably sexy, so unbelievably gorgeous. It made all of the nerves in Harry’s young body spike with blood pounding need.

His cock thought to join the party as well and hardened to its full length. It was smaller than Snape’s, but then again, he was a small person. He didn’t think it much, except when Snape looked at him sideways. "Very nice, Harry. Very hard. Now...see how I do it."

Those gorgeous fingers wrapped around his cock and began to stroke, slow and easy. Harry took up the pattern immediately, wrapping his fingers around his own stiff erection and slowly stroking up and down. The feeling...was exquisite, and he was sure somewhere this was supposed to be wrong, but not here. Not with Snape. No...not with Severus. "God, that’s.."

"Why we’re doing it now. No young man should...be without something like this," Snape said gruffly, and slowly began to work the head of his erection on every up stroke. Harry’s hand faltered for a moment to simply watch as the already slicked head peeking from under the foreskin began to dribble softly. It moistened the tip of Snape’s erection, giving it a shiny look as he slowly stroked that reminded Harry deliciously of hot oil. "The tip..rub along the edge there. Rub along the head. You see how it feels good?"

"Yessss." God! God, how could he have ever not...not had this? God! He’d been missing out on so much that it made him cry out with sharp, hard pleasure that rocked him up into an arch as he stroked. Snape was breathing heavily beside him and both their hands began to move faster, harder, and he was almost unaware of Snape moving.

What he did feel was the soft, quiet tongue stroking the pebble of his left nipple and he all but elevated from the couch with a cry. It was good, so good, so good!

Snape lifted his head for a moment, a wicked grin gracing his features. He had wand in hand, and with a softly murmured spell Harry almost slicked his hand clear off of his erection.

His fingers were wet with hot oil.

Harry thanked Merlin for Legilimency as he cried out and squeezed his cock as hard as he could. His fingers began to fly like they had a mind of his own, moving to Snape’s murmured encouragements and those soft, ever so lovely lips caressing his neck and chest. It couldn’t be, Snape couldn’t be so into this, but he was, and Harry’s self esteem all but exploded in his chest. He felt so good, so unbelievably good, so good, so good!

When he came, he swore no feeling as good as the one he experienced had ever been felt in either heaven or earth. He howled his pleasure to the night, tears streaking the sides of his face in ecstasy he’d only thought he’d figured out.

He understood, vaguely, what was supposed to happen with orgasm. He’d taken sex ed with Madam Pomfrey, after all, and he’d read the manuals. He knew that when a man had an orgasm, his semen shot out of the tip of his penis.

What he didn’t expect was so much to come out.

It felt like it shot forever, back arched like a bucking horse as white, creamy pearls of come slid down his erection and onto his belly and chest. Snape chuckled softly next to him but he couldn’t be bothered with that when all he could feel was exploding good everywhere. His bollocks were contracted and tight against his body, waves of pleasure swimming through them not unlike his body. It had locked with sheer bliss and for several moments Harry was positive his entire self would come out of his cock.

When it ended, the pleasure still shot waves of feeling across Harry’s body, working from his penis outward. It was like he’d been shelled dry and was scrubbed raw, or had just been the unlucky recipient of a jolt of electricity that fried his every brain cell.

He noticed, however, that Snape had stopped touching himself. He was just looking at Harry like a bug under a microscope again, studying him with all the intensity in the world. It was both good and bad, sad and happy, and Harry supposed he’d been manipulated terribly but he couldn’t quite find himself to care as Snape asked, "Did your Uncle and Aunt ever abuse you, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry whispered, panting out his pleasure as his eyes rolled closed.

"Did they ever hurt you?" Snape asked, and Harry could all but hear the tick jumping in Snape’s jaw.

"Yes."

"What did they do?"

Harry opened his eyes to regard the man, so open in front of him. "She found me fondling myself when I was about ten, and soaked my penis in bleach."

He wouldn’t have thought it, but Snape’s face could indeed pale even more. "What else?"

"No," Harry whispered, and shame lit his heart so fiercely that he wrenched upwards and climbed to his feet. "I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have done this," he pushed his cock back into his pants and yanked his undershirt on, grasping his boots and fled to the bedroom.

He hadn’t gotten but a foot in the doorway before hands of steel gripped his forearms and turned him around. Instead of annoyance, however, a dark, deep, deadly fury had encompassed Snape’s face, and made those by-now familiar features deeply foreign, and deeply scary. What surprised Harry most was that he was very scared of it, of this man who’d just touched him with such gentleness and shown him how to make himself feel so good. "Don’t you run away from me."

"I’m not running from anyoneh" he was horrified to find his voice wavering. "Let go."

"You’re running from your demons, Potter, and there’s nothing more deadly. Those demons could distract you at any time and try to kill you, like when your mind was so preoccupied you failed to see Longbottom’s cauldron exploding." Snape didn’t let go, didn’t loosen his grip, only shook Harry so hard his teeth all but rattled. "Get that through your thick Gryffindor skull and tell me what they did!"

"Stop, you’re hurting me!" Harry cried, attempting to wrench away from the man’s grip as fear started to eat at his insides. He was as helpless here as he’d been all of his life, how stupid was he for sharing something so important with Snape as tonight had been?

"No!" Snape gave him a harder shake and spun, slamming him against the wall so hard Harry saw stars. "Tell me!"

Tears clouded his eyes like foggy blankets, as fear escalated to terror. "Please, Professor Snape, please, let go, please, you’re hurting me, please, let go," he whispered, horrified to find those same tears clogging up his voice. "Please, please, stop."

"I wont!" the man thundered, and slammed him against the wall again, and then once more. "Tell me!"

It was either tell him, tell Snape, who was as furious as Harry had ever seen him, or endure this for however long the man lasted before he grew too tired to continue. Knowing Snape’s stamina, that could take a long time, and Harry doubted Snape was above hurting him to get what he wanted.

"T-they hurt me, okay? They didn’t...didn’t take care of me, but I took care of myself. Please, please, let go."

If anything, Snape’s grip only tightened. "What things did they do to you?"

Harry knew better than to fight, and was given a hard little shake when he didn’t answer fast enough. "They treated me like... I slept in the cupboard under the stairs until I came to Hogwarts."

How, though, could Harry properly explain the horror of living with the Dursleys? Really? That it wasn’t all about being beaten or starved, but it was about being denied the hunger of any child–to love, and be loved in return. There wasn’t enough love in the Dursley’s house for Harry. There never had been. He supposed that was why his greatest weakness lied in personal relationships, and he was nearly sure, had Voldemort approached him in a kindly manner from the get-go, Harry would have gladly gone to him, an emotionally starved eleven year old who craved knowledge, attention, and love.

How could he put that into words for Snape?

It turned out he didn’t have to.

The grip on his forearms loosened slowly. Those deep, dark brown eyes stared at him very quietly, but he didn’t entirely let go. Instead, his hands gently soothed away the grips on his forearms that Harry was sure had been left with welts, and watched him. "Why did you sleep in a cupboard?" Snape asked, softly.

"I don’t know. Ask them. They had an extra bedroom. But I guess because I was my mother’s son, a filthy wizard, they thought me...a danger. I never had...had toys, or books, or anything before I came here, professor, which is why I didn’t own anything but Dudley’s cast -ffs and my wizarding things from school." And a hundred other questions that his childhood was the answer to, of course.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because. I’m not going to sit here and moan and groan about things from before that has no meaning over things from today."

"Sometimes, Harry, the things we think don’t think pertain to our daily lives usually do, in every which way." Snape’s hands fell to his sides. "Go to bed. We will begin work on our potion tomorrow."

Harry wanted, quite badly, to rage at the man. He’d brought all of the horrible feelings Harry had repressed with all of his might to the surface, and now he was excusing him from his presence? He gave the man a hateful glare and wrenched away from him. "Fuck you."

"If you want it enough, maybe someday. Go to bed," Snape enunciated clearly, and with a swoop much like a raven, he turned and left.

It was only when Harry had showered and crawled into bed an hour later that he realized Snape hadn’t come.

Chapter 7

"The Holiday"

They did not speak of That Night again. Sometimes, if it weren’t for Harry’s infernal fascination with the discovery of his cock, he could almost believe the night had never happened. The bruises on his arms faded, and he’d been able to repress too many dark memories back to the crevices and caves they shelled out of his heart with each passing year. Harry had taken to ignoring mirrors all together, and brushed his hair without bothering to look at it. It wasn’t like the damn thing would care any which way, after all.

It was as if That Night hadn’t happened at all. But it had. And it had changed their relationship forever.

What surprised Harry was that it was for the good.

October passed into November, where temperatures dropped to below freezing for the first storm of the year. Harry caught a terrible chill that refused to leave him, and though his chest rattled quite often, it wasn’t until the second week when he nearly collapsed did he let himself rest. His lessons with Snape stopped for a while due to the fact that he couldn’t get out of bed, and though Madame Pomfrey feared pneumonia, he managed to pull himself through after a sweat soaked night of fever in the hospital wing.

The strangest part was that for the week of bed rest he was forced to endure, Snape did not leave his side. Nor did he force him to do any work. It wasn’t like Harry could move, anyway, so wracked with chills and fever as he was, but Snape, being Snape, had once again surprised him. He’d read him Sherlock Holmes, recounting how the man had indeed been a wizard (all the good ones were), but had been so enchanted with Muggles that he had allowed his brother, Doyle Holmes, one of the most famous writers in Wizard history, to take down his exploits for the world. Aside from the Sherlock Holmes stories, they’d written several arithmancy tomes together that made up a great deal of the section in the library.

Snape told him he’d met them once, at a conference, and that they were as flamboyant and dramatic as Harry could imagine.

The third week of November found Harry suffering a relapse, and though it was terrible, he didn’t let himself get drawn away from the work Snape had only just barely allowed him to do again. He suffered through his monthly tyro tests for the Ministry in a fever, but managed to pull off top marks despite his exhaustion. The damp chill of the dungeons, Madame Pomfrey had said, was terrible for fragile young boys on the cusp of adulthood. The very idea had insulted Harry, deeply. He was not fragile!

Snape, being Snape, refused Harry to leave, work, eat, or do anything of consequence without being fully loaded with sweaters, wool robes, and heavy socks under thick leather boots.

It was desperately, completely, and irrevocably annoying.

And Harry was desperately, completely, and irrevocably in love.

When December decided to grace them, it seemed cheerier than years passed. Things weren’t as dark and ugly as they’d been when Voldemort had been under graceful rule, and for the first time in many holiday seasons, Harry was able to breathe. Dumbledore decided against the Yule Ball for a score of different reasons, and had instead moved it to the end of year–not that Harry minded in the least, of course. One less time he’d have to dress up like a pigeon.

He and Snape found a gorgeous tree in the dark forest. Harry had thought the man had no time for squandering of any kind once upon a time, but thankfully that certain thought had long since left him and he knew better now. They decorated the tree there in Snape’s sitting room, draping it with fairy lights and fine, fragile bulbs made of blown glass that Snape said had been in his family for generations, as well as small ornaments Snape taught him how to make with his wand.

Underneath it there were four brightly wrapped gifts, of which contained a spell book, an ornate box of Honeydukes chocolates, his very own quill pen with the long black feather, and a Christmas bulb made of glass, decorated in Gryffindor armor.

Harry hung it on the tree right after he opened it.

And although he missed being with the Weasley’s for Christmas, and losing Mrs. Weasley to Voldemort’s minions last year still stung, he said a little prayer for her and made mince meat pie in her memory.

The new year saw fine weather into February. Valentines came and went, and Easter was a week away, but that wasn’t the reason Harry was in Hogsmeade on that fine, yet cold, morning. No...Harry was in Hogsmeade, peering at the selections of Honeydukes chocolates in fine boxes on the shelves, because Snape’s thirty eighth birthday was that Friday and he needed to get something nice for the man.

This, Harry decided, had been the deciding factor in why he had dragged Hermione and Ron to Hogsmeade today. He hadn’t seen them, really seen them, in many weeks. The letters were wonderful, but there was nothing like Ron’s saucy grin or Hermione’s giggles that could warm him like they could.

The both of them had been more than willing to aid him in finding something for Snape, and, for that, Harry thanked Merlin. He was terrible at giving gifts of any meaning no matter how he tried, but getting something for Snape was different. The man had mellowed out so much, and had given Harry so many tidbits about his life, that he wanted to show his appreciation for that intimacy by getting him a gift that had meaning. Money wasn’t an issue, so Harry took some of the left over money from the beginning of the school year from his trunk, and off they went.

The thought of buying Snape something nice didn’t bury him in anger or fear like it might once have. Ron and Hermione making out in every corner, however, did.

Harry ignored them, aware of the strange stirring in his groin, and led them down the street. He was perfectly aware that they were holding hands, and, feeling like the biggest third wheel on the planet, kept ahead of them to give them their privacy. They didn’t mind...Harry didn’t even think they’d realized he was walking ahead of them, even as they entered the shops behind him. They’d barely said anything to him all day, and when they did, it was a comment that made the two of them giggle privately.

About mid day, when it was really starting to piss Harry off, Ron and Hermione decided to go back to Hogwarts because it was obvious they weren’t helping him. The former chalked it up to having to shop for Snape of all people, and Harry had glared at him until he’d cringed.

Bastard. Snape wasn’t so bad.

"Look...can I speak with you both before you go?" Harry asked, and Hermione being Hermione, gently touched his arm with a slightly triumphant look on her face. If he didn’t know any better he’d have said she’d done all the mushy public displays of affection on purpose.

But then again, it sounded so much like her that he let it slide and chalked it up to her loving him.

So, the three of them stopped in the Three Broomsticks, ordered butterbeers, and sat down at a quiet table near the back, not crowded by half and excellently private.

"What’s up?" Ron asked, as he plunked down beside Hermione and lifted one ankle to rest on the opposite knee. He looked wildly attractive doing it, and Harry couldn’t blame Hermione for liking him as much as she did.

Now he understood where the stirring had come from, and he was so happy that he could tell he’d been aroused that he beamed at the both of them like an idiot. "A lot. I need to tell you both something very important...well...two things, anyway, and I need you to promise me you won’t be angry with me."

"We love you, Harry," yes, good old Hermione. "There’s nothing you could tell us that we don’t already know, or wouldn’t accept from you." Her gentle hand was on his elbow, calming down the wild racing of his heart, and in that moment he cared for her more than he’d ever thought imaginable.

Harry could see Ron’s jealous glare out of the corner of his eye but he ignored it for the time being, relishing in the love of his friends as they sat there with him in communion and love. "You know you both are my best friends. There’s nothing I could ever hide from you for long, if fifth year is any indication." Hermione grinned at him and he gave her a smile back as he plowed through. "I just...there’s something about me I need to tell you both."

"Is it that you’re interested in Ginny?" Ron suddenly demanded.

Silence.

And then Harry couldn’t help choking on the laugh. "What?" When Ron glared, even darker, the smile slid from Harry’s mouth to leave him completely puzzled. "What about Ginny?"

"She said you’ve been helping her in Potions. Tutoring. Do you like her?" Ron demanded again, a definite growl in his voice as he crossed his arms across his chest.

If the thought wasn’t totally ludicrous, Harry might have been offended. "Ron, I’m gay. I don’t think my interest in her goes beyond helping her figure out the right components for the Calming Draught."

This time, the silence was a bit longer.

Hermione went still beside him and Ron, face pale and shaken, was staring. "Excuse me?"

"I’m gay," Harry said again, quietly. His body was trembling softly with the emotional rampage he could see going through Ron’s every feature. "And I like Professor Snape."

It was as if everything exploded. Ron bellowed on top of his lungs, making everyone in the bar jump, and he leapt to his feet. "No, you don’t!"

Harry could see Hermione visibly wincing beside him, even when her gentle hand entwined with his and squeezed. "Yes, I do. I’m sorry, Ron."

"You..you can’t be gay!" Ron roared, and everyone in the bar turned wide eyes at Harry, who felt like he was going to spontaneously combust with embarrassment. "YOU’RE BLOODY HARRY POTTER!"

"Yes, I am," he said again, evenly and quietly. Anger spiked into his blood like molten steel, turning his hands to ice, along with anxiety that he was positive was now eating through the lining of his esophagus. "Could you sit down, or would you like to go out into the town square and scream it from the rooftops?"

"You...you! He’s just doing it for the stupid Slytherin games! You’re just too bloody dim to see it!" Ron whispered, pointing at him vehemently across the table.

"This isn’t a joke," Harry said, calmly and quietly, though there was the added component of fury now that was making his voice dark and trembling. "I think he likes me back. We’ve...done things."

"Harry!" Hermione gasped.

"What? Hermione, I’m seventeen years old and until I accepted the tyro, I hadn’t done anything." Ron was all but shaking beside him, so Harry turned his attention back to his friend. "Don’t say anything you’re going to regret, Ron."

"You...you." Ron was very obviously struggling to keep his voice low. "You’re deaf and dumb and blind when it comes to him, Harry. I know...you feel like you haven’t gotten a chance to have things we all have, but...you’re falling for every single thing he’s doing. Buying him gifts, following him like a puppy dog. You’re Harry bloody Potter and all you’ve turned into is...is a bitch! Is bending over for him worth everything you stand for?"

It was as if Harry’s world shattered. Even in anger, Ron’s voice rang with violent feelings Harry was sure his friend adamantly believed. He rose, slowly, to his feet, and glared so darkly and so angrily at his friend, someone he loved so much, that he felt his world had been diminished to the eye of the storm his heart had become. His tears spiked the back of his eyes and made them burn and bright, tightening his throat. "I’m tired of being everything Harry Potter stands for. I’m not my own person to anyone, not any of you, I’m not just Harry, who has faults, or wants, or anything else. If I like to bend over, then it’s my own bloody business and none of yours. You’re my friends and I thought you, you of all people, would understand." Harry pushed his hand into his pocket and took out a few sickles, slamming them on the table top. "Apparently, I was mistaken."

"Harry, you don’t even talk to us anymore," Hermione stood up, then, as Ron and Harry both did, and Harry could hear the tears in her voice. "You’re ignoring us...all you do is study. You’re hardly even writing anymore. We miss you, and...and we feel Professor Snape is taking you away from us."

"It’s not about Professor Snape or anything else. It’s about the both of you understanding how I feel," Harry hissed, at both her and Ron. " I’ve never been in love, and he treats me right. He treats me like I’m a seventeen year old man, not the famous hero of the wizarding rebellion, not Voldemort’s murderer, not everyone’s last hope, not anything else. He treats me like I’m Harry. Just Harry."

It was with those simple words that he spun on his heel, pushed past Draco Malfoy, and stormed out of the Leaky Cauldron.

- = - = -

"Is there a reason you’re adding Peruvian Frog Eyes to a mind sharpening potion, Mr. Potter?"

The day, as perfectly disastrous as it had been, had ended on a good note. Harry was distracted, and distraught, if he was honest with himself, over Ron’s earlier behavior in the Leaky Cauldron. Who wouldn’t be? He’d acted like a crazy person. So much for Ron being his Wheezy.

That distraction had lasted through the evening until now, as the clock began to teeter toward, ‘time to sleep’, Harry was just finishing his Wit Potion. It sharpened the thought process for the time being, allowing the person it had been ingested by to remember everything on a particular subject, and keep a sharp eye on what one was doing. It was a very hard potion to make, and dangerous on top of that, because if you sharpened your mind too much you could go crazy with all the outside stimuli happening at once.

And he’d almost made it destructive with the frog eyes in hand.

He set the beaker down immediately and stepped back from the cauldron. Adding something like animal flesh to a potion geared toward human thought process could he fatal for the person taking it, breaking down all thought, and, in turn, stopping the brain from being able to tell the body when to breathe.

Harry swallowed his own breath, then another, forcing himself to calm.

For what it was worth, Snape seemed to know something was amiss. So, instead of the verbal abuse Harry had half expected, Snape took the heat out from underneath the cauldron and motioned him along to the sitting room, though not before removing his apron and hanging it on the hook. Harry copied him, making sure everything was in order and all of their supplies put away, before following.

The kitchen was the cheeriest room in all of Snape’s chambers. Light, sparsely decorated but so clean one could eat off of the counter tops; it was very obviously a place the man loved.

And why not? Snape was an excellent cook.

In the months Harry had been with Snape, he’d been treated to all manners of fine cuisine from the Potions Master. As potion making and cooking went hand in hand (though Snape swore to Merlin that it wasn’t true), it wasn’t a surprise that Snape could cook. When they had a free minute they made delightful meals here together. Harry knew how to cook, out of necessity rather than want, and he’d proved himself a good chef’s assistant just as he’d proven himself a good Potions tyro.

The kitchen was a comfort.

Harry slid into one of the kitchen chairs as Snape waved him to it like the distracted person he often was. He began tittering about the kitchen, putting a kettle of warm water on the stove and tapping his wand along the stove bottom. It lit to life immediately, beginning to warm that which covered it, which still fascinated Harry. Snape had always told him, using magic to alter food or drink was never a wise choice–the molecules sustaining food couldn’t take magic force being pushed on it for long, and after being eaten or drunk, it could make the person consuming it very sick. Magic poisoning, some called it. Just Gross, Harry called it. So, Snape had taught him, right off, never to transfigure food from other things, or to make food with magic. Preparing it was All right, cooking was not.

And so, as the kettle began to warm on the stove, Snape came and slid ever so gracefully into the chair beside Harry’s. "Would you like to talk about why your mind is so distracted, Mr. Potter?"

"Sorry. I’m..I’m sorry," Harry said, quietly, playing with the edge of his robe sleeve as he looked intently at the wood.

"Don’t be sorry."

God, he smelled good. God. Harry could barely stand it, squirming softly when he realized his pants were reacting like his heart. Ron be damned. If this made him happy, who was to say it was wrong? "Professor...I have to be. You see...I’ve...I told Ron and Hermione I was gay, today. Ron...he didn’t exactly react like he should have." Understatement of the year. Harry glowered at his hands. "He treats me like I’m some stupid Hufflepuff or something."

"Hufflepuff’s aren’t stupid. They’re efficient."

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

Snape raised a brow. "Forgiven. However, I don’t suggest taking what Mr. Weasley says too close to the chest. He and his have...problems accepting those who are different than they are." Rather than explain himself, however, Snape plowed on. "A lot of pure blood families don’t. However, I firmly believe in enjoying pleasure wherever it comes from, don’t you agree?"

God, did he ever. He just nodded, mutely, and tried not to look at Snape too longingly. He seemed to have completely missed the mark, because his cheeks flushed dark and hot as the man in front of him chuckled softly. "You enjoy pleasure, now, I can tell."

"Yes," Harry whispered hoarsely, and his entire body vibrated when Snape turned more toward him. "Yes, I do."

"And is it dirty?" Snape asked, eyebrow up high and watching him as if tracing the rising blush with his eyes.

"No. Well..sometimes. I go through a lot more pajama pants than I used to."

Snape threw his head back and laughed. The sound was gloriously wonderful, tinkling and alive with all of the amusement he felt, and Harry, being Harry, couldn’t help grinning back at him nervously and shyly. "Well, I do!"

"I have no doubt." Still snickering, Snape rose and offered his wide hand to Harry. "Come with me. Let’s see if we can give Dobby more laundry."

The question was serious even if its delivery wasn’t, and Harry didn’t even hesitate. He took Snape’s hand, spiking with lust at the simple molten arousal in the man’s eyes, and quickly pushed the kitchen chair in. They walked through the arched doorway and into the living room, and with a murmured word and a flick of his wand, Snape spelled his doors locked and the fireplace floo free.

Wouldn’t do to have Dumbledore come in during whatever it was that they were going to do.

While before it had been about learning, now...well. Harry didn’t really know why Snape was doing this, but as long as it meant he got to feel good with him again, it didn’t really matter. They hadn’t done anything since Halloween, when Snape had taught Harry how to...well....do that.

He was shy, and positive he was blushing crimson, so he shifted from foot to foot.

Eyes of steel, which were now softened and gentle, met Harry’s over the quiet span of a few feet. His mouth, which was always in such a firm line, was now gentle, warm, soft and expecting. When Snape came forward, and brushed his lips across his, Harry didn’t know what he was going to do with himself. The only people who’d ever kissed him had been Cho Chang during his fifth year and Fred Weasley during the sixth. They’d always been innocent kisses, not too strong and not too deep.

However, Cho and Fred were children. And Snape was most certainly not. He kissed with fervor and passion, licking and sucking until Harry felt his knees begin to buckle, and if it weren’t for Snape’s arm around his waist he would have fallen. The man shifted, and the hot, long length of something that was most certainly not innocent pressed tight against the valley of one hip. He may have heard the sound of someone moaning...himself, probably, but he couldn’t have cared less about it right now.

All he wanted were these kisses, these devastating kisses.

Deep, deeper, kissing like he’d never kissed, being taken like he’d never been taken. In that single moment, Harry was positive he had never loved anyone like he loved Severus Snape. Here in these powerful arms, where understanding was an art form and safety expected. Here, where he didn’t have to worry about being hurt or scared, where sex was celebrated and his body adored. Here, where it was All right to be himself, and here, where passion ruled above all else.

The screaming tea kettle broke the reverie of Snape’s delicious mouth, and the older man chuckled against his lips softly. "Tomorrow, I’m going to teach you common household spells, Mr. Potter," he murmured with a voice like miles of silk and his eyes of dark and burning agony.

Harry nearly drowned in those eyes.

The kettle stopped with a murmured spell from Snape, and Harry felt intense, heart wrenching bliss when that mouth descended on his again. It was as if he’d been starving his entire life, waiting for this man’s mouth and his arms, his body and mind. They were perfect for one another, two sides of one whole, night to the other’s day. It was so wonderful here, where he couldn’t express how good he felt with Snape’s arms sliding around his body, cradling him gently close.

Severus. Not Snape. Severus.

Of who shifted his hips in the next moment and nearly sent Harry to Nirvana.

The hot steel of Harry’s own pleasure was drowning him in miles of metal and boiling heat, with explosions of feeling and flavor caressing his body like Severus’s voice, which was all honey and rich velvet swathed in iron. Harry felt dipped in it, bathed in it with each murmured encouragement and each hissed curse that exploded from Snape’s mouth. They were kissing like men drowning, rocking against one another with all the ferocity of want and ache that both of them had been without for too long.

"Please, please!" Harry cried as Severus’s mouth descended to his neck, biting and sucking at the wound he’d created. "Oh, God, please!"

"Please, what, Mr. Potter?" Severus purred, deeply, into his ear, with a body that didn’t cease its insistent rocking. "Please, stop?"

"God, God, no, no, don’t stop, please, I need, please," Harry sobbed out. "Please, I need to feel you, please!"

"There’s no need to beg," whispered into his ear. "Although it does make things more interesting," a soft chuckle in his throat that nearly sent Harry to toppling again, which seemed to amuse Severus all the more. "So responsive. Tell me, Mr. Potter...tell me what you’ve fantasized about."

God. God! "You, always you," Harry sobbed again, his fingers racking over Severus’s chest, rubbing his nipples through his light linen shirt, scratching at them as he humped forward. Couldn’t have stopped if he tried, and every single movement was being reciprocated in full so why, why stop? Why? God, it was so good! So bloody good!

"Me? Doing things to you?" Severus whispered into his throat, as his nimble fingers slid Harry’s shirt up over his head. Harry lifted his arms when he was told to, but he couldn’t do much else than that when that talented mouth came down and wrapped around his nipple. "This isn’t dirty, now is it?"

"No, so good," had he mentioned it was good? Better say it once more. "So good!"

It felt like his nipples had become pin points of sensation, titillated with each of Severus’s licks and nips, and Harry’s entire body centered on the steady suction on his chest. He was aware of his nipples being harder and more protruded than they’d ever been, and his body shaking at the arousal his Master was pulling from him.

"I know it’s good. However..." Severus let go, and for a startled instant Harry thought he was stopping. Just for a moment, though, and Severus was back, gently pressing against him until the backs of Harry’s legs hit what had to be the couch. He sat, abruptly, and like the flow of hot metal, watched Snape flow down to the ground between Harry’s knees.

Those long fingered, talented hands gently undid the buttons of his trousers, that mouth stroking over his bellybutton and stomach so perfectly that Harry felt the hot sting of pleasure tears stinging the backs of his eyes. He knew exactly where that mouth was going, had dreamed of it long enough, and he keened quietly to show, yes, yes, he wanted this, yes, please.

"I didn’t tell you before, as you were a bit skittish," Severus said from his nuzzle against Harry’s inner thigh, and, dear God, where had Harry’s pants gone? He stared down dumbly, aware that his boots were being untied and taken off along with his trousers, and though the feeling of being naked while Severus wasn’t was deeply frightening, it was also incredible. Severus looked up and over him like he could have swallowed Harry whole in one big bite, and the insides of Harry’s mouth watered at the sensation of being studied, worshiped, craved. "You have an incredibly beautiful body, Mr. Potter," Severus murmured, before he dropped his head.

Harry couldn’t see through the sheen of curtained hair hiding Severus’s face, butfelt that clever Slytherin tongue flicking gently against his tightened bollocks. Teased, adored, and licked like a particularly fine candy.

If Harry’s bullocks were candy, than his cock must have been a real treat, because Severus took it into his mouth with one motion and sucked like a man drowning.

All it had taken was one suck. Just one. Harry wished to God he could have enjoyed it, but he found himself unable to help himself. Orgasm leapt like a striking snake, flooding Harry’s body with such rich, intense ecstasy that he screamed with it, arching into the trap of Severus’s incredible mouth that sucked and sucked like he was going to be swallowed alive. His entire world pinpointed to this one sensation, narrowing until he couldn’t see anything but his own exploding pleasure and the incredible, indescribable love he felt for the man between his legs, there because he wanted to be.

It made Harry, an orphan, misunderstood, used and manipulated....feel beautiful.

So, when Severus rose up after licking his cock clean to kiss him, Harry accepted that mouth to his own whole heartedly, kissing him like he was dying, because he was sure he was. Dying and being reborn, stronger, and more resilient. It was profound in its own way and made him think of the most important thing he’d been without for too long, the thing he was sure he felt dancing in his heart.

Hope.

Severus smiled at him, gently and cupped his cheeks as they finished kissing, his eyes dancing with something like both joy and total, utter misery at the same time. Harry looked at it, even blurry through his own vision, and wondered what on earth he could be miserable about.

Maybe it was because Severus hadn’t come.

"Oh...oh!" he grasped the hands on his face tightly. "Show me. Okay? I want to."

"It’s not necessary," Severus whispered back, gently kissing him once more with all of his pleasure in the world. His mouth tasted slightly bitter and sweet at the same time, and Harry realized it must have been himself he tasted on Severus’s tongue. He groaned, deeply, and sucked on it, bringing it into his mouth while his arms slid around a graceful neck, holding Severus close to his body to enjoy his treat.

Which, of course, made Severus moan, and press against the couch. Not necessary, his arse.

Harry grinned in delight and let go enough to look at the man’s face. It was dazed and pleasured, wanton and gorgeous. His hair was in disarray, his usually sallow cheeks softly flushed, and his eyes were hooded with want. It was an absolutely gorgeous look for him, like all the masks had been stripped away to reveal this creature of lust and ache that was all Harry’s doing. "I want to. I want to touch, or suck, or whatever you’ll let me do. Show me?"

"Not tonight, Mr. Potter," Severus murmured, his voice trembling as his fingers stroked over Harry’s thighs. "Go to your rooms, you’re done for tonight."

Dismissed? A lump rose in his throat despite Harry’s best intentions to swallow it down. "I have to go?"

"Please do. We....you’re not ready for anything more than this. Soon, I promise," Severus murmured once more as he lifted his head up to gently kiss Harry’s fingertips. "Go to bed, Harry."

Harry knew better than to question Snape’s intentions. So, he nodded, and kissed him once more, carefully, taking the pleasure of those kisses with him as he rose.

And if he swayed his hips, just the slightest bit, and bent over more than he had to when he retrieved his clothes, who could blame him? He heard the gasp of pleasure, and to Harry’s delight, saw the flush creep up on Snape’s cheeks out of the corner of his eye. He sashayed all the way to his rooms, feeling lighter than the air he was breathing.

When he crawled into bed, the second time without having made Severus come, Harry dreamed about sex and intimacy, kisses and ecstasy.

And didn’t think once about Ron’s betrayal.

Chapter 8

"The Treason"

Harry wished he’d have known how bad his day was going to be when he rolled out of bed the following morning, because he was sure he would have stayed in it, warm up to his eyeballs, and forgotten that the world existed. It was an easy enough thing to do when ensconced in the dungeons, and the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that’s why Snape liked it so much. It was....safe. Warm, secure, where he was the king of his domain and his rule was supreme.

Like many mornings, they took their breakfast in Snape’s kitchen, scrambled eggs for him and poached for Snape, before beginning their morning routine. Harry always took the shower first, as he was first to finish breakfast, and while he dressed, Snape cleaned up. They spent an hour in front of the cauldrons which had stewed during the night, and either finished any concoctions that needed finishing, or went about their day. Snape answered his letters for a half hour and Harry finished whatever homework or studying he’d had from the previous day, before they bid each other good day and went on about their business.

Although Harry was no longer allowed to take Potions in the classical sense, he still, more oft than not, spent the double period in the Potions classroom. After he’d finally gained Snape’s trust by truly tearing a third year’s paper apart with commentary splashed in red, he’d been trusted to grade the younger levels homework. And so, he spent a good chunk of time grading work at Snape’s desk as his Master prowled the classroom and insulted his year mate’s work. It seemed a thousand years away from when he used to be among them.

And they seemed to notice that.

Harry wasn’t sure what started it. He’d been midway through reading a semi coherent paper on Pear Lily Extract and its uses in potions, when he felt something hit his cheek.

An eyeball.

A frog eyeball.

He looked up at the class, frowning lightly, but no one was looking at him. Strange. He brushed it away from the paper into the garbage pail beside the desk with barely a look at it.

He looked back down at the paper in front of him, carefully circling a misspelled word and correcting it off to the margin, when another frog eye hit his forehead, right beside his scar. He looked up in time to see Dean quickly returning to his potion and schooling his face. Something hot and angry broiled at Harry’s belly as he searched his former Gryffindor mate, glaring at his down turned head. Over it, he noticed Ron’s face was red. From trying not to laugh.

"Professor Snape?" Harry asked, lifting his head to catch the man’s eye. When Snape turned to look at him, Harry asked, "The students are going to be testing these potions out on themselves, correct?" They were making the very potion he and Snape had perfected a few weeks before, the Pepper Up Longevity Elixir. "Wouldn’t it be a good idea to add a little essence of moon flower?"

Snape stared at him for a moment. They both knew moon flower wasn’t used in ingested potions because, although it strengthened the compound, it also caused a spectacular case of the runs.

Snape smirked at him, and Harry knew Snape was all too aware of the taunts Harry was receiving from Gryffindor. It was at times like these that Harry saw Snape’s wickedly playful side, and it amused him to no end. "Not today, Mr. Potter, though your suggestion has merit. I believe, instead, perhaps a dash of powdered billywig?"

Dried Billywig stingers had the fantastic use of causing the unlucky person who'd ingested it giddiness, levitation, and energy. They also had the fantastic cause of making one puke up everything he’d ever eaten in his life. Harry knew that from experience. He looked over at Dean, snickering over his cauldron, Ron doing the same and Hermione glaring at the both of them. "Might not be ready for something like that. We should try it, though, if the situation escalates," Harry said lightly, before turning back to his work.

Ten minutes later, a small paper airplane not unlike the one Draco had sent to him during third year, came flying at him. He caught it on instinct, glancing at the Slytherin, but he was hunched over his cauldron, chatting up Patty Parkinson. Harry didn’t dare look toward the Gryffindor side, not just yet, just setting the paper down and opening it.

On it was a drawn picture of him, bent over a desk, with Snape humping him from behind. Written in the margin were the words, ‘Slytherin cunt’.

His face turned a scarlet red, and he snarled as he climbed to his feet, truthfully not giving a flying hell that he was disrupting the entire class. "Who. Sent. This."

Silence.

"WHO. SENT. THIS?" Harry roared, and was deeply satisfied to see everyone jump. "Do you think pissing me off is a game? How soon you all forget that less than six months ago I committed murder. I am not above doing it again!"

The room went absolutely still, even Snape, as Harry snarled. Had he been watching himself, he would have seen he was giving an exact imitation of Snape, so good even the professor had gone still. Harry was absolutely furious, so ungodly angry that he was shaking. "How dare you, all of you. It’s my private life, not a spectacle for all of you to get your dirty hands in. I’ve been your fun, and your gossip, for too long."

Oh, he knew who had sent the picture. He wasn’t stupid. His furious eyes flickered and then trained on Ron, who looked as if he would have wanted to crawl under the desk. Harry sent him his most hateful look, his soul sobbing at the loss of the one person who he’d always thought had loved him, and grasped the younger student’s papers before storming out of the classroom.

The rest of the week was no better. Apparently, news of him being gay had spread like wild fire, because everyone either stared at him or ignored him like the plague. He felt like he was in his second year again, where everyone had thought he was the heir of Slytherin and he’d been hated and ignored for nearly the entire year. People began to pull terrible tricks on him...trying to trip him in the hall, doing the Jelly Legs Hex behind his back, or making outstandingly rude commentary within his earshot. Strangely enough, the only ones who didn’t taunt him were the Slytherin’s themselves.

It was times like these that he really did wonder if he should have been put into Slytherin instead of Gryffindor.

Rather than be elated that the Boy Who Lived was finally getting his, they looked on him with pity whenever someone did something while in their presence. Crabbe had flanked him three days in a row to keep the worst of the Gryffindor cat calls and insults down on his way to Transfiguration, and though they’d never said a word, Harry had thanked him Friday afternoon. Crabbe , being Crabbe , just grunted, blushed, and went into the class before him.

Harry didn’t even bother going to the Great Hall at mealtime. What was the use, anyway? He’d tried it on Tuesday and ended up leaving early. Ron wouldn’t let him sit down next to him, as he had for the last seven years, day in and day out. He’d ended up sitting beside Hermione and Neville, ignoring Ron as Ron ignored him, and finally when the thrown insults and treacherous looks from his fellow Gryffindor’s had become to much to handle, Harry had slapped his remaining eggs between two folds of toast and left to begin the day.

The only person, aside from Snape, who seemed to understand, was Remus Lupin.

Which was why, Harry supposed, he found himself standing in front of the man’s classroom during his free Potions hour the following afternoon.

He knocked, twice, before he got an answer. Unlike Dumbledore, Harry wasn’t shocked when he saw Professor Lupin’s face as the man opened the door...no, instead of being surprised by his permanent injuries, it was like coming home. Harry smiled at him, broadly, pleased when the smile was reciprocated, and spoke up. "Sorry to bother you, Professor. Can I..."

"Come in?" Lupin didn’t even hesitate; he just smiled and held the door open wider. "I’ve got someone in here with me, but we’re almost through."

Harry slipped into the office, understanding now why Remus hadn’t opened it the entire way..it was filled with boxes of every shape and color, hundreds of them, and they were all...fluttering. The boxes themselves seemed to be enchanted, rocking akimbo with lids flailing and bottoms shuddering. Harry couldn’t help but stare, nor could he stop the smile that twitched his lips as he realized what they were filled with. Flashes of wing and blue skin, screaming and yelling. "Cornish pixies?"

Remus smiled himself, and just because of that smile the world seemed brighter, in Harry’s opinion. "I’ve heard reports that the only time they’ve been properly studied was when a Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart held term here. Make yourself comfortable," he motioned to one of the chairs by the desk. "I was hoping you’d come by this week...Professor Snape uses certain elements from pixies for his potions." Lupin turned a sharp look on the Ravenclaw sullenly separating the boxes by color. "Mr. Sendly, you’re free to go. See that we don’t try to use Spello Copy parchment anymore, mm?"

"Yes, sir," the young man mumbled in shame, and skittered out of the office as fast as possible past Harry.

"Detention?"

"Detention," Remus affirmed with a smirk as he hobbled back behind his desk. "Sit, Harry. How is everything going?"

Because Harry knew the man well, he cut through the crap for both of them. "Shitty."

"Shitty it is," from the bottomless fathoms that were Hogwarts Teachers desks, Remus pulled a short, squat bottle of something with a light red hue. He produced two shot glasses, transfigured from paperclips, and filled them from the bottle. "I’ve been hearing the rumors."

Christ. Harry swallowed a very long, very deep breath, and managed, "They’re not rumors."

"Of course they’re not rumors," Remus tossed back whatever it was in one of the glasses and hissed all the way through it. "Sirius thought you might have been, probably even before you knew. He loved you so much, Harry."

Harry loved hearing about his godfather. He’d been dead for two years this coming June, but even now in death, he was a man Harry adored. He’d come to terms with the things he’d seen in Snape’s Pensieve, understood his godfather hadn’t been perfect, but had paid the penance for his sins a thousand times over. All of the Marauders had. Harry had set his anger with them to peace the year before, and hadn’t looked back sense.

He missed Sirius more than he could possibly say.

"You don’t think he would have been..."

"Upset? That would have made him quite hypocritical, don’t you think?" Lupin arched a quirky little brow to make Harry smile.

But the smile burned to pain in the next moment when he studied the gaunt faced professor before him. Something like lead caught in his throat, burning his pain out for the world to see. "Do you miss him?"

"Every day of my life."

A simple answer to a simple question, loaded with meaning and so much heartache that Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. "Do you think...he’d be upset about...I like someone."

Remus studied him, quietly, across the desk. "No, Harry. He wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d even say that he would be happy for you. And I know for a fact your parents would have been thrilled to know their son was brave enough to admit what he wanted, and then to strive for it."

Because Remus looked so utterly sincere, and because Harry knew better than to wonder if he was lying, he smiled. Something dark and heavy seemed to be lifted off of his heart, an old guilt that had been at the base of the mountain of boulders that weighed him down, day to day, week to week. The fear of shaming his family seemed to be gone, and the space where the guilt and pain had once settled now seemed gloriously...free. "I don’t tell you this enough, professor, but thank you."

Lupin smiled at him. "You are most welcome here anytime, Harry."

After that, the taunts and teases didn’t seem to hurt so much.

- = - = -

Snape seemed to understand what he was going through. He kept Harry close to the sleeve as much as possible and kept him company in their rooms. He confided in Harry that he’d been ridiculed when he’d been outed by his friends, and the only person who had kept him away from bullies and such had been his Slytherin friends. The house was known for keeping theirs, and as Harry slept, ate, and lived with Snape, he had become a Slytherin in their eyes.

That wasn’t more deeply felt as the truth when Friday came. Harry had spent it half hiding in the dungeons and going about his classes without talking to anyone. Thank God almost everyone was leaving to be with family this year.

Harry didn’t have anyone to visit...never had if he was honest with himself. Not even Ron, this year. Rather than depress himself anymore than he already was, Harry had taken refuge on the damp Quidditch pitch, pointedly not watching the horse drawn carriages carrying their riders off to home and hearth.

Hogwarts was his home. And if he could manage it, he’d stay here as long as they let him.

He didn’t expect to have company. Least of all this kind of company. But when Draco Malfoy, dressed to the nines in snowy white and mauve robes came and sat down beside him, Harry didn’t say no. He just watched the sky, light grey with late winter, stewing up some more rain drops for Easter.

They didn’t say anything for a while. Harry watched the sky and Draco sat close to him, studying the distance. Draco didn’t have family to go to either, not really. His mum had been killed by Voldemort himself even before the Battle of Yorkshire, and Lucius was about as warm and friendly as a block of ice.

He’d also tried to kill Harry. Twice. That didn’t go down well in Harry’s book in the least. The second time Draco had saved his life, and so if Harry was honest with himself, Draco wasn’t half bad, and he enjoyed his company when they weren’t bickering.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked, finally, to break the silence.

Draco looked up at him, grey eyes widening in his face. He was spectacularly beautiful, in Harry’s most humble opinion, and if he wasn’t head over heels for Snape, Harry could see himself lusting after this lithe, silver lined beauty sitting beside him. "Why not?"

Why not, indeed.

"If...you feel bad for me or whatever, I don’t need your pity," Harry grit out, pride nearly choking him as he glared.

"I don’t feel bad for you. I can...understand, I suppose, in a way I didn’t before."

Harry stared. "You understand."

"Well, yeah." Those grey eyes again, this time dancing with amusement and...sadness. "My dad is insane and my mum is in the family plot. I suppose I’ve gotten in the same boat you have, though I don’t sit about and whinge over it."

"I don’t whinge!"

"No. You don’t."

Hearing Draco admit it soothed the beast in Harry’s heart, letting some of the anger he felt stewing in there calm. "But I didn’t ever know them, either. So I suppose I haven’t much to whinge over."

Draco seemed to think that upsetting because he looked out to the pitch again. "Is it true, then?"

"What?"

"The Muggles you lived with. Were they terrible?"

Harry turned suspicious eyes on his seat mate. The boy didn’t seem to be looking for new weaponry..in fact, if Harry was honest, it was the first semi coherent conversation they’d ever had, where money or prestige hadn’t come into the equation. Harry found truth and solace in that. "I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you’re being so nice to me all of a sudden."

At that, Draco’s eyes darkened softly. "You’re one of us, now, Potter. Severus told me you should have been in Slytherin all along."

Yes. Chalk it up to Snape to give Harry’s most beloved enemy his deepest secret. "Did he."

"Well, yeah. It’s not something to be ashamed over or anything," Draco arched a brow at him. "I think part of the reason I always hated you was because you were more Slytherin than I was."

"More Slytherin than you," at that Harry snorted. "Please, you’ve all but got Salazar Slytherin sleeping in your bed at night. Did you know, I thought during second year that you were his heir?"

Draco smirked proudly and squared his shoulders. "Really?"

Harry, who found it intensely funny that Draco took it as a compliment, grinned. "Really."

"Well, then, that settles it. You’re staying with us tonight. Severus has got some teacher thing, where they’ve got to go to the Ministry and get some things for the NEWT’s."

"Are you worried over them?"

Draco shrugged. "A bit. I like to study, though, it shouldn’t be a problem." When Harry spluttered, he smirked. "I’m a half decent student when I put my head to it. So are you, if the tyro’s anything to speak over."

Harry shrugged a shoulder absently. "I haven’t been paying attention like I should."

"Well, who wouldn’t?" A glare graced those blond features. "Stupid bastards, going on about you being gay. So bloody what, you know? Doesn’t really matter, anyway. Did you know that most Slytherins aren’t straight?"

Harry stared. "So...you’re..."

"Gay? No. Bi? Yes," Draco sneered at him again, but it wasn’t tinged with anger as it always was. It was almost...kind of...nice. Harry was more than positive this was some sort of hell where all of his most hated enemies were actually his friends and lovers. Like the muggle Twilight Zone, complete with creepy ghost chain rattling and stories of the supernatural. "I like boys and girls both," Draco quieted for a moment, shifting his gloves on a little warmer onto his hands. "Can I ask..."

"If I really am gay?"

"Well, no. I already know that." Another smirk. "I mean...about Severus. Do you...you know."

Harry stared at him. "Do I what?"

For the first time, Harry had the pleasure of seeing a blush light those pale cheeks. "Like him."

Like? Severus? No. Harry was totally, unspeakably in love with him. But like the man? Rarely, if ever. "Why do you want to know?"

"I know it’s private. Sorry. I just wanted to know. Not to tease you about it, or anything," he said quickly, "because those types of things aren’t things to play around with."

Because Draco looked sincere, and Harry figured his life couldn’t get any worse, he warily nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I like him."

"Wow," Draco nodded, as if deeply impressed Harry had admitted it. "Does he know?"

"No. And I’d like for it to stay that way."

Amusement alive in his face, Draco zipped his lips with his forefinger and thumb. "Promise. Not a word," he rose, however, and dusted his robes free of dirt with his hands. "Well, come on. We’re having a party in the common room. Since all of your Gryffindork friends have decided to be right ass faced, you can come and party with us."

Party. With Slytherin’s. Harry stared. "Malfoy, have you lost your mind?"

Draco’s grin could have melted the snow, "I like to think so."

- = - = -

Four hours later, Harry didn’t just think so, he knew so.

The Slytherin common room was a sight to behold unto itself. He’d seen it once before, though of course he wasn’t supposed to let on about that, and reacted as he was expected to when he walked in. All the seats and couches were made of thick black leather, the stone floors covered with thick rugs, and the walls were transparent, showcasing the deep fathoms of the lake the common room had been built in.

He managed not to stare as a mermaid swam past the window and waved at him.

Of course, if he was honest with himself, by the fourth beer, an entire Mariachi band could have been dancing the conga under the surface for all he cared. He vaguely remembered dancing like a loon to the rock music some Muggle enthusiast had with them, where nothing mattered but the music, tempo and beat. Slow, fast, middle, anything. Harry had heard too little music in his life to not love anything he heard. This kind of music, where it was hard and fast or slow and haunting, made him think of romance and heat and Snape, where loving was painful and joy was agonizing, where he was stupid and young and blind and entirely too drunk to be this philosophical.

By the eighth beer, he was very dimly aware that, when Snape came to fetch him, he threw up on his shoes.

Of course, he didn’t remember much after that.

- = - = -

The boat was rocking entirely too much, in Harry’s very humble opinion.

Back..forth..back...forth. Sloshing and slushing, making something in his stomach turn as green as his eyes. The music wasn’t helping, either.

Aunt Petunia loved this kind of music. She often made him listen to it as she cleaned alongside with him, which was probably why Harry was as gay as he was if he was honest with himself. No one with a British bone in their body listened to Lawrence Welk of all people, but Aunt Petunia did.

And, apparently, so did Snape.

Harry cracked open one eye...moaned, deeply, and closed his eyes again. Anything to stop the boat from moving. Even if the boat happened to be his bed, and he wasn’t actually moving.

He was buck naked and was very aware that he stunk like raw fish. Or maybe it was the potion sitting by the bed.

With effort Harry lifted his head enough to pick up life’s sustenance, not caring if it was poison at this point because really, if it was going to take him out of this misery? Anything was acceptable. Death? Not a problem.

His head, which felt like it was stuffed with soggy cotton, made his brain slosh around in his skull like a bit of forgotten bread in a particularly lumpy soup, floating along happily. Which was just...a disgusting, absolutely appalling thought and he felt everything he’d ever eaten in his entire life come up in his throat. He rolled quickly out of bed, losing his footing almost immediately and hitting the floor.

All right. So, walking was out of the question. Crawling, then.

He barely, just barely, made it to the loo and wretched until he was sure he was going to puke up a lung. Had to peer at the mess to make sure he hadn’t, just to be sure, and then felt another wave overtake him.

He puked twice more, each time so hard he felt his stomach lining scream, and held his belly as he rested his cheek against the seat. God, the porcelain felt so cool. So good. His head wasn’t nearly as thumpy here. Wizard loo’s never stunk...what Harry would have given to have a wand and handy household spells when he’d been at the Dursley’s. Dudley wasn’t known for his aim, though dear God–how could he be? Harry doubted his cousin could see his own dick.

"Ahh. You’re awake." Harry didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He felt more than heard Snape crouch down beside him and kept his eyes closed even as Snape swept a hand over his sweat-damp hair. "You had a good time, Mr. Potter. Too much of one, I’d say." All right, at the little snicker Harry opened one eye to glare. "You stink. Shower, then come eat."

Oh. Dear. GOD. Harry felt his stomach roil, and he whimpered.

Snape, being the bastard he was, lowered his mouth to his ear. "A cheese omelet. Greasy bacon. Some buttered rolls."

Oh. Oh, Harry puked. He turned his head and wretched again, ignoring Snape’s snickers and clucks as he puked. Fortunately, there wasn’t much else to puke up, and though Harry was sure he caught sight of his spleen in the mess before it was flushed away, he didn’t think even puking up a spleen was going to help his plight right now. "Bas. Tard."

"In some circles," Snape said, entirely too cheerfully, and Harry tried to glare the happy smirk off the man’s face as he was tugged to his feet. Snape could be entirely too strong sometimes. And take too much enjoyment out of other’s misery most times.

He swayed, just once, and groaned softly as he held his belly. "What....was that potion?"

Snape smirked. "Not potion. Cod liver oil. An excellent ingredient to have on hand. It reacted badly with the traces of fire whiskey left in your system, so that later today when you need to have a bowel movement, the plumbing won’t explode."

Pipes? Exploding? He peered up at Snape to see if he was joking, but as he was blind without his glasses and bleary eyed to boot, he didn’t bother. And he was not going to shower. He tugged out of Snape’s grip on his upper arm and grasped his robe, slipped into his slippers, and lifted his head regally before proceeding to the kitchen. That is to say, he hunched into his robe, forgot one slipper, and kept all light out of his eyes by keeping his head as close to his chest as he possibly could.

Oh, and Snape thought it hilarious, Harry knew. He was banging pots, speaking loudly, and Lawrence Welk was playing his old people music happily on the radio. Apparently, Snape had been in the middle of Muggle cleaning; the scent of bleach wafting from the work room was almost intolerable. He had taught Harry right from the beginning that magic only went so far–when you wanted something clean, elbow grease worked best.

What some people didn’t know was that Snape was a clean freak way down in his little black heart.

Harry glared at him, twice, for good measure.

And then remembered something, abruptly. While he’d been partying and getting drunk in the Slytherin common room, Snape had been celebrating his thirty eighth birthday.

With all the will power in the world, and then some, Harry climbed to his feet and shuffled back to his rooms. He’d managed to go back to Hogsmeade at some point yesterday through a miracle of God to pick up what he’d ordered by owl–a cloak pin of the Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts Master crest. It was incredibly ornate and had all but cost Harry half a kidney, but it was worth it. The pin was beautiful and had precise detail inscribed into the almost medieval pictures of cauldron and wand, feathers and arrows.

Harry had bought a nice wooden box with velvet lining and wrapped it as best he could in tissue paper. He clutched it now and hobbled back to the kitchen, where Snape was sipping tea and eating scrambled eggs. He looked up with Harry entered and rose a brow, pushing the chair in front of him out for Harry, and he gratefully accepted by plunking into it and pushing the little package across the table.

Snape’s brow elevated to his hairline. "What’s this?"

"Happy birthday," Harry said, cracking one eye open to look at the man. By his place mat, a plate of eggs and a flask of Pepper Up potion were waiting and without another word said, Harry swallowed the potion in one gulp, closing his eyes as he waited for it to work.

"Happy...birthday."

Harry opened one eye again to grin at his Master. "That’s normally what I say to you. Open it."

Snape looked surprised and Harry supposed it was kind of sad. The man couldn’t have had many gifts in his life, to look so balled over by this kind of gesture. He wondered if Snape had even received a birthday present aside from Harry’s this year, but put it out of his mind as he pushed his always unruly shock of black hair off his forehead. Snape, as methodical as he ever did anything, opened the paper carefully, to reveal the brown wooden box. Harry had picked out the best because he knew Snape appreciated workmanship, and watched quietly as Snape opened the box.

He was glad he’d stuck his glasses on his nose. So, so glad. Appreciation...surprise....pleasure, it all passed over Snape’s face when he lifted the cloak pin up and looked at it. His thumbs stroked over it as he held it, apparently seeing if it was as polished as it looked, and when he found it satisfactory, turned it over.

Inscribed on the bottom was written,

The pleasure melted into anger in the blink of an eye, and Snape set the pin in the box a little too hard. He shut it firmly and closed his eyes, hands held over it, until Harry could see the tics jumping in his Master’s jaw. Okay. So, maybe he hadn’t gotten the right gift.

Harry didn’t dare say anything. Snape was silent, quiet, studying the box under his slender, stained fingers like it held the answers to the universe in its polished depths. It was kind of worrying, to tell the truth. He opened his mouth to speak...thought better, and closed it firmly, grinding his teeth just a little.

When Snape finally looked up, eternities later, he gave Harry one of those rare smiles that Harry could see didn’t quite reach his eyes. However, instead of telling what he was really feeling, those inky depths were shrouded in darkness even Harry couldn’t look into...a darkness Harry had seen in his own eyes more times than he liked to count. "Thank you, Mr. Potter."

"Well..you’re welcome. If you don’t like it, I’m sure...I could find something else?" Harry asked.

Snape blinked at him for a moment, as if not understanding, and only when the sound of squealing wood met the air did he realize he was squeezing the box with his hands. He let go abruptly and pushed back from the table, rising firmly as if someone had lit a firecracker underneath his feet, spurring him to move. Harry watched, puzzled, unhappy, and rose himself, albeit a bit more unsteadily. "Professor?"

"Severus. As I said...thank you, Mr. Po–Harry," Snape said smoothly, and motioned a hand at him as if explaining everything without a word. "Why don’t you go and clean yourself up? I am growing enough mold in my kitchen without adding your slightly fetid stench. Go, and shower. Dress appropriately for the weather; we’ll be gathering ingredients today, which includes rain. Twenty minutes, Harry."

Twenty minutes it was. Harry escaped back to his own rooms more heavyhearted than when he’d entered, that was for sure. He had no idea what he’d done to make Snape so closed off, the memory of those dark eyes filled with such loathing and anger disquieting in a way nothing else had been since he’d come to live here with Snape. But he did as Snape had asked and showered, brushing teeth and hair and applying a shaving spell to his raspy cheeks.

Harry put on his working slacks and shirt, a thick jumper and his boots. He slipped on the shorter robe he wore for their expeditions, one that fell just past the curve of his bum and closed firmly along the front, with a thick hood to keep him warm and dry. His wand went into his belt, and he packed a satchel quickly with gloves, extra socks, and several empty collection beakers with spin close lids.

He pocketed a few galleons, just in case, and with a minute and a half to spare, walked back to Snape’s rooms. The man was already waiting, of course. His longish hair was tied back with a green ribbon, and he wore his own short robes and strong boots and slacks.

He looked like sin incarnate.

"Are we ready to go?"

"Yes, professor," Harry slipped the satchel on over his head and adjusted the strap across his chest.

Did he mention he hated using port keys? If Apparating was bad, then taking a port key anywhere was even worse. It felt like a fish hook got stuck behind his belly button and yanked, pulling forward until he had no choice but to follow or risk his innards being spilled out across the floor. Bloody odd it was. He suffered through it anyway after he and Snape reached the edge of Hogwarts land, and off they flew to Ireland.

Harry had terrible memories attached to port keys. And seeing Cedric Diggory lying dead in the grass was not the way to start the day.

As if sensing Harry was about to fall into a spectacular hangover-induced brood, Snape spoke up after they caught their balance. He deactivated the port key easily with a tap of his wand, made of holly just like Harry’s, which Harry found to be very comforting at times, and began to speak to him in that brisk, business-like tone of his. "We’re searching for Pear Lily today, as well as March Grass seedlings. We will be collecting rain on Barbo leaves; I expect you brought a supply?"

"Of course," Harry opened his satchel and flipped the top back, so he’d have an easier access to the jars and items he’d brought along. "Why Barbo leaves, anyway? Why do we always use them?"

"Barbo leaves, of the tree Barbuhguni Orgasi, is equipped with special chemicals that keep water from mixing with any of the plants fungi or other plant diseases, which can actually be very harmful to human beings. Tell me why."

Harry stepped over a log as they entered the thicket they always went to for ingredients, and began to recite. "Plants are living things, and like all living things, they can get sick, and in turn, make us sick."

"Good." Snape stopped for a moment and crouched with knife and specimen jar in hand. "Now, tell me, Mr. Potter..." he trailed off for a moment as he studied the little groups of leaves growing from the marshy grass, and cut off several at the root. "What on earth were you doing in the Slytherin common room at four in the morning?"

Harry had the good sense to blush. "Malfoy invited me."

"Malfoy," a smirk passed over Snape’s face, gone in an instant. "Did he?"

"Yes, he did." The smile said he wasn’t in trouble. Thank Merlin. "We talked for a bit on the Quidditch pitch....he told me that a lot of Slytherins are gay. And that sometimes...you know, it’s All right to be."

Snape turned his head to catch Harry’s eye and there in the muddy bog, with willow trees growing around the thick marsh and meadow, Snape looked absolutely breathtaking. The heavy winter sun, grey and tinged with the oncoming rain, was stunning there in the dim light. Snape looked like twilight and heaven, dawn and hell, all mixed up into one being of both light and shadow. He looked...beautiful. Harry had never thought any man could be so beautiful.

It was in that instant that all of the uncertainty, all of the anguish, all of Harry’s guilt and pain, disappeared. Because in those dark eyes lay surprise, and understanding, and something Harry was glaringly sure was love.

When Harry turned his head he knew all the shyness he felt had been mirrored in both action and blush. His throat felt dry with it, his heart fluttering in an almost panicked daze like he had eaten too much chocolate and was on a sugar high.

Love was the ultimate sugar high.

"It is All right to be."

Harry lifted his eyes and met Snape’s again, where the man was looking at him with a peculiar expression, that if Harry didn’t know better, was adoration and grief all at once. "Do you remember, many months ago, when I told you I’d written papers on candy?"

Harry nodded; no clue where this was going, but at least his hands were steady as he began to cut the little plants Snape was collecting by the root, careful not to push his hands too much into the grass and get a leach. His heart was thumping much too hard in his chest, so hard he was sure Snape could all but hear it.

"While I was writing them, I had one of the most profound moments of my life," Snape carefully moved some of the plants they’d cut away, to show the thick pears tiny with late winter, and the white blossoms they were protecting behind them. He was also keeping his head down, and his voice was oddly gruff, as if he felt great emotion. Probably just the winter air. "Life, Mr. Potter, is experiencing. The wisest of wizards have tried everything once, no matter what others have said about them, no matter what others have thought about them. The ultimate bravery comes from doing what you know is right and not worrying about those who think otherwise. You, Mr. Potter, are gifted with that. You try everything once," Snape looked at him, across the little winter lilies, "and only once. You are unafraid when you leap in, because as you’ve experienced, all things can be escaped, all things can be moved. You can push aside mountains if you want to. You don’t understand this now, but you will one day." Snape’s hands were shaking, now. "You are destined for great things. You, Mr. Potter, will be the Albus Dumbledore of your age. You will be strong, and I believe the grief and pain you have experienced will be your strongest ally, your strongest asset. You just have to get there, first. By taking this apprenticeship, you have laid the first stone, don’t you see?"

Harry didn’t, and yet oddly, did in a way. "You mean that I’ve already started down that road?"

"My tyro, you started down that road when you found the way to kill a madman hundreds before had tried to vanquish. You did it not once, Harry; but twice."

Harry swallowed, very hard, and nodded again as he stared down at his hands in the muck. Conversation like this made him incredibly uncomfortable, so as to change the subject, he said lightly, "What are we collecting these ingredients for?"

Snape just snickered, softly, and didn’t answer.

It wasn’t until that night after they finished brewing their own lubrication that Harry understood what the words ‘fierce arousal’ meant. It nearly swallowed him alive, nearly choked him, but Snape just smiled at him in that way he had that lit his face up with amusement and whispered into his ear.

"Soon."

Chapter 9

"The Last Day"

After Easter break, everything seemed more...alive. He couldn’t explain it, but Harry knew he was a man in love, a man on the cusp of adulthood, and more than that, a man who’d finally found his calling. It had nothing to do with the fact that walked around half hard. Nothing.

He didn’t really speak with Ron or Hermione anymore...Hermione tried to talk to him once or twice, but he found himself understanding the Slytherin’s so much that Harry didn’t bother talking to those who not only didn’t comprehend him, but wished not to.

In Draco, Harry found a friend he never thought he’d have.

Draco, unlike Ron had been, accepted everything about him, from his connection to Voldemort to his homosexuality. He taught him useful tricks Harry could have used a thousand times or more during his years at Hogwarts, and in turn Harry copied the Marauder’s Map for him, and let Draco use his invisibility cloak whenever he felt like it. They’d sneak down to the kitchens together when Snape was engrossed, or gone to a meeting, and as the house elves were more than happy to load them with goodies, often went back to Harry’s rooms with robes bursting with treats.

The best times of all, however, were the Slytherin parties. Or rather, when Snape let him out of the work room long enough to attend one. The Slytherins were wild, just crazy; they pulled pranks on one another, set beds afire with fake wizard flames, had a collection of special potions made just to terrorize, had a closet of gag toys Fred and George would have been jealous of. Harry told Draco this, only to have the Slytherin laugh at him.

On the door of the closet was a portrait of the Weasley twins and the Slytherins, posing in front of Weasley Wizard Wheezes on their opening day with big smiles on their faces.

But the best part of all, the coolest thing in the Slytherin common room, was the huge glass snake case. Three boa constrictors, two pythons, and an enormous yellow one Harry had no clue what was sat in this enormous estuary-like enclosed case. The first time he’d talked to them the other Slytherins had obviously been both rattled and curious, and until Harry had let one of the constrictors out and had it do some tricks did they calm.

Draco thought it immeasurably cool. And Harry, for the first time in his life, was accepted.

NEWT’s drew closer, and with each passing week Snape kept his nose further and deeper to the grindstone. Harry crammed knowledge into his brain, ignoring Snape’s growls on how all of this should have been on the curriculum years ago, and what was Dumbledore thinking having a new Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum each new semester, and no wonder half the students were dunderheads.

Rather than be insulted, Harry was just in love.

After the Irish trip, their relationship changed again. Snape never spoke again of the things he’d told Harry, but they took to kissing softly in the morning before leaving for classes, and sharing them in the evening before falling to bed. Snape didn’t touch him and Harry didn’t ask, but on the first day of June, one morning after a particularly delicious, deep kiss, Snape whispered to him that if Harry wanted, The Offer was open, for the last day of school.

Harry was positively, unspeakably, elated. Because here it was, the last week of school, and if he wanted it, Snape would allow them to be intimate together. The first year of the tyro was over, and until the new draft of their contract was written Harry was free of it to do as he pleased.

Which meant spreading his legs for Snape. Harry wanted it so badly he could taste it.

He certainly went through a lot more pajama bottoms as it was.

The last day of the last week of the last year of Harry’s Hogwarts career started out just like every day this year had started. He got up, got dressed, aware he felt melancholy but putting it out of his mind. Dumbledore had always told him that changes in life were just the beginnings of another adventure, and so with that advice close to his heart, he made his way to the kitchen.

Snape was already there, looking tired but alert with a newspaper and a cup of tea in hand. When he spotted Harry coming in, his eyes lit up even as he scowled, as if he couldn’t make up his mind on how to feel. "Your robes are wrinkled, Mr. Potter. I expect you to drink some tea before you go to breakfast."

"All right," Harry said softly, as he slipped behind Snape, leaned down, and brushed his lips across a high cheekbone. He gently squeezed the man’s shoulder and pretended not to notice the soft flush that rose in his Master’s cheeks, instead sliding into the seat across from him and sipping on the tea waiting for him. It tasted lightly of lemon and cream, and washed across his tongue happily. Snape’s tea was always so wonderful...it left him cheerful and happy for most of the day after he drank it, and he didn’t know why until he asked Snape–apparently, the tea leaves were enchanted with a harmless cheering charm.

Harry was definitely cheered.

Tonight, he was going to have Snape. He was going to be staying at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future. He was learning, and had passed all of the Ministry’s Tyro Tests with an O. He was positive he’d gotten top marks in all of his NEWT’s and knew for a fact he was top of the class in Defense Against the Dark Arts and at least third in Potions.

Life was as good as it had ever been.

The day seemed to mimic the sentiment. The sun was bright and cheerful, sky a beautiful, pristine blue that seemed to glow with life. It was warm but not stifling. It was perfect weather for what was going to turn out to be the perfect day.

Harry grinned as he caught sight of the Giant Squid from the lake sunbathing on the shore, before he walked into the Great Hall.

Breakfast was delicious. Kippers and omelets, fresh fruit and toast. Harry was sure he could have enjoyed it more if he hadn’t spent it like he’d spent the entire week–half hard and desperately aroused. As he had for the past several weeks, Harry sat at the Slytherin table at the end, the door that led down to the dungeons close by so after he was through he could escape. The Slytherins were as cheerful as he was today, obviously in raised spirits over the huge party they were going to be throwing tonight. Draco teased Harry on eating so much, and Pansy across the way giggled and blushed at him.

Harry didn’t even notice that none of his former house mates met his eye.

Nor did he notice the teachers, save for Dumbledore who was in London for the day, glaring at the Slytherins like they were vermin. As they normally did, anyway, Harry didn’t think it too odd, and rose a brow at the ones he’d caught staring his way before escaping back to the dungeons.

The morning passed well. The last NEWT of the semester, History of Magic, was a little tense, mostly because Harry had to sit next to Ron for the entire test. The only thing that saved him were the lessons Snape had taught him long ago to keep his mind on what he was doing without losing himself completely; it was easy enough to finish the test. He in no way did excellent, but he did well enough, and he was proud of himself.

He tried to talk to Ron, once, but was ignored. Just as he had been ignored since Easter. The Gryfindors didn’t even give him the time of day. It hurt Harry more than he could say, because he’d risked his life and limb for these people, but there wasn’t much else he could do. He’d never been anything more than Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived to them all.

Good riddance.

Lunch met with even more happiness from the Slytherins and even more scowls from the Gryffindors, but Harry didn’t mind it too much. That’s how it usually was, anyway. He sat next to Draco again, smiling when Snape gave him a private, quiet look from the teacher’s table, and filled himself full of chicken, salad, potatoes and gravy.

The rest of the afternoon passed with Snape. Harry slithered like the little snake he’d become down to the dungeons without catching too many eyes, and had set everything up in their work room for the afternoon’s lesson. They were going to be creating one last potion this semester, one of which was already half done..a Celebration Explosion. Like Muggle fireworks, Snape said, but with less danger and more stunning patterns. The novelty was fun, and Harry could have appreciated it if he wasn’t so desperately over flooded with images of Snape, naked and supple, stretched out waiting for Harry to fill him.

Harry was hunched over the cauldron, adding asphodel and coloring to the potion, when his fantasy all but came true. As was Snape’s way, he snuck up behind him and pressed him incredibly close to his body, gently, warmly, and murmured quietly into his ear, "Mr Potter, I think when you go to dinner tonight you will need to wear a longer robe. I..don’t believe I can tolerate anymore stares at you." As if to punctuate the words whispered so erotically, Snape reached down and grasped a handful of half hard Harry.

Which of course made him fully hard Harry.

He moaned softly, letting his head tip back to his Masters shoulder as he arched. "Oh...God..."

"Not quite, but I’m sure I can make you believe it after tonight," growled into the shell of his ear. Even through four layers of clothing, Harry could still feel his Master’s hard heat pressing against the curve of his backside, and the pleasure was instantaneous, erotic, unbelievable. "I would very much like my little tyro to scream his Master’s name," Snape murmured, licking softly behind Harry’s ear, then down his neck to softly caress the tendons that were all but jumping out of Harry’s skin. "Tonight."

Tonight? Tonight was ages, centuries away, and Harry couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped him. "Technically done with classes," he managed, breathing hard.

"Not quite. Tonight," Snape whispered again, and just as he’d come in, he left, in a flow of black robes and dark hair.

Like a really big bat.

Harry grinned to himself, adjusted his penis, and went back to brewing.

- = - = -

His excitement was on overdrive when the dinner hour finally arrived. He cleaned himself up well for the Farewell Feast, donning the deep, forest green dress robes Snape had bought him earlier in the year. He’d grown another inch or two, and Dobby had tried to take the hem out a bit with elf magic, but Harry had ended up needing to stop at Gladrags in Hogsmeade, the wizard's clothier, with Snape.

His hair, which he’d been growing out long, was tied back with a length of velvet ribbon the same color as his robes, and he shaved the Muggle way to make sure not a bit of stubble was left. In the morning, he and his classmates would be graduating, so he put a charm on his face to keep stubble growth to a minimum throughout the early hours of the following day.

After he pulled his thick brown boots on and made sure everything was in order, he walked out into the hall and nearly ran into Draco and Crabbe . "Hey!"

"Wow, you do clean up nice," Draco snickered, and lifted himself up from his lean on the wall. He wore the standard colors of his tyro, white and mauve, but managed to pull it off with style, grace, and masculinity. He almost looked like his Animagus form, a ferret, pristine like snow with enough pink in it to make it look animalistic. He looked...very good.

"So do you," Harry answered with a shy grin, and turned his eyes to Crabbe , "And, of course, so do you, Vincent." Crabbe blushed, and Harry, charmed, motioned for them to follow him down the hall. "This all feels so strange. I can’t believe we’re graduating tomorrow...it feels like it was yesterday when we were all getting off the boats together," Harry said with a little smile toward the two beside him.

"Sure does. I wish more were graduating with us," Draco said, quietly. Goyle had been missing from Draco’s triad for some time now, lured to the Dark Side and murdered by his own father to show his loyalty to Voldemort. Snape had told him so, and had also told him it’s what had turned Draco off from that path. He wasn’t going to become another Abraham analogy to tell the kiddies of Voldemort’s evil.

"I do, too," said Harry. Guilt ticked somewhere in his heart but he ignored it as well as he could.

Tonight he was going to party, and tomorrow he was going to graduate. He’d be a fully learned wizard, then. He’d be a grown man.

Until then, there was no time for pain and guilt. Until tomorrow, he was free.

He was just about to walk into the hall when Neville Longbottom grasped his arm and yanked him back.

The yank had nearly sent him arse over tit and he managed to barely keep his feet. Harry stared at his former housemate and looked to Draco and Crabbe , who both had incredibly defensive expressions on their faces. "Look, it’s okay, go on ahead, I’ll be there in a second."

Neville wasn’t exactly the type to go about grabbing people. He was a sweet enough young man, though he’d never had close friends Harry had regarded him, all through sixth year, one of his best. He’d saved his life and vice versa during the battle with Voldemort at the Ministry of Magic, even when he’d been broken and bleeding.

Harry didn’t forget sacrifices like that. It was possibly the only thing that kept him from shaking the boy off and walking into the hall. "Neville? What’s wrong?"

"H-H...Harry," the boy fidgeted, obviously deeply agitated, as he spoke. "Please, you can’t...they’re planning something, Harry. You...you’ve always been a good friend to me, and I..I don’t want you to have to go through it. Please, we all know, only you don’t, but I..."

"What? You aren’t making sense, Neville."

"I...I know. Look. You can’t...they’re going to–"

"Mr. Longbottom? I assume you’re keeping my tyro from entering the Great Hall for some reason other than to annoy him?"

From behind them both, tall, dark, and deeply handsome in fine tailored robes, Snape scowled. Neville, as he always had been, was terrified of Snape and let go of Harry abruptly, swallowing and stepping back. "Go take your seat, Mr. Longbottom, and five points from Gryffindor," Snape smirked and motioned for Harry to step out in front of him, into the Great Hall.

Of which, in Harry’s opinion, had been decorated beautifully, with the enormous banners from each of their houses hanging from the enchanted ceiling. He put the confusing conversation with Neville out of his mind, uncomfortable with what the boy had been saying, and instead made his way down the long table to his seat. Dumbledore was still not back, and though Harry found it a trifle odd, he nonetheless took his seat at the end of the Slytherin table, as the Gryffindors had made it perfectly clear they didn’t want him close. They all sat hunched together, not leaving any room for anyone until the person the seat belonged to entered the hall. They didn’t want Harry among them.

So be it.

He took his seat in front of Pansy Parkinson and smiled at her as she blushed, fiery red. Oh, Harry knew he and Draco made quite an impression together, one light as air and the other dark as night.

Severus seemed to agree from the staff table, because he eyed Harry in appreciation that quietly said, Well done.

Harry tipped his head forward, quirking the corner of his mouth. Thank you.

Professor McGonagall made the Farewell speech, tears obviously clogging up in her throat, and everyone cheered after she was through. Dinner itself was a wonder. Roast beef and cabbage, mashed potatoes, corned beef, pork chops and ham. Harry piled his plate high, not caring if it was rude or not because beside him, Draco had tugged one of the serving bowls filled with turkey toward him as his dinner plate, and wasn’t sharing.

However, because he was Harry Potter and Harry Potter constantly attracted scenes everywhere he went, he noticed the Gryffindors watching him and snickering. Apparently, so did half the Slytherins, because Draco gave them all what Harry had labeled the Death Sneer.

Ron snickered back at him, and said from across the tables, "Virginal white, Malfoy, is really quite lost on you."

Harry felt his blood thicken. He glared across the way at the boy who had been his friend, and through the sadness came rage. "You’re one to talk, Ron," Harry said back, before Draco could speak, "From what I’ve heard, you’ve done half of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team."

The Hufflepuffs were blushing crimson across the room, but Harry could have cared less.

"And only half. I left the boys for you," Ron shot back.

"Awe, well, thank you! They are adorable," Harry said sweetly back, throwing in a little beaming smile that made Draco snicker, "though I find my taste runs Slytherin these days," He blatantly moved his arm around Draco’s shoulders and the little smile intensified as Draco caught onto the joke and leaned down to nuzzle his neck.

The look on Harry’s former house mates faces was priceless. Stunned, shocked, repulsed, horrified. Hermione was a shade of Gryffindor red Harry had never seen before. Ron seemed to recover first, because he croaked out, "You’re blind as hell, Harry. I’m really sorry for you."

"I’m not blind," Harry shot back, "I’ve just found people who don’t care that I can talk to snakes or killed a Dark Lord. I thought you all were those people."

"I can’t be," Ron hissed, "when you’re being so damn blind."

"That’s enough." Draco broke in, glaring darkly at Ron. "Leave him alone."

"You’re one to say that, Malfoy, you’ve hated him since you met him. You did everything you could to us to make us miserable. You’ve never cared about him." Ron’s face was red, and his fury was obviously eating him alive. Hermione set her hand on Ron’s elbow but he shook it off, just glaring. "Sluts. Both of you. Bending over for all of Slytherin house now, Harry? How do Slytherin sluts like it–missionary or doggy style?"

Harry never had a chance to respond. There was a roar of furious voices from the Slytherins, matched only by the Gryffindors, and Harry didn’t quite know when the first punch was thrown.

All he knew was that at some point he had the absolutely stunning freedom of punching his former friend in the jaw.

By the time the teachers waded through there was food all over the floor, Slytherins and Gryffindors blatantly brawling, first years screaming, Snape roaring to, "Cease this at once!" and blood everywhere. Harry was aware someone grabbed him by the collar of his dress robes at some point and dragged him out of the fight, and a flash of bloody white told him Draco had been yanked out, as well; by an entirely too powerful grip.

Harry didn’t have to look up at his Master to know he was in Big Trouble.

He was dragged all the way down to the dungeons, conscious to the fact that Draco was in Snape’s other hand because he was whimpering with each yank and pull. Harry kept his eyes trained on his boots as Snape muttered behind him, barely comprehensible, "Can’t believe this...two tyro’s should know better...bloody idiots..."

Definitely Big Trouble.

When they reached Snape’s office, he threw them both into the chairs in front of his desk, the door slamming behind them, and suddenly there he was. All fury, face dark with blood and anger, snarling so hard spittle was flying. "How dare you. You are Hogwarts Tyros and you just shamed not only yourself, but this school! You should be ashamed of your actions. You, Mr. Malfoy," Harry didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare, "You, as a Slytherin. I expected better than reactions to such taunts from Gryffindor! On your last night of school, no less!"

Crap. Harry felt those dark, furious eyes land on him, and beside him he felt more than saw Draco wince. "And you, Mr. Potter. Go to our rooms, at once."

Harry didn’t even hesitate. Hesitation would mean certain death, or worse–expulsion. So, he quickly rose to his feet and walked passed Snape to the door behind his desk that led to the entrance of Snape’s personal chambers. He brought the wards down and put them back up after he was in as he’d been taught, because, really, he didn’t need anymore of Snape’s wrath tonight other than what he knew what was coming to him.

So much for sex.

The thought brought a sharp pang to his heart that made it hitch painfully, but Harry ignored it as best as he could and sat on the couch in front of the roaring fire. It was much too warm outside for such things but in the dungeon it was always cold, so cold.

Harry sat, and waited. Fifteen minutes...twenty...a half hour passed, and still he sat. The blood on his face and hands crusted, and after the adrenaline push from the brawl, he was lethargic and sleepy and in a significant amount of pain.

He rose from the couch and walked to the kitchen, and as carefully as he could, washed the cuts on his knuckles and face. He was only bleeding a little from his eyebrow, and his cheekbone was tender to the touch, so it didn’t seem he was going to be too permanently damaged.

An hour passed, then, and Harry doubted Snape was coming back for a while. He was probably walking off his mad, as he liked to say. So, quietly as he could, Harry pulled the blanket from the back of the couch, not minding it was in Slytherin green and silver, and curled up underneath it.

He was asleep before he could shift even one more time.

- = - = -

His dreams were hazy. Like little birds, they fluttered in and out of his mind, giving him snapshots of what he should have been dreaming. Harry was dreaming terrifying horrors.

He was at the Department of Mysteries, looking into the veil that had taken Sirius from him. The black cloth was so thin that Harry knew for sure the breezes fluttering it were his own movements, his own wishes and hopes. He wanted, desperately, to see his godfather again, so Harry could tell him he was so unspeakably sorry, so painfully, inadequately sorry for all the horror he’d caused. Aware of the tears on his face, he nonetheless screamed at the veil to show his godfather, to come back, to bring his family back from where it had been swallowed whole.

Fingers reached out from the veil, and seconds before they grasped his shirt, Harry woke up with a scream. Something had covered his mouth, was suffocating him, stealing his breath away.

No. Someone was kissing him.

"Hush...shhh," Snape said, very softly, and kissed him again, and once more. Like cinnamon and licorice, earth and comfort, that mouth kissed him with tenderness and caring. Only when Snape’s thumbs stroked over his cheeks did Harry realize they were wet, and his heart was pounding a thousand miles a minute. "Calm down...calm down, Potter, breathe before you hyperventilate."

Harry did. Merlin. He swallowed breaths as hard as he could and struggled to calm a body that had broken out in fear-sweat. He felt nauseous for a moment and thought that the little dinner he’d eaten would come up. Dark, hooded, but not as angry as they’d been before, Snape’s face showcased a cacophony of emotions that Harry had not expected in the least. Snape was crouched before him, beside the couch, gentling his fingers over Harry’s. "I’m...I’m so sorry for the way I acted in the Great Hall. I apologize for embarrassing you, and for making you seem like a bad Master, and..and, I’m just sorry."

"Hush...Potter, stop whinging. It’s fine. I understand you were provoked, and though I’m not pleased with what you did, shaming the both of us as it were, I understand. I was a young man once."

Snape was being entirely too gentle with him, after the short bark of a command from before, and though Harry was wary of what punishments lay ahead, he scooted over on the couch anyway to make room for Snape, of who gladly took it. Harry glanced a little shyly at him and fidgeted with the blanket covering him, throat tight. "You’re not angry with me?"

"No. I could never stay angry with you for long. You know that by now."

"Dunno...sometimes you can scream for days," Harry said, just to make Snape laugh. It pleased him immensely when the man chuckled just like that, and he bit his lip tightly as he looked up at him. "I am sorry."

"I know you are," he tipped his head. "What were you dreaming?"

"Dreaming? Oh. Right. Nothing...just a nightmare. Something about pickles," Harry made a face to make his lie more believable and avoided Snape’s eyes altogether.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, quiet and restful with only the fires crackling to accompany them, before Harry worked up enough nerve. "Are you too angry to..."

"To?"

Oh, Harry knew that innocent look was on purpose. Damnit. He was going to have to say it. "To...you know."

"Mr. Potter, remember what I said about inane words for inane people?"

Who couldn’t help but love this man? Honestly. Harry grinned up at him, seeing the happiness and amusement in Snape’s face, and shifted a little. "You know. Um...make...love."

It was as if the heat had suddenly exploded between them. Snape was all but pushing waves of it off of his body, and Harry shuddered at the look in the man’s eyes that spoke of debauchery and excitement. "What do you think, Mr. Potter?"

"I think....you’ve been making lubrications and aphrodisiacs for the last month just to tease me." Harry grinned back at the little smirk Snape graced him with. All right. Here we go, Potter. He’d already spelled his robes clean, his face was as okay as it was going to be, so...Harry rose up, carefully, and with all the grace he’d learned from Snape himself, straddled his Master’s hips.

Underneath him, pressed against his inner thigh, he could already feel the heat and hardness of excitement. He rocked forward, situating himself, and got the distinct pleasure of Snape..no..Severus... closing his eyes to calm himself. Oh, he liked that.

It warranted another rock.

"Potter...you don’t want this to..end so soon, do you?" Severus asked quietly, as their lips began to gently meet. Severus was a fan of butterfly kisses, something he’d sworn pain of death if Harry ever told, and so with amusement and pleasure, Harry began to drop them on Snape’s skin, from his delicious jaw line, slightly raspy with stubble, down to a velveteen earlobe hidden behind silky hair. He breathed in the scent of it, cinnamon and mugwart, and bit on his treat before sliding down the long, aristocratic neck.

Snape’s own hands, gentle yet firm with experience, moved over Harry’s back and neck as if they were made to be there. The ribbon was pulled from his hair and Harry felt the slow, careful removal of the buttons up both sides of his dress robes. It was delicious, this was happening, and he couldn’t help grinning as he rose up to look into Severus’s face. It was quiet with pleasure, tinged with heat and flushed with arousal, something that Harry couldn’t help licking and following as the line of blush rose in his Masters cheeks. "You’re so beautiful, Severus."

There, that blush again that delighted him, and Harry laughed as he caught his Master’s mouth with his own. Cold air hit his exposed back, and gentle, warm fingers caressed his spine and shoulders with such precision that Harry felt his body relaxing. "If I am beautiful, Mr. Potter, than you are exquisite," Severus murmured, and gently pressed his mouth to the underside of Harry’s jaw as those fingers slipped under the material half exposed and caressed his backside.

Those fingers on his arse all but had Harry exploding in his robes. He keened in pleasure, arching his back into the feeling even as he crushed his crotch against Severus’s. Duel moans exploded in the room at the feeling, and, oh, dear Merlin, that was good!

"Do you like that?" Severus asked, low and throaty, in Harry’s ear.

Was that even a question? Harry humped forward as firmly as he could, squeezing his thighs around the delicious man under him. He had no idea what was waiting for him in terms of being filled, but he’d...he’d experimented.

And Severus, watching him, knew.

Harry watched as shock...amusement...pleasure, all crossed those features. "What did you use?"

"My wand," Harry croaked, and tucked close to his, Harry felt Severus’s cock twitch. "I w...was scared to do more."

"You used your wand....here?" a warm palm stroked down the crack of his arse.

"Y...yes. Inside."

If it was possible, Severus got even hotter at that. He moaned softly, shuddering under Harry as if the very idea was deeply pleasing. It was gorgeous to watch Severus become undone at the mere mention of it, and Harry, being Harry, leaned into Severus’s ear and whispered, "I was thinking about you. I wanted you inside me...I was desperate."

"Desperate? For me?" asked Severus, with his fingers stroking over Harry’s body, teasing and titillating where Harry wanted him most.

"Yes, I’m desperate, please," Harry keened softly, rotating his hips on his Master’s. "Please?"

"Don’t beg, Harry," Severus let go of his bum and instead carefully cupped his face, firmly between his hands. "You must never beg for what you want."

"Don’t beg. Check," Harry whispered, hips grinding down just to feel the drag of heat against heat. "I want, though. I want."

"I know. Why..don’t you get the lubrication? It’s on the shelf by the books," Severus caught his hips just as he was climbing to his feet. "Naked."

Naked? Okay. Definitely okay. Kind of disconcerting, but still, way okay. Harry rose to his feet quickly without falling, which was a definite plus at this point because all the blood was centered in his cock. The boots came off, socks following it, and with a shimmy and a few more buttons undone, the dress robes lay pooled at his feet and he stood in front of Severus, quietly naked.

Who obviously liked that quite a bit if the tent in his trousers was anything to say. "No underwear?"

"I got hopeful," Harry answered shyly. Without looking back at Snape, he walked over to the books...thousands of books, actually, in a chaotic mess, but he knew exactly where the potion was. He took it from the shelf, carefully making sure it was the correct one, and when he turned, Snape was standing, hand extended. Quietly, carefully, Harry walked over a few of the scrolls that had fallen at some point during the night and took Severus’s hand in his own, squeezing the fingers tightly and all but dancing in pleasure. Severus bent and picked up the dress robes carefully, as well as Harry’s wand, and together they made their way to the back rooms.

The bedroom was just as Harry had seen everyday for the past year when he passed it to the shower, but Snape knew it would be used for something else than sleeping tonight because it was covered in silky black sheets. Warm candles were lit, and there was a fragrance in the air like water lilies and earth, raw and potent. The scent of Severus. The nerves, the fear, bled out of Harry like water running dry, leaving him tingling with hope and pure, unfathomable, joy. He hadn’t found peace in so long, had lived devoid of all trust and strength for too long. It was profound in its way, to realize that happiness had been waiting for him all along, here in the arms of his most beloved enemy.

When their mouths met, Harry was sure he could taste Snape’s soul. Gentle, none of the need and want spurring it on this time. Just tender like the breeze, warm and soft, where pleasure could be celebrated and love admitted. Here in Snape’s arms, where he was safe, where he was adored, and where having that wasn’t something to be ashamed of or something to be feared.

They aroused one another as slowly as the mood called, gentle touches and careful strokes. Snape seemed afraid to remove his clothing but Harry didn’t mind...he understood that fear all too much. He carefully let the robes fall, the shirt and slacks underneath warm and beautiful, and kissed every inch of skin that was exposed to him, button by button. Such sharp, tiny little nipples...such a terrible scar, which trembled under Harry’s careful tongue. The candle light flickered off of the planes of Snape’s body like they had been made for this very night, like existence had led them to this bedroom, to this moment, to his very thing they were doing.

It was his hope, and trust, and love, and light that kept Harry going. Severus, here, moaning in the quiet candle light, was Harry’s purpose where nothing had been before. He had been born to live this moment with his lover, for that’s what Snape was now. Harry had been born to experience this joy.

Like dying fire, he watched it all fall to pieces as he was stretched out on the long, warm bed of black satin and silk. He lay as Severus instructed, stretched out and waiting, as Severus continued to unbutton his shirt with wand in hand. When his lover instructed it, Harry brought his knees up and kept them bent and wide for what Snape was going to do to him. However, as Harry watched Severus, something deep and dark in his gut clenched. Where there had been pleasure on that face there was now something darker, something deeper, that rang bells of alarm in Harry’s heart.

He was watching Snape’s eyes when he heard the laughter.

He turned his head, eyes slowly drifting to his left as if they didn’t want to see what they were about to be shown.

Draco. Blaise, Millicent, Crabbe . Laughing. Hundreds, thousands of them, watching him, were watching him. All of his year mates. All of them.

The walls were transparent, and the light of the Slytherin common room spilled into Snape’s bedroom like the walls were gone.

To his right, the sixth years were laughing so hard tears were running down there faces.

And Snape, standing above him, throwing the dress robes at him, laughing. "Ideological Gryffindor. Get out of here, Potter."

Leave.

The sound of laughter was sickly and painful. Snape, Snape, standing there by the bed buttoning his shirt back up and smirking at him like it was a particularly fine joke.

Vulnerable. So vulnerable. In years to come, Harry would have no recollection of how he got out of the room. He was only aware of the shaking in his hands, the coldness of his body, and the numbness of his mind. Blinded by pain, winded by agony unlike he’d ever felt, he stumbled into his clothes amidst their roars of laughter. His joy, his pleasure, nothing but a joke to people he’d come to consider his friends.

Fool, his mind hissed.

Manipulated again, like the mindless idiot he was.

If Harry didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that his heart left ribbons of blood on the stone floor of Snape’s chambers as he fled.

- = - = -

The house elves were the first to raise the alarm the next morning. Harry Potter’s things were exactly where they were supposed to be, his rooms like no one had touched them. The only thing that was missing was his trunk, and of course, Harry Potter himself. He wasn’t in the Great Hall; he wasn’t in the Gryffindor dormitory. He wasn’t in the dungeons or on the Quidditch Pitch. He wasn’t in the library or any of the bathrooms, nor was he in Dumbledore’s office or visiting Hagrid. He wasn’t at the graduation stage or visiting the Slytherins. He wasn’t in Hogsmeade, he wasn’t at the Burrow. It was as if he’d disappeared without a trace.

On the coffee table in rooms so beloved by the person who had once inhabited them, atop a simple note, were Harry’s silver glasses.

Fin

_____________

back to Harry Potter fanfic

back to main fanfic

back to main

send feedback