Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1648319.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape, Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger, Draco_Malfoy,
      Voldemort, Bellatrix_Black_Lestrange, Death_Eater(s), Albus_Dumbledore
  Additional Tags:
      Hogwarts_Era, Rape, Torture, Rimming, Anal_Sex, Hogwarts_Sixth_Year, Oral
      Sex, First_Time, Bottom_Snape
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-10-04 Completed: 2008-07-19 Chapters: 14/14 Words: 26084
****** Property of the Half-Blood Prince ******
by thesewarmstars
Summary
     During his sixth year, Harry becomes very attached to the previous
     owner of his Potions text, but what will happen when he finds out who
     it really is?
Notes
     Many of the events of book six still take place, though some have
     been altered and I've messed with the timeline a bit to suit my
     needs. No beta, all mistakes are my own.
***** First Day of Term *****
September 2, 1996: Harry
Harry lay on his bed in Gryffindor Tower thumbing through his newly acquired
potions text. He had never had what you would call good luck—life-threatening
situations aside, of course—but the spare book Slughorn had loaned him this
morning in class had him thanking his lucky stars.
The margins of nearly every single page were filled with various notes,
ramblings, tips, and explanations—it was almost like having his own private
Potions tutor. He might actually do well this term, provided Hermione didn’t
confiscate his book first.
Harry couldn’t see what the big deal was. Hermione said it was cheating, but it
was just the previous owner—‘This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood
Prince,’ it said inside the back cover, whoever that was—helping him out a bit.
Hermione helped him out all the time, and she obviously didn’t consider that
cheating. She was just riled because he’d done better than her for once.
He had only deciphered the first few pages of notes, but he was already
intrigued. The author of the scribblings had a singular way of putting
things—it was almost like poetry. It was certainly eloquent enough to make
Harry feel like an illiterate oaf.
For example, next to the sentence on page three that instructed ‘stir
anticlockwise,’ he had written, ‘move the stirring rod gently but firmly,
smooth, like a not-quite-light but tender caress, like you care about the
potion—you must care about it, you must treat it well.’
But, then again, he could also be rather blunt—on page two, he simply crossed
out ‘chop’ and wrote ‘dice’ instead.
Who was this person who called himself the Half-Blood Prince? Harry didn’t have
any particular feelings about Slughorn one way or the other yet, but this Half-
Blood Prince character was definitely a better teacher than Snape had ever
been.
Ron popped his head in the door. “Quidditch, mate. You said you’d talk to
everyone about when try-outs would be tonight. Come on, can’t be late if you’re
the captain,” he called then headed back down the spiral stairs.
Harry closed the book with something close to reluctance.
September 2, 1996: Snape
The first day of classes was finally over. Snape was not certain if he actually
missed teaching Potions, or if it was just the familiarity of it. Certainly in
times such as these, he would be much more effective trying to teach the
dunderheads DADA, especially considering that the series of incompetent
instructors they had been inflicted with the last several years had left them
woefully ignorant.
The Dark Lord would never be defeated with that lot on the loose, unless he was
able to pound a thing or two into their thick skulls before they graduated and
moved beyond all aid.
Despite his somewhat noble intentions, he was still glad to be done for the
day. There was only so much irritating adolescence he could handle in one day,
and now that supper in the Great Hall had been endured, he was free. He had not
even been required to assign any detentions for this evening.
It could not possibly bode well that he was welcoming the end of the first day
with such relief—he still had an entire term to get through. He decided it
would get better once he was used to it again, but he did not entirely believe
it. Perhaps it was because he had now gone over thirty-six hours without
brewing anything. He would have to rectify that tonight, because it certainly
was not helping.
Without really planning where he was going, he strode from the Great Hall out
onto the grounds. It was a perfect September evening, and he soon found himself
standing in one of this favorite spots by the Black Lake—the view was
breathtaking, it was close enough to the forest to deter the younger students
from wandering over but not so close he had to look over his shoulder every ten
seconds, and a willow tree (of the non-whomping variety) concealed his presence
from the casual observer. He could breathe here.
He did not know exactly how long he stood there, watching the ripples move
across the water when some unseen lake creature grazed the surface, feeling the
sun and its clear reflection on the water warm his skin, letting the crisp
evening breeze play though his hair and whip it across his face, allowing his
mind to wander without thinking about anything at all, but suddenly the air was
growing chill and the sun was sinking rapidly into the horizon.
It was time to go back to the castle. Back to his dungeons, dark and safe, to
recover from this uncharacteristic foray into the great outdoors and maybe
start this month’s Wolfsbane, or perhaps some Fever-Reducing Potion—hadn’t
Poppy mentioned she was getting low on that?
***** Torture Sessions *****
September 10, 1996: Snape
Snape stood in his customary place, his face covered by a too-familiar
grotesque mask. Every member of the group had taken a turn to kiss the dirty
hem of their master’s robe and recite, “My life to your service, my Lord”—some
with rather more enthusiasm than others—and they now stood silently, waiting
for their master to speak. The tension in the air was palpable.
Finally, he started talking. It was a speech with which Snape was intimately
familiar and he tried not to think about where it was inevitably leading.
The Dark Lord rambled on, as he was wont to do, about mudbloods and half-bloods
and blood traitors, and how wizarding blood was being diluted by filthy
muggles, and how they must put a stop to it by any means, and show the impure
ones how truly inferior they were. He was coming up on the end, now.
“Every one of us here is above the mudbloods and half-bloods just as surely as
we are above the cockroaches and muggles—almost all of us. All of us save one,
and we know who that is, do we not?”
Though he could not see them, Snape could sense the feral grins on the others’
faces, and they were all directed at him. He took a slow, deep breath and
forced himself to relax.
“Dear Severus,” the Dark Lord said, his voice dripping with poisonous honey,
“Would you step forward, half-wizard, so that we can remind you of your place?”
It may have been worded as a question, but it was a command. With as much
dignity as he could muster, Snape moved to the center of the circle and dropped
to his knees on the cold, unforgiving stone floor. The Dark Lord spelled his
clothing away and the cold began to seep into his bones, but he did not shiver.
He would not.
He retreated to a dark corner of his mind to ride out the next hour. He did not
think about the eager men lined up to rape him. He did not think about the hot,
panting breath in his ear when they leaned over him. He did not think about the
feeling of his insides being on fire as one by one they took him fast and hard.
It would all be there tomorrow, waiting for him, but for now he did not think
about it.
When the last man returned to his place in the circle, the Dark Lord took a
step toward Snape and said, “You are tainted.”
“I am tainted,” Snape dutifully repeated.
“You are shamed.”
“I am shamed.”
“You are unworthy.”
“I am unworthy.”
He sneered and commanded, “Stand up, dear Severus.”
Snape rose on trembling legs, but he did not stumble. This part was not the
worst, and he would be damned if he would let them see him fall.
So he stood perfectly still while they queued again to demonstrate their
opinion of his heritage and thirty-three new wounds joined the scars scattered
across the left half of his body—everywhere but his head or hand. Some used
daggers, some burned with a glowing-hot wand tip, some cast Stinging or Cutting
Hexes, and one (Bellatrix Lestrange) used her fingernails.
When they were finished, Snape stood watching the blood flow in rivulets down
his battered body to pool at his feet. It looked garishly bright in the dimly
lit room against the grey stone, but he could not look away—it told him he was
still alive. He reminded himself that this was supposedly a good thing.
His master asserted, “You are disgusting.”
“I am disgusting,” Snape confirmed in a monotone.
“You are ugly.”
“I am ugly.”
“You are broken.”
“I am broken.”
He gestured to someone, who flung Snape’s robes at his feet, right in the
puddle of his own blood, and spat, “Now get out of my sight!”
Snape bowed, said, “Yes, my Lord,” picked up his soiled robes, and
disapparated.
September 11, 1996: Harry
Snape was driving Harry crazy. He seemed even more out of temper than usual
today, if that was even possible. He had actually given Harry detention earlier
because Slughorn told him Harry did well on the first Potions exam—for
cheating, he had said. Cheating!
So now he was forced to spend his evening in the dungeons doing Merlin knows
what, and all because the Prince was a better teacher than that mean old git
and Harry finally got a good mark.
“Harry, you’d better get going. You don’t want to be late—it’ll only make
things worse,” Hermione counseled.
Harry sighed. She was perfectly right, of course. “Okay, okay, I’m going,” he
said and gathered up the homework he had not really been doing.
He turned to Ron. “If I’m not back in three or four hours, don’t bother sending
out a search—I’ll probably be dead already. Oh, and take my stuff when you go
upstairs, would you mate?”
Ron nodded, but Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry. He isn’t going to
chop you up and use you for potion ingredients.”
“You never know,” Harry said and headed for the portrait hole. Ron’s eyes were
huge.
Just before the Fat Lady’s portrait swung closed behind him, he head Hermione
say, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, Ronald. You know as well as I do that using human
body parts in potions without the person’s consent is illegal. Professor Snape
wouldn’t do it just because he dislikes him a little.” Harry was not so sure.
When he reached Snape’s office deep in the maze of the dungeons, he stood
outside the closed door shifting his weight from foot to foot. He really did
not want to go in there. Unfortunately, he only had about ten seconds before he
would be late, so he reluctantly knocked. There was no answer. He knocked
again, louder this time.
“Enter,” said a muffled voice.
Harry did so, and stood just inside the closed door waiting for instructions.
He was expecting a scathing remark at the least—perhaps “Cutting it awfully
close, aren’t we Mr. Potter? Perhaps I shall double your detention for
laziness.”—but Snape did not speak.
He just sat at his desk, staring down. Harry wanted to read his face to find
out how much trouble he was in, and though he knew it would be useless, he
couldn’t help looking anyway.
What he saw was a very tired-looking Snape. His skin was pale, even for him,
and drawn. His eyes were bloodshot and seemed empty without the customary
glimmer of loathing. Harry shifted his gaze to the desk, hoping to discover
what was holding the Potion Master’s attention, but it was bare.
Snape seemed completely out of sorts—for him, anyway—and before he could stop
himself, Harry was almost feeling sorry for him and wondering what might be
bothering him. He quickly put a stop to that train of thought. Since when did
he worry about that foul bat? Best just to ignore it.
“Professor?”
Snape whipped his head up, almost as if he was startled by Harry’s presence in
his office. Had Snape really forgotten he was there?
“Have a seat, Mr. Potter,” he said with a noticeable lack of venom and pinched
the bridge of his nose. “I do not know how you managed to pass your recent
Potions exam, but I know very well that it was not on your own merits.”
He said it so indifferently that Harry did not even bother to protest. Snape
indicated a book on the corner of his desk and instructed, “You shall read that
in its entirety. You are not dismissed until you have finished it.”
With that, he stood and went through a door Harry had not noticed before, his
stride somewhat less graceful and intimidating than usual, and closed it behind
him.
That was odd—usually he stayed during Harry’s detentions, the better to glare
at him and make disparaging comments. Not that he was complaining, of course.
He told himself that Snape probably just had another student to torture
tonight.
He snatched the book he was supposed to be reading from the desk. Honesty in
Potion Brewing. At least he didn’t have to scrub cauldrons.
***** Lost *****
September 18, 1996: Harry
Harry lay in bed with the curtains closed staring up at the ceiling. It had to
be pretty late, but his mind was reeling and he was fairly certain he would not
be getting any sleep tonight.
He, Hermione, and Ron had spent a good portion of the evening arguing about the
hypothetical gender of the Half-Blood Prince. Harry had joined Ron to champion
the Prince’s masculinity—ostensibly because of the self-styled honorific, but
he knew that was not his real reason.
He would never say it out loud, even to Ron or Hermione, but he was having
quite the internal struggle over the implications of their conversation for his
attitude toward—he dare not think ‘feelings for’—the Half-Blood Prince. Before
he’d thought to question the Prince’s sex, he had grown attached to this
unknown man whose suggestions, speculations and private thoughts he had been
perusing for the last two weeks. He might even have called him a friend, as
strange as it seemed. But now the possibility that he might be a girl, however
much Harry did not believe it, had taken up residence in his head and refused
to be dislodged.
The margin note he’d deciphered earlier that day (during Charms, if he was
being totally honest) on the last page that detailed the brewing of Amortentia
read, ‘A potion to create the feeling of love—could anything be more
contradictory? No potion can create even a rough facsimile of love, for love
must come from within. Love is the conviction that one’s life, one’s very
existence, is not complete without the object of that love. Love is the
certainty that you would do anything—scale the highest height, sink to the
lowest low, die, kill—if your love asked it of you or you even suspected it
would increase your love’s happiness. Love is knowing beyond doubt, even if it
is not the least bit true, that your love is the most beautiful person who has
ever lived. Your love is your sun, to light your world and warm your skin. You
love is your rain, to nourish you and quench your thirst. Your love is your
air, to fill you up and sustain your very life. Love is unpredictable, love is
painful, love is gorgeous, love is all-consuming, love is elegant, love is
wild. Potions are amazing things, but none can create love.’
This passage, like several before it, left Harry with a tightness in his chest
and a twisting sensation in his gut. He felt drawn to the author of those
words. He tried to imagine what else he would have felt if he’d thought of that
person as female when he read it, and he found—to his horror—that it was
dangerously close to ‘falling for her’.
And that was just ridiculous! For Merlin’s sake, he’d never even met the person
or seen a picture. He didn’t even know if the author was still alive. You
couldn’t fall in love with someone just by reading a few of their teenage
writings, could you? No, of course not. And besides, the Prince was not a girl,
of that he was absolutely certain.
So where did that leave him?
September 29, 1996: Harry
Harry had been sitting out by the lake idling wondering what awful thing might
have happened to the headmaster’s hand and fruitlessly searching for Draco
Malfoy on the Marauder’s Map—he was up to something, Harry just knew it—but he
was having no luck and it would be dark soon, so he decided it was time to go
in.
The scene that greeted him when he stepped through the portrait hole into the
Gryffindor common room made him wish he’d stayed out just a little longer. The
room was deserted, except for his two best friends, who were practically
wrapped around each other on the couch in front of the fireplace snogging.
Harry left before they noticed him, though he was fairly sure he could have
stood there for an hour, maybe even done a little dance, and the couple would
not have been distracted.
It wasn’t that he didn’t approve—he did, heartily. He had just hoped it might
take them a little longer to realize all their heated fights were masking the
fact that they were madly in love.
He was sure his two best friends would be happier now, but he was not so sure
about himself. From his admittedly rough understanding of young couples in
love, they would most likely retreat into their own little world and completely
ignore him.
And he was not above admitting a little jealousy. Not that he was interested in
Hermione that way, not at all. But they had each other now, and who did Harry
have? He knew he couldn’t start dating—it would be far too dangerous for anyone
he showed an interest in. Voldemort would probably think Christmas had come
early. No, all he had was the disembodied writings of a person who existed
almost entirely in his mind, and the chances of that developing into the kind
of relationship he was craving—let’s face it—were practically in negative
numbers.
But Harry was not about to stand in his friends’ way. The least he could do was
let them finish their snogging in peace, so he resolved to wander the corridors
for at least half an hour so they could have some privacy.
He walked along without paying the slightest bit of attention to where he was
going. Somewhere in the first floor east corridor, he took a turn he’d never
taken before and looked up some time later to discover that he was thoroughly
lost. He pulled out the map to see if he could locate the dot labeled ‘Harry
Potter’ and figure out where he was, but it seemed the marauders had failed to
include this particular section of the castle on their map.
The walls were uncharacteristically bare, save one huge portrait containing the
biggest snake Harry had ever seen, the basilisk notwithstanding.
“Hello there. What’s your name?” Harry asked in parseltongue.
“Greetings, young speaker. I am called Roscoff.”
“Hi, Roscoff. My name’s Harry. Could you possibly tell me where I am? I’ve
gotten myself rather lost.”
“You stand before the entrance to Lady Poppingham’s Tunnel. As a speaker, if
you wish to gain entrance, you need only ask,” was the snake’s answer, and it
was not the sort of answer Harry had been expecting. A secret tunnel? This was
too good.
He was sorely tempted to explore it immediately, but he had no idea where it
lead or if its guardian was trustworthy, so he decided to some back later with
his invisibility cloak and give it a proper go.
“Er, what I mean to say is can you tell me the way back to Gryffindor Tower?”
Once he had directions, he made sure to pay careful attention to each turn so
he could find his way back to the tunnel.
***** Frustrations *****
October 1, 1996: Snape
Snape stopped himself from groaning when Malfoy slammed the door behind him.
The entire meeting had been an unmitigated disaster. He pinched the bridge of
his nose between his thumb and forefinger and slowly exhaled, quelling the urge
to blast his office to bits.
Why couldn’t the arrogant little brat just listen to him for once? Or, barring
that, at least talk. Here Snape was, saddled with an Unbreakable Vow to help
the boy under pain of death, and the wretched whelp refused to reveal even an
inkling of his plan to complete the task. After the incident in Hogsmeade with
the ill-conceived locket plan, Malfoy’s assurances that he had the situation
well in hand did nothing to reassure Snape.
He had been charged with discovering the boy’s plan, ‘helping’ him with it
enough that the Vow did not try to kill him, and ultimately thwarting it. As it
was, he could not say he was entirely displeased to remain in the dark. After
all, once he had deflected Malfoy from his task…
No. He was not going to think about that. Dwelling on it would not change a
thing, and he was already trembling from having come this close.
Instead, he forced himself to focus on other things, like the anger boiling
just below the surface. Anger at the headmaster for asking such things of him,
at the Dark Lord for his mere existence, at his Death Eaters for doing his
bidding so gleefully, but mostly at himself.
He slammed his fist down on the desk. He hated this! He hated feeling so
helpless. He hated Lucius Malfoy for never really giving his son the chance to
turn out well. He hated that Albus put so much trust in him, trust unlike
anything he had ever been given, far beyond what he deserved. He hated the
foot-high stack of essays sitting on his desk, waiting to be marked. He hated
this office, with its dark, scratched up desk and shadowy corners and constant
parade of snot-nosed students at the door, demanding his attention. Hell, at
the moment, he hated everything.
He needed to get out, desperately, if only for a couple of hours. Perhaps this
weekend.
 
October 5, 1996: Harry
It was Saturday before Harry had a chance to satisfy his curiosity. He bided
his time, not quite patiently, and finally, at about eight o’clock Saturday
evening, Hermione asked Ron to join her for some studying in the library. She
did not even attempt to get Harry to come along.
Studying. Library. Uh-huh.
At the time, he had been busy with the margin of his Potions book, trying to
figure out the meaning of a phrase he did not recognize. The note read, ‘Though
I know I have brought this upon myself, I am uncertain what has been done to
me—Sahashee thessah sheethee?’ Next to the sentence, which was penned with
uncharacteristic shakiness, was what Harry really hoped was not a few drops of
the Prince’s blood. But he knew it was, and the idea of someone doing something
to hurt his Prince made his stomach churn.
So, even if he had been invited, Harry probably would have begged off anyway.
As it was, he jumped at the opportunity.
As soon as they were gone, he grabbed his invisibility cloak and dashed off to
the snake portrait, following the directions he had been constantly reciting to
himself the last several days.
“Hi, Roscoff,” he called when he arrived, still short of breath from his hasty
trip.
“Hello, young Harry,” the portrait answered.
Harry was suddenly nervous. The snake had said all he had to do was ask for
entrance and it would be granted, but could it really be that easy? It was at
least worth a shot, he figured.
“Er, I was wondering—could I please enter the tunnel?”
“You may, speaker.” The portrait immediately swung forward to reveal a dark,
musty-smelling, stone tunnel. He cast Lumos and stepped inside.
The tunnel was narrow and twisted, but at least the floor was even and he only
stumbled a couple of times. He tried to keep track of what direction he was
going—wasn’t there a spell for that? He could not for his life call the
incantation to mind—but found it much more difficult than he expected. By the
time he came to the low wooden door at the other end, he did not have a clue as
to where he might be. He hesitated for a moment, but there was nothing for it
but to open the door and find out. After all, he was safely covered by his
cloak.
Even so, he was careful to open and close the door very slowly and quietly—he
congratulated himself on remembering to cast Muffliato, a gift from the Prince,
to cover the creak of the long-unused hinges.
The first thing he noticed was the fresh air around him—he was outside. A
careful but quick inspection of his surroundings told him he stood in an alley
between two commercial streets in Hogsmeade. It was lined on both sides by the
backs of businesses, and the wooden door itself blended into the rear wall of
the Hog’s Head.
And then he heard it—a low moaning, coming from the other side of the alley
about twenty feet to Harry’s right. He crept closer, and in the dim light he
could make out two figures against the wall. It seemed that one had the other
pinned with his (at least Harry thought it was a man; they both looked man-
shaped) face pressed into the wall. Were they fighting?
Harry heard the moaning again. It seemed to be coming from the man who was
pinned, and it was definitely not because he was in pain. The exchange that
followed confirmed Harry’s growing suspicion.
The one not against the wall leaned down to the other man, who was slightly
shorter, and asked in a husky voice, “Do you want it rough?” Harry almost
thought he recognized the voice, but it had a quality to it he had never heard
in it before and he couldn’t place it.
His companion moaned again before answering, “Oh, Merlin yes.”
The taller man guided the other’s chin around until they had eye contact. “Tell
me if I go too far,” he said seriously.
The smaller man nodded mutely and the atmosphere suddenly changed. Their
movements became frantic and their breathing grew ragged and loud. The man
against the wall’s trousers dropped to the ground around his ankles.
If it hadn’t occurred to him before now, Harry knew it was time for him to look
away, but he could not make his eyes comply with his conscience—he was
transfixed.
He had heard that sex between two men could be a painful affair, but that with
proper preparation and restraint it would not be so bad, so he was shocked to
see the taller man enter the other without any preamble at all. His companion
cried out incoherently and Harry winced in sympathy, but he pounded into the
man with merciless, angry abandon. It was almost as if he was punishing
someone, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was his partner or himself.
Both men were making, in Harry’s opinion, the most amazing noises and while
he’d never considered himself gay, they were having some interesting effects in
his groin region. Harry wondered it anyone would ever make sounds like that for
him.
A few grunts later, the pair stilled and slumped against the wall. When they
had their breath back, they silently adjusted their clothing and the taller man
gave his companion a curt nod by way of a parting salutation, then turned and
started walking toward Harry.
Just as he passed, Harry caught a clear glimpse of his face and gasped. The man
whirled to face him, searching the area with narrowed eyes, but apparently he
did not find anything suspicious and, to Harry’s profound relief, continued out
of the alley.
Harry’s mind was reeling. He stumbled back into the tunnel and somehow managed
to close the door behind him and get his wand tip lit, but he was barely
coherent.
Snape? It had been Snape that whole time? He had gotten hard watching Snape
have sex? No wonder he had been so rough and inconsiderate—it would be just
like Snape not to care one jot about his partner. But Harry could not forget
that he had stopped to ask what the other man wanted and asked him to say
something if he went too far. That was considerate, something Harry would never
have expected from Snape.
Something must be very wrong here. He had to have seen wrong. But there was no
mistaking the lank, coal-coloured hair, the sallow skin, the slightly hooked
nose, the not-quite-black eyes that glimmered and seemed almost bottomless,
that presence. It could have been no one else.
When he made his way back to the dorm, he found it was not as late as he had
feared—Ron and Hermione were not even back from ‘studying’ yet. It was earlier
than he would normally go to sleep on a Saturday, but his head was still
spinning so he crawled under the covers and drew the curtains anyway. It wasn’t
like he’d be able to do anything else now.
It was at that point he discovered his half-hard-on from the alley had
developed into a full blown, almost painful, erection while he wasn’t paying
attention. He spotted the Prince’s book at the end of his bed and his cock gave
a hopeful twitch. He decided to use the obvious method of getting his mind off
of Snape and what he sounded like when he came, and wrapped his right hand
about his erection. He began to pump, drew his Potions book close with his free
hand, and inhaled deeply, pretending that the Prince’s scent still lingered.
He had never done this before—wanked while thinking about the Prince—but his
infatuation had been growing steadily stronger and he was in no shape to deny
it at the moment.
He conjured up a shadowy silhouette in his mind that responded to his touches
with delicate, pleading noises. As he got closer, his focus on his already
vague fantasy lover faded somewhat, but at the moment of his release, the face
came into sharper focus and he could see pale skin, black shoulder-length hair,
and deep, dark eyes.
***** Sectumsempra *****
October 22, 1996: Harry
Harry was absolutely mortified, for more reasons than one.
First off, he had somehow, accidentally-on-purpose, almost killed Malfoy. And,
while he might have indulged in the thought of doing so with something like
glee at times, he had never been serious. He honestly didn’t want to hurt him,
even if he was a ‘foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach,’ as Hermione had so
eloquently put it once, and even if he was hatching some nefarious plan, which
he definitely was, in Harry’s opinion.
Harry could not stop staring at his wand hand. What had he done? No, he knew
exactly what he had done, and it made his stomach turn. He seriously hoped he
was not about to be sick.
Also, he was quite confused about the Prince. Harry had trusted him implicitly.
What was a spell like Sectumsempra even doing in his beloved book? He really
did believe the things he’d said to Hermione, though. The Prince had only
written it down, not said, ‘This spell is swell, I use it every day.’ Harry
wanted to know if the Prince had invented the spell himself. He had a feeling
that he had.
A small part of him felt almost betrayed and was worried that this man he
thought he knew so well was capable of such a thing, but mostly he wondered
what desperation, what threat, had given the Prince such a fierce desire to
ward off enemies. What was he afraid of? Did it have anything to do with
whatever had been done to him, with the odd phrase that neither of them seemed
to know the meaning of?
On top of all this, Snape now knew about the Prince. Harry knew he knew
something by the Death Glare he’d been given after Snape had rifled through his
memories, but he wasn’t sure just how much he knew. He had been so frantic when
Snape was performing Legilimency on him earlier that he hadn’t even noticed
which memories Snape had found to answer his question. Harry wasn’t sure if he
was grateful for that or not.
He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Somehow, he had to get his book
back from the Room of Requirement. He still had over a quarter of a book’s
worth of margin notes to go through. And, even though it had only been a matter
of hours, he missed his Prince terribly. He needed him now.
October 22, 1996: Snape
Snape sat stiffly in his customary chair staring into the red-orange flames as
they flickered, a half-empty tumbler of scotch clutched tightly in his hand.
What had he done?
He knew what happened earlier was his fault. Obviously, he was failing Malfoy
in every way possible. If only he had been able to so something, anything, to
help the boy. But deep down, he knew the only way to help was to murder the
only person who had ever trusted him, his only friend.
He drained his glass and refilled it.
And the spell! Why had he even written the blasted thing down? Of all his foul
inventions over the years, curses and potions alike, this had been the first to
fall into the wrong hands. Well, the first that he had not delivered directly
into the wrong hands himself. But this was different. There were innocent
hands—Harry’s hands. Snape was not daft enough to think of him as a child, he
was anything but a child, but he had a purity of heart that made Snape ache to
remember the horrified look on Potter’s face when he realized what he had done.
Which led him back to the book, Potter and the book. He kept seeing the memory
he had wrenched from the young man’s mind run over and over again through his
head.
Potter lay on his bed in the dormitory flipping through his Potions text. He
stopped when a scribble caught his eye and Snape peered around to see what had
piqued his interest. Harry was rapt as Snape read over his shoulder on the page
for a sense-heightening potion called Auctusentio. He could remember writing
the words, but only vaguely.
‘Brewed this for the first time—based on the effects described above, it was a
spectacular success. I write this under the willow by the lake, and I can
actually see the merpeople flitting about deep underwater. I can also see
swirls of light and colours eddying through the air all around me—what is that?
I hear every conversation taking place on the grounds, and one that seems to be
coming from the top of the Astronomy Tower, but it is surprisingly not
overwhelming. I also hear the animals in the forest and the bugs in the grass
and the hum of magic from the castle and, I swear to Merlin, there’s music like
nothing I’ve ever heard before, like something from a dream, and it’s not
coming from anywhere, it’s coming from everywhere. The feel of the willow bark
against my back, the robes on my skin, the quill in my hand, makes me wonder
what would happen if I touched myself right now…’
Potter gasped and closed his eyes, the book falling from his fingers. He
hastily picked it back up and buried his nose in it, inhaling deeply, before he
settled it back into the bedsheets. He moaned and loosened his trousers,
slipping a hand inside. “Yes, my Prince,” he breathed, “let me touch you…”
At that point, Snape suddenly realized just what he was watching and felt like
a voyeur—which, by any definition of the word, he was—so he hastily retreated
from the young man’s mind. He searched Potter’s face for awareness of what had
just happened, and while he seemed terrified, Snape did not see the
embarrassment he’d expected. He took a split second to be grateful for that at
least, and started barking orders. It had worked for a while, but after all the
commotion had died down, he could not get the look on the young man’s face or
the sound of his voice when he moaned, “Yes, my Prince,” with his hand around
his cock out of his mind. My Prince, he’d said, and it sent an unexpected
shiver down Snape’s spine.
He expected to feel some satisfaction at the thought of Potter’s reaction if he
knew exactly who he had been fantasizing about and tried to school his face
into the familiar sneer, but he only felt a dull ache somewhere in his chest
when he considered the look of horror on Potter’s face that should have been
hilarious.
Snape downed another glass—he had lost count sometime ago; ‘too many, not
enough’ was the best approximation he could make—and lowered his head, pinching
the bridge of his nose. This simply could not be happening.
***** Ancient Runes *****
November 23, 1996: Harry
On the way to Hogsmeade, Harry couldn’t help noticing Ron and Hermione walking
very close together, like they wanted to hold hands or something but were
restraining themselves. He considered putting them out of their misery and
telling them he already knew they were going out, but it was too much fun to
see them squirm.
Harry ignored their furtive glances at each other and watched the snow fall. It
was a very light snow, and it drifted to the ground like it was made of pure
cloud. The walk was slow and leisurely just like the snow, and the lovebirds
didn’t notice his distraction.
It was the last Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas and therefore their last
chance to buy presents for one another, so they agreed to split up and meet
back at the Three Broomsticks at two. Harry had already figured out what he
wanted to get them—a broom servicing kit for Ron and a study journal for
Hermione; he considered getting something for Ginny, but figured it was best
not to encourage her—so he finished quickly with about an hour to spare.
He didn’t want to accidentally run into Ron or Hermione and spoil any
surprises, so he just wandered around, trying not to think. Unfortunately, his
mind did not seem to want to cooperate and it had stopped snowing, so he didn’t
even have that to distract him.
He was worried about the Quidditch team, especially Ron. He did all right at
the last match, but Harry wouldn’t be able to fool him into thinking he’d taken
a good luck potion again. Harry would just have to hope it gave him a lasting
confidence boost.
He was worried about Malfoy and whatever it was he was planning. He knew in his
gut that he’d had something to do with cursing Katie, but what he couldn’t
figure out was why.
He was also worried about his book. He’d finally been able to retrieve it from
the Room of Requirement, and he lived in constant fear that Snape was going to
randomly stop him for a search and take it away.
Speaking of Snape, at least he didn’t have detention anymore. Ever since he’d
almost killed Malfoy, he’d had detention with Snape every weeknight, but
yesterday was the last one and he was free. He’d spent the month repairing
damage to the DADA classroom caused by stray hexes—with no magic. It had not
been exactly fun, but he supposed it was better than harvesting frog livers.
But even though his detentions were over, he still had something to worry
about. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he was definitely worried. At
his last detention, Snape was sitting at his desk marking as usual, and Harry
was finishing up filling in various holes in the walls with plaster. He
smoothed the surface of the last one, and gratefully went to return the trowel
and bucket of plaster to Snape.
“Finished, Mr. Potter? You had better be certain you have fixed everything,
because if I find another hole in the wall, I know exactly whom to call upon to
repair it,” Snape threatened, reaching out to take the trowel from Harry’s
outstretched hand. He stopped short and cocked his head to the side.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching for Harry’s left hand.
Harry quickly pulled it back. “Nothing, sir.”
Snape glared at him until he held his arm out again. ‘Please don’t say
anything, please don’t say anything,’ Harry silently pleaded. He really didn’t
fancy getting yelled at for something Umbridge had done.
Snape opened his mouth to speak, but before anything came out he brushed his
thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. They both pulled back as if they had been
burned. Snape narrowed his eyes.
“Did…did you…wh – what was…?” Harry babbled, and Snape cut him off.
“Did you feel that?” he asked.
Harry gulped and nodded, cradling his hand. He had felt it, and it was unlike
anything he had ever felt before. The closest comparison he could think of was
being shocked by static electricity, but this was something different. The
spark he felt was magic, not electricity, and he was pretty sure that what he’d
felt had been inside of him, rather than something being transferred from
Snape’s hand to his or vice versa like a shock would have been. He tried to
remember if this had ever happened when he and Snape had touched before, but he
was pretty sure this was the first skin-to-skin contact they had ever had.
What in Merlin’s name had just happened? Snape seemed just as confused as he
was, and that was downright frightening.
They stared at each other for a long moment before Snape ordered, “Out, Potter.
And stop trying to kill your classmates. I realize it runs in the family, but
it is rather a nasty habit.”
So yes, Harry was worried. But it had been almost a whole day, and nothing
awful seemed to have come of it. At least not yet. So maybe he was getting
worked up over nothing. He forced his mind away from the subject, determined to
think of more pleasant things.
Was there anyone else he needed to buy for? He could think of one person he
would certainly like to get a gift for, but even if he did, it wasn’t like he’d
be able to give it to him. Even so, he decided it might be fun to pretend he
was shopping for the Prince, just to kill some time.
He bypassed the Quidditch shop, Zonko’s, Honeydukes, and Gladrags because he
knew the Prince wouldn’t want anything there, and the bookstore as well
because, really, where else would Hermione be? The next store he came to was
Chambert and Chapel’s Classic Wizarding Jewelry Shoppe. He felt kind of girly
going in, but he should check every possibility, right?
He stepped inside tentatively, and tried to ascertain if the witches and
wizards sections were separate. He really didn’t need to embarrass himself by
looking at girl stuff. After standing just inside the door for a few moments,
the shopkeeper came over.
He obviously recognized Harry, but didn’t say anything about it. Harry had
found that this tended to be the case in rather upscale shops that were used to
being frequented by famous people and knew fawning would get them nowhere.
“Are you looking for anything in particular sir? I should point out that the
witches’ section is to your left, the wizards’ to your right, and the back wall
is mostly unisex items,” he explained.
“Er, I’ll just browse a bit, I think,” Harry answered.
“Please, take your time. Let me know if you have any questions,” the shopkeeper
said and returned to his post behind the counter.
Harry wandered over to the right side of the store and started searching. He
found that most of the wizards’ jewelry was heavy and bulky looking, and most
of the unisex stuff was very shiny and plain. One display, however, caught his
eye.
The display held various necklaces, each with the same chain—was that
platinum?—but with different pendants. The pendants were carved out of
different kinds of stone and were very interesting looking, but Harry didn’t
know what the shapes meant. A sign on the top of the display read, ‘Appropriate
charms included.’ Curious.
“Um, excuse me sir?” Harry called.
The shopkeeper was at his side in an instant. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
“Can you tell me what the different pendants mean? I don’t recognize them.”
“Ah, yes of course. This is an intriguing collection. This one,” he pointed to
the necklace at the far left, which was carved out of jade, “is the rune of the
Herbology Master. There are charms on it for growth and nurturing, and a
special Devil’s Snare repellant.”
“Next is the Quidditch player’s pendant. It’s the rune for broomstick, and
includes a very powerful bludger-cushioning charm. The blue lapis here is the
auror’s rune, with—”
“Excuse me, but is one of these for the Potions Master?” Harry interrupted.
The shopkeeper smiled. “Indeed, it’s right here.” He pointed to a swirly-
looking pendant carved from black onyx. It reminded Harry of steam spiraling
above a cauldron, or of the eddying patterns some potions make when stirred
just right. It was mesmerizing. It was perfect.
“What charms does it have?” he asked, trying ineffectually to mask his
excitement.
“There’s one that protects the wearer from cauldron explosions and one that
stops the fumes from absorbing into the skin and hair to keep it from getting
oily.”
“Could I add other charms to it if I wanted?” Harry asked, feigning
nonchalance.
The shopkeeper’s eyes widened a bit. “Well, anyone with the proper ability, of
course, could add an extra charm. They’re rather difficult, I’m afraid. That’s
why these are so expensive.”
Oh right. Harry had completely forgotten about that. “How much?”
“Fifty-two galleons, fourteen sickles.”
Holy Merlin, expensive was right. Harry took a deep breath. “Take a bank
draft?”
The shopkeeper was positively grinning. “Of course, right this way.” He took
the necklace from its place and led Harry to the counter.
“Er, do you have a box? It’s to be a gift.”
“Absolutely.”
In no time at all, Harry had filled out the draft and was back on the sidewalk
with a green velvet-covered box in his pocket.
It wasn’t until he was halfway to the Three Broomsticks that he remembered he
wouldn’t actually be able to give his carefully-chosen, absolutely perfect gift
to the Prince. What had he been thinking? Obviously not much. The Prince tended
to do that to him, make it difficult for him to think rationally. And now he
had a fifty-galleon necklace and no one to give it to.
He felt like a prize idiot.
December 6, 1996: Harry
“Mr. Potter, stay behind.”
Harry sighed and dropped back into his chair. What had he done this time? He
shrugged at Ron and Hermione when they shot him questioning looks.
Once everyone was out of the room, Snape waved the door closed and instructed,
“Come here, Mr. Potter.”
Harry approached the desk with a mixture of defiance and apprehension. He
hadn’t done anything wrong. Had he? He searched Snape’s face to see if he was
about to be berated for something, and was alarmed to find him looking…what was
that, nervous? He didn’t think he’d ever seen Snape look nervous in his life.
In fact, he seemed to stick pretty much to irritated, irate, and fed up.
“Mr. Potter, if you do not mind…what I mean to say is that I would like to…oh
sod it. I just want to double-check something.” Before Harry could react, he
reached out and laid his hand on top of Harry’s where it was perched on the
edge of the desk.
Harry’s instinct was to snatch his hand away, but that weird magical tingling
thing was back and he wanted to see what would happen.
As it turned out, nothing much. After a few seconds the tingling subsided to a
low hum, and by the time Snape broke contact it was almost not noticeable. What
in the name of the founders was going on here? Harry stayed where he was,
waiting for an explanation.
But all Snape said was, “As I suspected. Good day, Mr. Potter,” then started
shuffling papers around on his desk.
Well, he supposed he should have known better than to have Snape ever actually
explain anything to him.
After lunch he, Ron, and Hermione all had a free period. But the lovebirds ran
off to the ‘library’ to ‘study’, so Harry went up to the dorm alone. He wasn’t
too upset about it though, because he wanted to try the charm he’d found one
more time.
It would be perfect if he could get it to work—it was supposed to act as a
shield to repel minor curses and lessen the severity of major ones. The only
problem was that he couldn’t get it to stick. He’d tried it every day for the
last four days, but every time the spell just fell apart before it was quite
finished. It was like he just wasn’t quite powerful enough to complete it.
Maybe this was what the shopkeeper meant when he said they were difficult.
But he wasn’t about to give up, not yet. He took out his wand and spoke the
incantation one more time. When it got to the part where things normally
started going pear-shaped, he was amazed to feel the spell holding on. After a
few seconds, the rune glowed bright white, then slowly faded back to normal.
Holy hippogriffs, did that mean it worked?
***** Surprise! *****
December 25, 1996: Harry
Harry woke up Christmas morning keenly aware that he was alone. It would not do
to be feeling sorry for himself on a day he was supposed to be so happy. He
shed the feeling with a shrug, like it was a cloak around his shoulders. So
Hermione had gone home to see her parents and Ron was at the Burrow surrounded
by multitudes of Weasleys. So Harry hadn’t been allowed to go because of
security concerns. So what?
He turned to the small mound of presents piled on the floor at the foot of his
bed. If there was anything that made him feel like he had people who cared
about him, it was actually getting gifts at Christmas.
He quickly identified the traditional Weasley jumper—navy blue this year—and
put it on over his pajamas. There was also something explosive from the twins,
something inedible from Hagrid, something that looked suspiciously like a
bracelet from Ginny (he would never understand girls, never), a t-shirt that
said ‘The Snitch is my Bitch’ from Ron (that was somewhat unexpected, but
cool), and (wonder of wonders) a book from Hermione.
The book was clearly ancient, and he couldn’t quite make out the title. He
gingerly opened the front cover and a note from Hermione fell out.
Happy Christmas, Harry!
I was so excited when I found this book, and of course I immediately thought of
you. It’s actually written in parseltongue, if you can believe it! The
shopkeeper told me the title was Spells and Such in the Language of Snakes, but
I’m not sure if I quite believe him. This book has to be worth a fortune, and
he obviously had no idea. He seemed happy just to be rid of it, in fact. His
shop is the type that generally only attracts customers who won’t buy what they
can’t read, no matter the historical significance.
I miss you terribly and I feel so awful that you have to stay there all by
yourself for the whole break. Practicing Quidditch is all good and well, but do
please use at least some of your time to keep up with your studies.
See you soon!
Hermione
A book written in parseltongue? He never even knew the language could be
written down. This was possibly the most awesome gift ever, assuming he could
actually read it.
He flipped to what he assumed was the table of contents—it was shaped right for
it, anyway—and stared at the writing on the page. Unfortunately, it all just
looked liked a bunch of squiggles, and they were starting to swim. He was just
about to close his eyes to keep from getting sick, when he thought he
recognized something.
Some of the squiggles at the top of the page had shifted, and now formed the
English phrase ‘Contained Herein’. So it was the table of contents, after all.
He slowly moved down the page, and eventually made out the names of all the
major sections, including Hexes for Hissers, Potions for Parselmouths, Dark
Spells for Devious Serpents, and Charms for the Charmed.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this is definitely the coolest,’ and settled in to read his
new book.
Later that evening, after the obligatory Feast of Overflowing Cheerfulness had
been endured, he grabbed his invisibility cloak and his new book and headed off
to find a different place to be. It was just too empty in the Tower—six other
students had stayed for break, but none of them were Gryffindors. Harry loved
Hogwarts, of course, and ninety percent of the time he was fine being alone.
But not at Christmas.
He sat down on a third-floor window seat that was just above the main entry
hall. He’d got through another two pages, which took rather longer than it
would have it it’d been in English, when he saw movement out on the grounds.
He peered out the window to see Snape walking with purpose toward the gates.
For about half a second, he disingenuously entertained the thought, ‘Gee, I
wonder what he’s up to.’ Who was he kidding? He knew exactly what Snape was up
to. Without taking the time to wonder exactly why he was so interested in
seeing it again, he secured his cloak and ran for Roscoff’s portrait, shrinking
his book and stowing it in his pocket on the way.
December 25, 1996: Snape
The man followed Snape out the back entrance of the pub, just as Snape had
known he would. He could always pick out the ones who were the type to go in
for this sort of thing. They fell into three basic categories—young and naïve,
older and somewhat masochistic, or unattractive enough to take whatever they
could get. The man behind him fell rather decidedly into the second group.
It was not as if Snape did this kind of thing regularly. He had done it a few
times, ‘several’ at most. And he refused to feel guilty about it. He always
made damn sure his partner knew what he was getting himself in for.
And besides, sometimes he just needed the release. Not that it was much of a
sexual release—no, if sex were his main objective, there were certainly more
pleasant ways to go about it. But he needed an outlet for the searing anger,
the self-loathing, the hatred balled up tight in his gut. Otherwise, he was
liable to start randomly hexing students. Or himself.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Snape spun the other man—Snape was
fairly sure he’d introduced himself at some point, but he was at a loss for a
name—and pressed his back against the wall.
“Be certain this is really what you want. It’s going to hurt,” Snape whispered
in his ear.
The man moaned. “No mercy,” he said and turned to face the wall. The two made
short work of their trouser fastenings and Snape thrust into the other man with
no warning.
And it burned, oh how it burned. He never used any lubrication in these brief
encounters, of course, and his cock felt like it was on fire. Not it a good
way, either. Instead of allowing himself time to adjust, he forced himself to
start thrusting, deep and hard.
A few moments later, he heard, “Oh—ah!—yes,” and felt a distinctive shudder
from his companion. Snape came shortly after, almost in spite of himself.
He muttered a cleaning charm, straightened his clothing, and leaned against the
wall, waiting for the other man to go back into the pub. He had other business
in this alley tonight.
When the man had gone, he took a few steps to his right, which left him
standing directly in front of whoever had rendered him or herself invisible. He
did not readily detect any concealment spells—a cloak, perhaps?
He leaned as close as he dared without chancing touching the person and lowered
his voice to a seductive purr. “Do you like what you see?”
He heard a satisfyingly shuddering breath being released under the cloak. Snape
smirked, then suddenly reached up and pulled the cloak away.
When he saw who had been under it, he could actually feel the blood drain from
his face. For some completely inexplicable reason, his first thought was,
‘He’ll hate me now.’ How ridiculous! As if Potter did not already hate him with
every bone in his body.
Snape looked reluctantly into his eyes, dreading the loathing, the revulsion,
the mockery he would inevitably find there. It was no less than he deserved, of
course. What he saw instead was, unmistakably, ill-concealed lust. He heard
himself draw in a sharp breath (he refused to think he had actually gasped) and
saw himself raise a hand, as if to touch the young man’s cheek. Fortunately, he
stopped himself in time and took a sizable step back.
“Return to the castle this instant! You are not safe here,” he said with as
much venom as he could manage, which was not much given present circumstances,
and promptly stalked out of the alley.
As soon as he was well out of sight, he leaned against a wall and hung his
head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of all the people who could possibly
find him like that, see him in that decidedly stupid situation, it had to be
him. At the moment, Snape could not imagine how he could possibly live with
this.
It just had to be Harry.
***** Occlumency and Onyx *****
January 6, 1997: Harry
Dumbledore had to be out of his mind. It was the only explanation.
Harry sighed heavily and tried to focus on his Transfiguration homework, but it
was useless. What in the world had Dumbledore been thinking of yesterday?
First, they learned more about Voldemort’s past, and that was perfectly fine.
Then, he decided it was Harry’s job to get Slughorn’s real memory about the
Horcrux conversation. And, as if setting him a completely impossible task
wasn’t enough, he announced that Harry would be resuming occlumency lessons
with Snape!
Harry was going to die, he just knew it. Mostly because Snape was going to kill
him. How could he not, after what Harry had done? He shuddered to remember the
look of horror on Snape’s face when he’d been discovered.
Hermione poked him. “You don’t want to be late for your, er, extra Defense
lessons, do you?”
Did he want to be late? Yes. He wanted to be so late he never showed up.
Though, really, skiving off his lessons would probably only delay his death a
bit and make it more painful. Best to get it over with.
“’Spose not. Wish me luck, eh?”
When he finally got to Snape’s office, he fidgeted outside the door trying to
think of a way to apologize. Nothing was really coming to him, though, so he
steeled himself and knocked.
The voice from within told him to enter and he did, closing the door behind him
and bracing for the coming tirade.
But it didn’t come. Not that he was complaining, of course—if Snape could
pretend it never happened, so could he.
“I hope you have practiced your woefully deficient occlumency skills since the
last time we did this,” Snape sneered in typical fashion.
Harry put on what he hoped was an apologetic face. Of course he hadn’t
practiced—what precisely would he have been practicing? He’d never been able to
do it, and without a teacher his chances of figuring it out were less than
zero.
“No, of course you haven’t,” Snape said, “Your study skills have always been
abominable. Very well, let us see what you have retained. Legilimens.”
Harry had not been prepared for the sudden onslaught, and to his complete
surprise, Snape didn’t immediately invade his mind. Did that mean he was doing
something right? Unfortunately, the shock of his unexpected success distracted
him from trying to keep Snape out, and he slithered inside.
Harry saw flashes of himself walking down the corridor of his elementary
school, pulling weeds in the garden. Then the whirlwind seemed to settle on a
memory of Harry sitting in the dark in his cupboard, hugging his knees and
rocking slightly. He was hungry, so hungry, and his right arm hurt something
fierce. He frantically tried to think of what he might have done wrong to
deserve this so he wouldn’t do it again, but he couldn’t remember. His chin
started to tremble.
No, there was no way he was going to let Snape see him cry, no way. He imagined
he was shoving Snape backward by the shoulders, out of his mind, out of his
memories. And it was working! Snape was falling back, but somehow Harry
overbalanced and he was being pulled forward toward Snape, into his mind.
He seemed to be spinning for a moment, catching brief glimpses of scenes, but
never enough to see what was going on. Then, like before, the whirlwind settled
on a memory.
The first thing he saw was a woman with a bloodied, swollen face lying in a
heap on the floor, unconscious. She had a very familiar nose. Then he noticed a
child—that must be Snape—who was about nine years old. He was crying, pleading
with the woman to wake up.
“Mum, please, you have to get up. I love you, I love you, you have to get up!”
he begged.
Then a man, who Harry decided did not look very friendly at all, grabbed the
little boy by the shoulder. “ ‘I love you’?” he mocked. “When are you going to
understand, boy, that no one loves you? Why would anyone love you? Stop your
crying!”
The man—Snape’s father, it had to be—yanked the child’s trousers and underwear
down to his knees and shoved him until he fell to the ground on his hands and
knees. He unfastened his own trousers and knelt down behind the boy, who was
now shaking with sobs.
“You like this, don’t you, you filthy little boy. Well, you better enjoy it
while you can, because no one’s ever going to love such a worthless sack of
shite! No one will ever want to touch you!”
Harry backed away quickly. He didn’t want to see this, oh Merlin, he did not
want to see this! The last thing he remembered before he stumbled out of
Snape’s mind was the man thrusting forward violently and the little boy
screaming for all he was worth.
He fully expected to open his eyes to a thunderous, no, a downright murderous
Snape. And really, could you blame the man? But when he looked up, Snape
surprised him for the second time that day.
He stood with his back to Harry, his arms crossed over his chest and his head
bowed. Harry got the impression he would much rather be curled on the floor in
the fetal position. Harry reached up and tentatively placed a hand on his
shoulder, but Snape flinched away from him violently.
Of course, how stupid. He would not want to be touched right now.
Harry had no idea what else to do. He had to do something, though, right?
“Sir?” he ventured.
“Please, just go. Please.”
Harry was a hundred percent sure Snape had never said the word ‘please’ to him,
ever. Now he’d said it twice, and in a tone that made Harry want to cry.
“Um, okay. I…I’ll just go then,” Harry said softly and slipped out the door.
What in the name of the founders had he been thinking? This was not good. He
had to apologize, to make it up to Snape somehow. But after forcing such a
proud, honorable man to relive a memory like that, everything seemed shamefully
inadequate.
Then he had an idea. But he was going to need some information. Hadn’t Hermione
checked in Hogwarts: a History to settle that bet between him and Ron about how
old Dumbledore really was? Would it have information like that on all the
faculty? It was certainly worth checking.
January 9, 1997: Snape
Snape sat at his usual place at the high table, irritably stabbing at his
breakfast. It had been a couple of days, but he was still fuming about the
disastrous occlumency lesson. And the incident at Christmas was not exactly
helping his mood, either.
Why did it always have to be Harry sodding Potter? Why him to see Snape at his
worst—being humiliated by his classmates, debasing himself in an alley, and his
father…no. No, he was not going to think about that, not today.
Thankfully, at that moment a flock of owls came soaring into the Great Hall
with the morning post. Not that there would be anything for him—he could not
even afford to subscribe to the Prophet—but it was enough distraction to
observe the goings on at the house tables.
Then a nondescript school barn owl touched down to his left, between himself
and Vector. It would be for Vector, of course, so Snape ignored the owl.
“Er, I believe it’s for you,” Vector said, indicating the owl.
Snape did not even look up. “You are most assuredly mistaken.”
“But, but it’s got your name on,” Vector explained, turning the package so
Snape could see the direction. He scowled. The blasted thing did have his name
on. He snatched it away from the owl and looked around the hall, trying to
discern the sender.
None of the students or faculty seemed to be watching him. If he had not
already found a bottle of very fine scotch in his rooms, he would have
suspected Albus. Minerva was a remote possibility, but it had been years since
she had gotten him a gift. He could not think of anyone else who even knew what
this day was to him.
There was nothing for it—he would just have to open it and see who it was from.
But not here. There was still at least twenty minutes before first period
began, so he slipped the small package into his robes and swept out of the
Great Hall.
Once he was safely shut in his rooms, he pulled it out again. It was wrapped in
plain silver paper and did not have a bow or ribbon tied around it. Perhaps it
really was from someone who knew him. He carefully removed the paper and found
a hunter green, velvet jeweler’s box. There was no note, nothing whatsoever to
identify the sender.
He knew better than to assume someone was actually giving him jewelry. This had
to be a trick. He spelled the box open and discovered a necklace inside, but he
did not look at it too closely. First, he checked to make sure it was not a
portkey, was not cursed, and did not have any tracking or monitoring charms on
it. There was magic in it, but he could not detect anything dark or malevolent.
In fact, the magic in it was warm. It felt…nice.
Against his better judgment, he removed the necklace from the box and held it
up to examine it.
The rune of the Potions Master. Carved in black onyx. Platinum chain.
Altogether, it was really rather beautiful. The workmanship was superb and the
way that stone caught the light was mesmerizing. He mentally scratched Minerva
off his list of possible senders—this was far too expensive.
Either someone with galleons to spare was playing a very expensive practical
joke—perhaps trying to disparage his performance as the DADA instructor with
the Potions rune?—or someone had gotten him a thoughtful, tasteful, entirely
appropriate birthday gift. And that was next to impossible.
He felt like an utter fool, but the necklace just felt so warm and nice.
Affectionate, almost. Before he had time to talk himself out of it, he
unbuttoned the top of his robes, waistcoat, and shirt and clasped it around his
neck.
Once he did all his buttons back up, the necklace was completely invisible. No
one would ever know it was there.
But he knew it was there, and for some reason wearing it made him feel…what?
Something nice, something warm, something…almost like…cared for, happy?
***** Just a Touch *****
January 13, 1997: Harry
“You guys go on—I have to ask Snape something about my, er, extra lessons,”
Harry told Ron and Hermione. Hermione raised her eyebrow—she obviously wanted
to know exactly what his question was—but the two went on without him.
Harry packed his books away very slowly, and once everyone else had gone he
cautiously approached the desk at the head of the classroom. Harry could tell
the moment Snape realized the two of them were alone in the room, because his
entire body tensed. Harry could practically see him bracing for a comment about
their last lesson, ready to lash out.
Harry couldn’t help wondering if Snape was wearing the necklace he’d sent. If
he was, it was hidden under all those layers, and Harry would likely never
know.
In the most perfectly normal conversational tone he could conjure, Harry asked,
“Do you have a moment, sir?”
“A moment, and one moment only. What is it?” Snape demanded.
Harry gave a meaningful sideways glance at the door—it was wide open and the
corridor was filled with students. Snape took the hint and closed it with a
subtle flick of his wand.
Harry took a deep breath—he wanted to get this out quickly. “Well, Professor, I
was just wondering if you would possibly be willing to give me actual extra
Defense lessons. You know, teach me the things we don’t learn in class, the
things I need to know. I completely understand if you don’t have time or don’t
want to, but I had to ask.”
Snape blinked at him.
Harry had thought he might need to convince the man, but this was not the
scenario he had planned for.
“If you’d like to, er, take some time to consider, I understand,” Harry
ventured. That seemed to snap Snape out of his speechless daze and the sneer
returned full force.
“Of course not, Mr. Potter. I believe that may be the first intelligent idea
you have ever uttered in my presence, and I needed a moment to recover from the
shock.”
Harry had no idea if that was a compliment or an insult, but it sounded like
Snape might be about to say yes so he’d take it.
“Tonight, seven o’clock,” Snape said matter-of-factly.
Tonight? No, he had Quidditch practice tonight! He’d already had to rearrange
the practice schedule around his occlumency lessons, and now this?
“But…” he began. Snape raised an eyebrow as if to say, ‘This was your request,
impertinent brat, take it or leave it.’
Harry sighed. “Yes, sir. See you tonight, then.”
As DADA was his first class, Harry spent the entire day anticipating his
lesson, alternating between excitement and dread. There were so many things
Snape could teach him, but he’d probably tear him to shreds in the process. He
could only cross his fingers and hope that he came out of this with the skill
to stand against Voldemort as well as his skin intact.
The day dragged, but seven o’clock still came too soon. He stood outside
Snape’s office, performing the increasingly familiar ritual of shifting his
weight back and forth and gathering his Gryffindor courage. It was only a
partial success, but he knocked anyway.
Once he’d been admitted, he remembered something that had been bugging him.
“Professor, before we get started, do you mind if I ask you something?”
“I think you will find that you already have, but it you’ve another question
you might as well ask it.”
Harry bit his tongue on the remark about to escape his mouth. It would not do
to provoke the man, even if he did deserve it. At least not before he’d got his
question satisfactorily answered.
“That, er, tingly spark thing that’s been happening when, you know, when we
touch. Will you tell me what it means?”
Snape did not answer immediately, and Harry was sure he was about to tell him
it was none of his concern or if he couldn’t figure it out himself he didn’t
deserve to know.
Instead, he said, “I believe a demonstration is in order.”
Harry had to admit he hadn’t really been expecting a straightforward
answer—that was definitely not Snape’s style—so he followed Snape over to the
side of the room. It seemed Snape had set this area up for their lesson—there
were boulders of varying sizes against the wall, and Harry could feel a
containment field around them.
“The Reductor Curse, if you would,” Snape said, indicating the first boulder on
the left. Harry took aim.
“Reducto,” he incanted, and the stone blasted into a dozen or so pieces, which
fell back to the ground when they hit the containment charm. Everything seemed
perfectly normal. He gave Snape a questioning look—what was he supposed to be
seeing?
“Give me your hand,” Snape instructed, extending his own. Harry reached out,
and as soon as Snape clasped his hand he felt the weird magical tingling
sensation. He locked his eyes on their hands. Snape’s hands were really quite
elegant, come to think of it. He imagined the Prince’s hands would be rather
similar—brewer’s hands.
This time, Snape held on until the tingling went away entirely, which was only
about a minute. Harry’s first instinct when Snape relaxed his grip was to
tighten his own. He managed not to, and told himself it was just that the
tingle-shock thing felt so cool.
Snape pointed to the next boulder and said, “Again.”
So Harry aimed and repeated the spell.
The rock exploded like it had dynamite inside it, and Harry almost dove for
cover before he remembered the containment field. The magical force field
shimmered and sparkled blue where the practically pulverized pieces smashed
into it.
He turned to Snape, eyes wide, wanting to know what in the name of all that was
magical had just happened.
“Our magic is sympathetic, Potter,” Snape said, as if that explained
everything. As far as Harry was concerned, it explained nothing at all. It must
have been obvious, because Snape rolled his eyes in typical Harry-Potter-is-a-
Blithering-Idiot fashion and returned to his desk, motioning Harry to the chair
opposite it.
“Our magic is sympathetic,” he repeated, speaking as if to a mentally
challenged four-year-old. “This means that, when we are in close enough
proximity, your magic resonates with mine and vice versa. The resonance causes
magical stores that have been lying idle to be released, little by little. Most
everyone has more magic than they actually use, either because they do not know
how to tap into it or because they have simply never needed it. This is
particularly true for young witches and wizards, as we generally learn to
access more of our magic as we grow older. In short, every time we have bodily
contact, a small amount of magic that was previously inaccessible to us will be
made available.”
Harry grinned and said exactly what he was thinking. “That’s awesome.” No
wonder things had been getting a little easier for him—not the studying after
all.
“Is that common? For two people to have sympathetic magic?” he asked.
Snape seemed a bit uneasy and pressed his lips light together before answering.
“Decidedly not. Though I am sure there must be one or two others throughout the
world, I know of only one other living pair with sympathetic magic.”
“Only one? Who is it?”
“Arthur and Molly Weasley,” Snape answered.
“So, every time they touch”—which was quite often, Harry remembered—“they get
access to more of their magic?” This just kept getting better.
Snape shook his head. “Not anymore, I’m sure. That can only happen until all of
the person’s magic has been released. At that point, a touch becomes…just a
touch.”
As far as he and Snape went, Harry was pretty sure a touch would never be just
a touch.
January 25, 1997: Snape
Snape studied his glass of scotch, trying not to think. It was excellent
scotch—the bottle Albus had given him, in fact—but it was going to take much
more to actually get him to the place he wanted to be.
Despite the trying, his mind was active. Malfoy was still being stupidly
secretive about his plans. Snape could see that he was beginning to panic, and
he worried that another poorly thought out fiasco was coming. Damn Narcissa and
her worrying. Damn Draco and his recalcitrance. Damn Albus for his cheerful
demand to be killed.
And he still did not know who had sent him the necklace. There were only two
groups of students who thought he had been a worthy Potions instructor. The
first included his Slytherins, and as the necklace was neither green nor
sporting a serpent, he felt fairly comfortable ruling them out. The second was
not a group so much as it was Hermione Granger, and that notion was beyond
ridiculous. So assuming the gift was not a joke—a point he was not yet prepared
to concede—it was not from a student. None of his fellow faculty members had
acted any differently toward him, not to mention he knew enough about their
financial standing to know very few of them could have afforded it. It was
possible that it was from someone outside Hogwarts, but it had been delivered
by a school owl. No, he was no closer to solving the puzzle.
This, however, did not stop him from clasping the chain around his neck every
morning. He felt nothing short of a sentimental fool—something he had never
been accused of in the past—but there was just something about it. He liked to
have it touching him. The magic in it was too warm and safe and friendly
(familiar, almost), too nice to deny. It simply made him feel good to wear it.
Which, of course, made him profoundly uncomfortable, but not enough to stop.
At least Potter was improving, something Snape was much less surprised about
than he should have been. They had been meeting twice a week, and while his
occlumency was only very marginally better, his defense skills had grown in
leaps and bounds. No doubt some of it was due to his increased power level, but
Snape could not fool himself that that was all of it.
It was oddly satisfying to see Potter do well. Sometimes at the end of their
lessons Snape was left with a warm, tight ball of sensation in his chest that
he could not adequately explain. It was also, horrifyingly enough, times like
that he found himself regretting backing out of the young man’s mind back when
Potter had cursed Malfoy. He wanted to see how it ended.
And trains of thought like that were what left him sitting in front of a dying
fire, attempting to lose himself in a bottle of scotch. Snape sighed. The
alcohol was not helping at all and it was getting late. Time to try to lose
himself in sleep instead.
In his bedchamber his removed his many layers of clothing, carefully hanging or
folding his garments as needed, and went into the loo to perform his nightly
ablutions and retrieve his nightshirt from the peg inside the door.
There was a rather large mirror above the sink—it had come with the room and
was thus far resistant to being removed—and he tried to avoid it while he
washed his face, but eventually gave in to the inevitable and looked up. He
could see his reflection down to his hips, and his gaze was drawn to a
relatively new jagged, raised scar that traversed about six inches of his
abdomen.
He traced his finger over the scar. This one was for being a naughty child. He
traced another, just to the left of his navel. For giving in to his father. A
burn on his upper arm. For letting his mother die. A deep scratch across his
chest. For being so ugly.
He traced scar after scar, reviewing his sins. For being bested by arrogant
Gryffindors. For having an empty soul. For falling for MacAllister. For taking
the Mark. For killing people he had known. For killing strangers. For the first
man he’d tortured. For liking it. For hurting people. For being broken. For the
place inside him that was drawn to Dark Magic. For being unworthy of love. For
promising to murder his only friend. For being a bad mentor. For failing to
protect his students.
For lusting after his students. No, not students.
Student.
He could not continue. He hastily donned his nightshirt, added a last-minute
‘For being a coward’, and crawled into bed. He carefully laid his necklace on
the bedside table, gave it a final touch, and closed his eyes.
***** I Know Who You Are *****
February 21, 1997: Snape
“Do you still feel it?” Snape inquired, releasing Potter’s hand. They had made
a habit of holding hands for about a minute at the start of each lesson, and
each time Snape became more loathe to let go.
Potter furrowed his brow. “Well, not now that we’ve let go, of course. But I
felt it before, just like always.”
“ ‘Just like always’? Are you certain the sensation has not changed?”
“Yeah, it still feels just the same. Why, don’t you feel it too?” Potter asked,
looking worried.
“For a brief moment,” Snape answered, “and only just. It is to be expected, of
course, that in the twenty years I have on you I have been able to access more
of my magic than yourself. You simply began with more magic held in reserve
than I.”
Though if it was true that the magical release had not diminished for Potter at
all, he must have had much more magic to begin with than Snape ever expected.
All they could do was wait and see. And it was time they began their lesson.
“Wand away, Mr. Potter. We will be trying something a bit different this
evening.”
He could see the young man trying to hide his disappointment. No doubt he
thought Snape was going to make him read, or engage in some other equally
distasteful activity. He was in for a surprise.
Snape tapped the paperweight on his desk and instructed, “Summon it.”
“But,” said Potter and his hand went automatically to his wand holster.
“Wand away, I said. Now summon it.”
The brat looked at him like he had two heads, but complied nonetheless. “Accio
paperweight,” he incanted, and almost missed the small flat-bottomed sphere as
it came flying toward him.
“Wicked!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “So, can all adult wizards do wandless magic
then? Once they’ve figured how to get to enough of their magic, I mean? I know
the headmaster can.”
“Indeed, the headmaster is quite proficient with wandless magic. The Dark Lord
is less so, thought still quite capable. The only other two practitioners I
know of are your Head of House and myself, though we are both capable only of
the simplest spells—summoning our own wands and the like.”
He hesitated a moment before continuing. Lately he had been so open and
talkative with this young man, and it was frankly a bit bizarre. He had not
even insulted him this evening. Well, there was nothing for it now—he might as
well finish.
“I have not attempted wandless magic in a few months. I am quite keen to
reassess my abilities—we shall practice together.”
So practice they did. They began with Summoning Charms and levitating small
objects. As they went on, Snape found he had no trouble at all transfiguring
his desk into a mountain lion or a small shrimp boat. Yes, his skill level had
definitely grown.
Potter seemed to be having an even easier time of it. He had all the books from
Snape’s shelf flying about over their heads, engaged in an intricate dance. He
did not even seem to be paying much attention to them.
“Very well, Mr. Potter. Please return those to the shelves in the arrangement
in which you found them.”
Potter did so quickly and grinned up at him, obviously quite pleased with
himself. For a split second, it almost made Snape want to smile back at him.
“Wipe that stupid grin off your face—this is quite serious. I believe the next
step is for us to practice wandless dueling,” Snape said in his best Professor
Voice.
It seemed to work, because Potter’s face became rather serious indeed. “I
know,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten why we’re doing this just because I’m
having fun. I need to learn everything I can so I can bring that evil,
hypocritical bastard down.”
“Language, Mr. Potter,” he admonished automatically, but it was a different
word that caught his attention. He had heard the Dark Lord called many things,
but he could not recall ‘hypocritical’ being among them.
“Why do you say that? What do you think makes him a hypocrite?”
Potter shrugged. “I just don’t understand how he can talk about muggle-borns
and half-bloods and all the way he does when he’s half-blood himself. And he
doesn’t just say it for his pure-blood followers, he really means it.”
What? Snape was having some trouble wrapping his brain around this. “What do
you mean he’s a half-blood?”
Potter cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t know? His father was a muggle.
Dumbledore didn’t tell you?”
Snape shook his head mutely. No, he bloody well did not know! Blind rage was
bubbling up inside him and threatening to spill out when it was abruptly
superceded by the sensation that his left arm had caught fire. Speak of the
devil.
“I am being summoned,” he hissed through clenched teeth, resisting the instinct
to cradle his arm close to his body. It would not help—nothing would help.
Potter looked stricken and frozen to the spot. “Back to your dormitory, Potter,
I must leave at once!”
“But.”
Snape gave Potter his most threatening glare, and he finally moved toward the
door. Before he slipped out, the turned back.
“Just…just be careful, okay?” he said softly, and then he was gone.
Snape did not pause to examine the warm feeling he got to think that the young
man might actually care what happened to him. No, he needed to hurry—it was
never pleasant to be the last to arrive at a meeting.
He floo-called Albus to let him know, rushed to the gates, conjured his
customary mask, and disapparated.
When he arrived in the same dark, stone room from the last meeting, he was
surprised to find only two others present besides the Dark Lord. Judging by
their posture, likely Malfoy Sr. and the infuriating little rat.
He stepped forward, prepared to kneel and kiss the hem of his robes when the
Dark Lord spoke.
“Stop there, Severus.”
His tone contained none of the usual false affection—he had not even called him
‘dear Severus’. This did not bode well.
“My Lord?” he asked, letting his confusion show and edging it with a slight
pout as if he felt he had been deprived of a treat.
The Dark Lord sneered. “Tell me, Severus, how is young Harry doing? Have his
dueling skills flourished under your tutelage?” he inquired mockingly.
“My Lord?” Snape ventured once more.
“Do not attempt to fool me with your lies and false loyalty any longer!” he
raged. “I know who you are, and I will not stand for it!”
He pointed his wand directly at the center of Snape’s chest and took a breath.
Snape knew exactly what was coming. He knew these were his final moments, and
there was not a thing he could do about it. His wand was still tucked in its
holster and there was no way he could get to it in time.
He found himself thinking, ‘I’ll miss you, brat,’ just before he heard the
words.
“Avada Kedavra.”
And then he was hitting the ground—and wasn’t the Killing Curse supposed to be
instantaneous?—and his body was screaming everywhere, in places he did not even
know he had, that the Cruciatus had never touched—and wasn’t the Killing Curse
supposed to be painless? Why was he not dead yet?
He glanced up to see the Dark Lord looking down at him with the same confusion
he felt himself. The Dark Lord glared and raised his wand again. It was at that
point it occurred to Snape that he could most likely apparate wandlessly now.
Before the curse could be repeated, Snape closed his eyes and disappeared.
February 21, 1997: Harry
It was practically curfew by the time Harry got back to Gryffindor Tower, and
he immediately crawled into bed without even bothering to undress. His worry
for Snape was so all-consuming that he suspected he wouldn’t be sleeping
tonight anyway.
It was strange, this overwhelming worry over a man he had loathed a bare few
months ago. And for some completely inexplicable reason, he felt guilty about
it, like he was betraying the Prince by letting Snape occupy so many of his
thoughts. And it was just absurd! No matter what Harry might fantasize, he and
the Prince did not have a proper relationship, or anything even resembling one.
The Prince probably wouldn’t like him even if he did know who Harry was. Which
he didn’t, so this whole line of thought was pointless. He needed a
distraction.
There were two books on his bedside table, and thumbing through the Prince’s
Potions text would really just defeat the purpose, so he picked up his
parseltongue spellbook. As it turned out, Hermione had been right and the thing
was simply called Parseltongue Magic.
He had been making steady progress through the book since Christmas, but it was
slow going. He had started the section entitled “Dark Spells for Devious
Serpents” a few days back and it was kind of disturbing—the perfect
distraction.
So he settled into the covers and read about how to animate Inferi and various
methods of vivisection and how to set a person’s blood boiling. Then he came
across a spell that just had to be the one Voldemort used to mark his Death
Eaters.
‘This spell will bind a servant to his master, leaving a magical connection and
a mark which the master can use to call the servant in times of need or punish
him in cases of disobedience,’ said the spell description. Yes, that definitely
sounded like the Dark Mark.
He read over the incantation for the spell, and he was certain he had heard it
before. Or perhaps he’d read it somewhere? He wracked his brain for a couple of
minutes before he finally remembered and snatched the Potions book off the
bedside table, flipping through it frantically.
There! There it was.
‘I am uncertain what has been done to me,’ the Prince had written, ‘Sahashee
thessah sheethee?’
It was part of the marking spell, transliterated into the Roman alphabet by
someone who was not a parselmouth. Written down by the Half-Blood Prince.
And then it hit him—his Prince had taken the Dark Mark. His Prince was a Death
Eater. No wonder he’d invented all those spells ‘for enemies’.
But it kind of sounded like he’d regretted it, right? ‘I know I have brought
this upon myself,’ he’d said. That meant he knew he’d made the wrong choice.
Right?
Harry just knew the Prince wasn’t evil. He was a good man. He was smart and
well-spoken and sarcastic and probably the best brewer Hogwarts had ever seen.
Oh sweet Merlin. He knew who it was, who his Prince really was.
He grabbed his invisibility cloak, made sure he had the spellbook, and ran out
the door, ignoring Ron’s questions as to where he was going this time of night.
He had to get to the dungeons.
Five minutes later, he was pounding on Snape’s office door, still struggling to
catch his breath. There was no answer. When he considered the fact that it was
now after midnight, it wasn’t really surprising.
The door wasn’t locked or warded, so he went in and headed for the door he’d
seen Snape use a couple of times. This had to be the entrance to his quarters,
right? Harry certainly hoped so. He just had to find him.
He knocked, but again there was no answer. Maybe Snape was asleep. Surely he
would have made it back from the meeting by now? Harry knocked harder.
Finally, the door was opened.
“Snape, thank Merlin! You’ll never believe what I found out—I can get rid of
it! I found the counterspell. I can remove the Dark Mark!”
There was no response from Snape. He just stood there, his hand still on the
doorknob, looking bewildered. On closer inspection, Harry saw that he was
deathly pale and held himself like he was in a great deal of pain. He also got
the impression Snape had been wearing the bewildered expression for a while, so
it must not be due to his unannounced midnight visit or his news. Had Snape
even heard him?
“Sir? Are you okay? Did something happen at the meeting?” he asked, hoping he
was not about to get hexed for posing questions that were none of his business.
Then, to his complete and utter surprise, Snape actually answered him.
“The Dark Lord had learned of my true loyalties,” Snape said, his voice
uncharacteristically shaky. “Malfoy was there—he must have said something, but
I cannot think how he would have known. Then he cast the…or I thought he had.
He spoke the words, and I fell, but I do not know how I survived. Then I
disapparated.”
“He cast the Killing Curse on you?” Harry asked.
Snape nodded, then shook his head. “He…I am not certain. I thought he had. But
here I stand.”
Harry grinned. “I think he really did cast it. It was your necklace, it
protected you. I can’t believe it actually worked!”
Snape’s hand flew to his chest where Harry knew the pendant lay under his
clothes, against his skin.
“How did you know? You could not possibly…” he trailed off and his eyes
widened. “You?”
Harry nodded.
“Why?”
“Well, mostly to apologize, I suppose, for invading your privacy. Repeatedly.
And to let you know how much I respect you.” Harry paused. They were still
standing in the doorway, he noticed. “Look, would it be okay if I came in?”
Snape looked skeptical, but stood aside to let him through and closed the door
behind him. He did not take a seat, nor did he offer Harry one. He supposed
standing in Snape’s sitting room was better than standing in his doorway, at
least.
“Did you say you could remove it?” Snape asked suddenly.
Harry nodded. “Would you like me to?”
“How can you know how to do that?”
“Well, someone close to me took the Mark—he knows it was a mistake, and he’s
spent his life since then trying to atone for it, I think—but he took it and he
wrote down part of the marking spell in a book of mine. And that helped me know
what I was looking at when I found it in a spellbook. Yes, I know who you are,”
he said softly, then repeated his question. “Would you like me to remove it?”
Snape did not answer immediately. He just stood there, staring at Harry with an
intensity he had never experienced before. Had he said too much? Had he gone
and ruined the working relationship they had painstakingly created? Snape was
definitely not acting quite himself, but Harry supposed if he’d just survived
the Killing Curse he’d probably be even more freaked out that Snape was.
After several minutes, Snape gave a curt nod and rolled up his sleeve. Harry
let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Right then.” He opened the book to the right page so he could read the
counterspell from the text—it was not exactly concise and he didn’t want to
chance bollixing it up—and stepped closer so he could place his hand over the
Mark. After a few seconds, Snape gave him a questioning look.
“I’m just waiting for the tingling to slack off some. It’s distracting,” he
explained.
Once the tingle had got down to a level he could ignore, he began. Then, just
as he was coming up on the end, Snape tensed and closed his eyes like he was in
pain. Harry really hoped that it wasn’t his fault, but he just had a few more
words to get through and it would all be over.
When he had finished, it seemed Snape was no longer hurting. He was staring
down at his unblemished arm in wonder.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I? Toward the end there?” Harry asked.
Snape finally tore his eyes away and looked up. “No, that was the Dark Lord. I
believe he could tell what was happening and tried to prevent it. He tried to
retain his hold on me—I could feel him.”
“And now?”
“Now he is gone, and I feel…gods, I feel so light. Free.”
Harry smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Snape still had that look of wonder on his face. “Why, why would you do this
for me? I do not deserve it.”
He shrugged. “How could I not? You’re my Prince.”
With a furrowed brow, Snape raised his hand and brushed a finger down Harry’s
cheek. He placed his hand over Snape’s to keep it there and could not help but
lean into the touch.
Snape swallowed audibly. “May I…that is to say…oh gods. Harry, I just need to
touch you.”
With no hesitation, Harry leaned closer and wrapped his arms around Snape,
holding him close.
“I know. I need to touch you, too.”
***** A New Beginning *****
February 22, 1997: Snape
Snape knew he had been moving in somewhat of a daze since apparating away from
the Dark Lord, and if his current thoughts and actions were anything to judge
by he was still not entirely recovered. Really, he should have gotten over
being found out and surviving the Killing Curse by now. He blamed the removal
of his Dark Mark.
Because really, what else could be responsible for the fact that he was still
standing just inside the door embracing Harry Potter? What else could explain
his thought that they fit together perfectly, like they’d been made to stand
this way? Yes, it had to be the Mark.
Though that did not explain everything. For instance, the fact that Potter was
clutching him just as desperately. Or that the fingers of his right hand were
carding through Snape’s hair and his face was buried in Snape’s neck inhaling
deeply, like he could not get enough of Snape’s scent. No, all things
considered he could not think of anything that adequately explained the
situation.
Perhaps it was not real—perhaps he was dreaming. How else would it have been
possible for his perfect birthday gift to have been from Potter? For Potter to
say that he respected him? To say he knew the Half-Blood Prince was Snape, and
that he needed to touch him?
But his body still ached from the ineffectual Killing Curse and he was
trembling slightly. He would not be in pain if this were a dream, would he?
He pulled back slightly so he could see Potter’s face—it was open and frank,
but Snape could not readily identify what he saw displayed there. Whatever it
was, it was making his stomach flip and his heart beat faster.
“I—” do not want to be alone “—appreciate your assistance,” Snape said,
glancing at his left arm.
“No problem,” Potter replied, a warm smile on his lips.
“You should—” stay, would you stay here with me? “—probably be getting back. It
is rather late.”
Potter bit his lower lip. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay,” he said, trying
valiantly to suppress a yawn.
“Would you—” hold me in the dark? “—like to lie down?”
One shy smile and slight nod later, he was leading Potter by the hand to his
bedchamber. They cautiously removed their clothing until they were wearing
undershirts and trousers, and Snape folded back the quilt, holding his hand out
to Potter. ‘I’m inviting him into my bed,’ he thought incredulously.
Snape settled onto his back, suddenly nervous, while Potter lay on his side
with his hand propped on his elbow looking at him, studying him almost. He
reached out with his free hand and traced Snape’s jaw from ear to chin.
“You’re beautiful,” he mumbled, and Snape’s whole body immediately tensed. He
had known this was too good to be true. He had known he did not deserve this.
Snape turned onto his side facing away from the brat and closed his eyes. He
could not help seeing the Dark Lord’s face speaking with his father’s voice,
and said through tightly clenched jaws, “I know what I am—do not mock me, not
now.”
“I wouldn’t,” Potter said, and Snape could feel the young man spooning up
behind him. Potter gently moved Snape’s hair aside and placed a kiss below his
ear.
“So beautiful,” he whispered against Snape’s ear, then draped an arm over his
waist.
Snape very nearly sighed. He wanted to stay awake, to just lie there and bask
in the feeling of this man holding him like no one ever had before, his heat
warming Snape’s body, his breath against Snape’s skin, but he was too exhausted
and felt consciousness slipping away.
He woke with a feeling of perfect contentment, and was frankly surprised he
even recognized the totally foreign sensation. He felt so safe.
A mop of tousled hair greeted him when he finally opened his eyes. He knew that
mop—surely this was another dream. Deciding to take full advantage before he
awoke for real, he leaned over the young man placing light kisses all over his
face and said, “Harry.”
Then green eyes were open and looking into his and shining with a smile.
“Sn…Severus,” said the perfect pink mouth, which was also smiling, and then
there was a hand behind his head and Harry was kissing him. Yes, this was a
good dream.
“My Prince,” Harry said when they broke the kiss. “How are you feeling? Are you
still in pain from the curse?”
Snape furrowed his brow. What was he talking about? When he thought about it
his joints did ache, though not too terribly. While taking stock of his body,
he also noticed he was not wearing his usual nightshirt. Realization flooded
his mind and he rolled away. Dear Merlin.
“Gods, I’m sorry. It was not a dream. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” Harry said, “And yes, you’re awake. It that so bad?”
“I should never have—”
“Stop it. I kissed you, in case you’ve forgotten. And I don’t regret it. Do
you?” Harry asked, his fingers stroking through Snape’s hair.
“I should,” he said quietly.
A hand on his chest pushed until he rolled onto his back and found green eyes
looking at him intently.
“Why?” Harry asked.
“You are my student.”
“Is that all?”
Of course not. There were a hundred reasons why he should not do this. I want
you too much. It is too dangerous. You will be reviled by your friends. You are
too beautiful and I am too ugly. You would say something childish and I would
insult you. I would hold you back. You deserve so much better. I am broken. You
will leave me.
There were a hundred reasons, but he could not speak them.
Harry broke the silence. “I know you’re scared—I’m scared too. But I don’t
think I can give you up. It’s about time for breakfast now and I should
probably get back before Ron sends out a search, but I’d like to come back. If
that’s okay.”
Snape studied his face for a moments—yes, he did look scared, but sincere
too—and nodded.
The young man visibly relaxed and said, “Good. Can I kiss you again before I
go?”
“May I,” Snape corrected automatically.
Harry smirked. “Yes, you may,” he said, leaning down to him.
And then they were kissing again. Knowing it was real, Snape paid more
attention this time. He was quite relieved to find that Harry did not taste
like a little boy. He did not taste like candy or pumpkin juice or innocence.
No, he tasted clean and sharp and subtle—he tasted amazing. Snape could get
addicted to that taste.
But they had to breathe, and the kiss was broken.
“When shall I come back?” Harry asked, his lips red and swollen, “Are you busy
after lunch?”
“Eager, aren’t we?” Snape teased, then shook his head. “No, I am not busy. I
have marking to do, but it is not pressing.”
“Great, I’ll see you then.” One more peck on his lips and Harry was up and
gathering his things and heading for the door. Just before he left he turned
back with a bright, joyful smile, and then he was gone, leaving Snape feeling
simultaneously bereft that Harry had gone and delighted that he wanted to come
back.
February 22, 1997: Harry
He tried, honestly he did, but Harry could not get the silly grin off his face.
He’d found his Prince, and he liked him back. And he absolutely could not
believe he had been so bold with Snape, but he honestly didn’t see how he could
have done it any other way.
He sat at the Gryffindor table across from Ron and Hermione, playing with his
lunch. He’d told them about finding the spell and rushing down to the dungeons
and how Snape had been discovered by Voldemort and Harry had removed his Dark
Mark. He’d told them Snape was rather shaken up by the night’s events and that
he’d stayed to make sure he was okay. He’d also told them that their lesson
last night had been but short by Snape’s summons and he had to go back after
lunch to make it up.
He thought he’d explained everything perfectly well, but they were still giving
him odd looks. It was probably the persistent grin, but there really wasn’t
anything he could do about it.
He tried really hard not to stare at Snape up at the Head Table and contented
himself with a few brief glances. He was sitting next to Dumbledore, and they
were speaking in hushed tones. Snape was probably telling him about being found
out and Harry coming down to the dungeons and removing his Dark Mark. Harry was
sure he wouldn’t tell him about anything else—the kissing, namely—but he hoped
their stories were consistent when it came to filling in the holes.
By the time lunch was over, he was practically squirming with anticipation—not
of anything in particular, but of possibilities. When Snape finally left the
staff table, he forced himself to wait a few minutes, then dashed off after
him.
Breathless, he knocked on Snape’s door. When the man opened the door and let
him in, he suddenly had no idea what to do. They stood staring at each other in
awkward silence for a moment before Snape asked, “Tea?”
“Sure, thanks,” Harry answered, grateful to have something to do. Snape invited
him to sit in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and settled
himself in the other. They sat, sipping their tea and watching the flames
dance.
When he ran out of tea to distract himself with, Harry resigned himself to the
fact that if he wanted to have a conversation, he was going to have begin it.
“I know you brought back important information,” he said suddenly, his voice
unexpectedly loud in the cozy room, “but I’m glad you don’t have to do it
anymore. I know what he gets up to, and I’m so glad you don’t have to go back.”
“We have lost a valuable asset, but I must admit that I am glad as well.”
“Just the thought of you getting hurt…again. I’ve seen some of the things that
go on at those meetings, and I don’t want him to hurt you anymore.”
“What have you seen? You haven’t…have you seen what he does…to me?” Snape
asked, clearly terrified, and Harry removed his gaze from his empty teacup to
search Snape’s face.
“What does he—did he—do to you?”
Snape lowered his gaze. “It is of no consequence.”
Harry set his teacup on the floor and took the few steps to stand next to
Snape’s chair. “Are you sure?”
“I just…not now. Not now.”
“Okay,” Harry said, wanting to dispel the man’s obvious unease, “let’s not talk
about that anymore. Kiss me instead.”
Snape’s head snapped up at that, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He nodded,
then stood and wrapped his arms around Harry, kissing him just as he’d asked.
Harry immediately snaked a hand into Snape’s silky tresses—he could not get
enough of that wonderful hair. If Snape ever cut it, he was going to positively
murder him.
And his skin was just amazing to touch. Now that the magical tingle had worn
off, he could really appreciate the feel of that pale skin under his fingers
and his lips, and he wanted more of it. He pulled back slightly to start
working on the buttons keeping him from what he wanted and scowled.
“What is it?” Snape asked.
“There are way too many buttons on your robes,” Harry complained.
Snape looked at him like he was completely astonished Harry would ever even
think of removing his robes. Harry continued struggling with the buttons, but
he had only got two undone so far.
Thinking of the fact that it was Saturday and he was only wearing trousers and
a jumper, Harry muttered under his breath, “This is so unfair.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to touch you—I want to see you and smell you and taste you and
feel your bare skin against mine, and you’ve got a million bloody buttons in
the way!”
Snape reached up and grasped Harry’s frantic hands, stilling them. He looked up
to see dark eyes smoldering. Snape removed Harry’s hand from his chest, then
undid the buttons himself in less than thirty seconds. Well, if he had to do it
every day, he would have gotten good at it.
As soon as the last button was undone, Harry reached up to Snape’s shoulders
and pushed his robe off. He still had a waistcoat and shirt on, but at least
they were moving in the right direction. But still…
“More buttons!” Harry exclaimed. Yes, this was definitely unfair. Snape rolled
his eyes and divested himself of his waistcoat.
“Are you satisfied now?” he asked.
“No,” Harry answered, and immediately tackled the shirt buttons. And least
there were fewer, and they weren’t those awful tiny ones.
Before he’d got halfway down, Snape stilled his hands again. “Potter—Harry, I
am not…I do not have an attractive body. I felt I should warn you.”
“Well, so far I think your body’s plenty attractive—downright sexy, if you
don’t mind my saying—and I like you just the way you are.”
Snape released his hands, but he still had trepidation in his eyes.
Harry finished with the blasted buttons and peeled the shirt away.
“Bloody hell, did he do this to you?”
Snape pulled back and reached down to retrieve his shirt. “The Dark Lord
ordered it, but he did not do it himself,” he answered, struggling to get his
shirt back on, “I am sorry, I should never have—”
“No, please,” Harry said, tugging the shirt out of his hands. “Don’t. You are
not your scars, any more than I am mine.” He tossed he shirt away, out of
reach.
“I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna torture him and kill him, then resurrect him so
I can kill him again. I am so sorry this had to happen to you.”
Snape was looking bewildered again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
“You are not…disgusted with me?”
“With you? Never. Him, I’m pretty disgusted with at the moment, but I’m trying
to focus on more pleasant things. Like what I’ve got right in front of me,”
Harry replied, then dipped his head to kiss Snape’s chest. He didn’t really
know what the protocol with scars was, so he didn’t avoid them or seek them
out. He just moved his mouth and hands where he wanted them and took in
whatever he found there.
Then he heard a sound he had been waiting to hear for what felt like ages—Snape
moaned. Harry’s cock twitched and a smile quirked on his lips. He had done
that, he had given Snape that pleasure. And he never wanted to stop.
“Could we maybe, you know,” he said, glancing at the bedroom door.
Snape moaned again, kissed him hard, and led him to the bed. Once they got
there, Harry pulled his jumper over his head and started removing his trousers,
looking pointedly at Snape’s until he unfastened them as well.
And then they were both naked and panting, staring at each other beside the
bed. Harry raked his eyes down Snape’s body—he would never get enough of it, he
was certain. But there was something he should probably know before they got
much further.
“Er, Snape?”
“Severus.”
“What?”
“My name is Severus. Harry.”
Harry felt an unexpected rush of warmth and smiled. “Yes. Severus. There’s uh…I
should tell you…I’ve never really…or at all, come to that…”
“Harry? Are you trying to tell me you are a virgin?”
Harry blushed profusely and nodded at the floor. Snape closed the distance
between them and lifted Harry’s head by his chin.
“It is nothing of which you should be ashamed.”
Harry squirmed. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”
Snape chuckled. “I do not believe there is any danger of that. Just kissing you
almost makes me come.”
Harry gulped past the lump in his throat. Sweet Merlin, that voice…saying words
like that…
He pushed Snape down onto the bed and fell on top of him, resuming his
exploration of all that lovely bare skin. He experimentally took a nipple into
his mouth and bit it softly.
“Oh! Harry,” he heard from above him, followed by another of the electrifying
moans he was quickly becoming addicted to. He played with the nipple until
Snape was writhing under him, then moved lower.
He’d never been anywhere near this close to another guy’s cock before, and he
wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do. Panic was threatening to take
him when he noticed a drop of moisture beaded at the head. He went with his
instinct and licked it off.
Snape’s hips bucked and he cried, “Harry! Oh sweet Merlin…” so Harry licked him
again. He licked and kissed all up and down the hard length, then took the head
into his mouth. He had hoped he would be able to do more than that, but he
didn’t see how anything else was going to fit, so he contented himself with
sucking and tonguing just that part.
A few moments later, Snape gasped, “Oh, I’m going to, I’m going…” and tried to
push Harry’s head away. But Harry did know enough to know that it was polite to
swallow, so he stayed right where he was. He was rewarded a couple of seconds
later with Snape’s hot semen shooting into his mouth.
He tried to swallow as much as he could, but some leaked out and was dribbling
down his chin. Feeling a bit foolish, he sat up and raised his hand to wipe it
away, but Snape stopped him and actually licked it off.
Harry couldn’t help himself. “Gods, you’re amazing,” he groaned. Then he
remembered his decidedly inexperienced actions and asked, “Was that okay?”
Snape raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Okay’? No, I daresay it was a great deal more than
‘okay’. It’s your turn now, if that is what you would like.”
Harry moaned. “Oh, Merlin yes. I mean, if you want to.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Snape almost growled, and then Harry was on his back
and Snape was kissing quickly down his torso and, “Oh!” There was a hot wet
mouth surrounding him and, “Gods, feels so good!” Harry had no idea how Snape
managed it, but his entire cock was in Snape’s mouth—he could actually feel the
tip pressing against the back of his throat.
Then he was moving his head up and down and a hand was on Harry’s bollocks then
pressing the skin underneath them, “Severus!” then tracing over his arsehole
and pressing and dear sweet Merlin…
“Sev—Severus!” he shouted and came harder than he ever remembered doing before.
He wanted to say something, to tell him it was bloody amazing or at least thank
him, but all he could do was lie there and pant.
“You look positively ravished,” Snape said, moving up beside him.
“I think I am,” Harry replied, snuggling closer.
“Don’t get too comfortable. I am sure your friends will be wondering where you
are.”
“Oh, I told them I had to make up last night’s lesson,” Harry said, closing his
eyes and burying his face against Snape’s neck.
“It has been over two hours, Harry. You cannot wait much longer.”
Harry sighed. He was right, of course. “I don’t want to go,” he said, trying
not to sound whiney. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“We can talk on Monday, brat. Best get going before you fall asleep.” Snape
pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple and stood up, gathering Harry’s clothes. Soon
he was dressed again and there was nothing for him to do but leave.
“I’ll miss you,” he said timidly.
“Until Monday, Harry,” Snape replied, and Harry would’ve sworn he was fighting
down a smile. It was going to be hell waiting until Monday.
***** The HNWGGGS *****
There had been some highly energetic and immensely satisfying mutual fellatio
just a few minutes ago and Snape was knackered. Despite this, he did not let
himself fall asleep—he was enjoying the feel of the warm young body wrapped
around him and the extra heartbeat against his ribcage far too much.
It was not often they had the opportunity to bask in their postcoital bliss.
The extra lessons had been expanded to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, though
they usually spent only an hour on the actual lesson. The rest of the time was
devoted to tea and talking and homework and, of course, their ongoing
exploration of each other’s bodies.
But most Fridays, Snape allowed Harry to stay the night—Harry told his little
friends that the Friday lessons were particularly taxing and he usually ended
up recovering on Snape’s couch—and they took full advantage.
As much as it gratified Snape to see Harry making such progress in his
lessons—including occlumency, astonishingly enough—moments like this gave him
much more satisfaction. Here in this room filled with imposing bookcases, dark
scratched-up furniture, and the general air of imposing dungeon gloom, the
bright and shining object of his affections should have seemed woefully out of
place, but strangely enough he fit perfectly. The far too large proportion of
the time when Harry was not ensconced in his rooms, the place felt empty as it
never had before. Snape felt empty.
But Harry was here now. Snape could not recall ever feeling so content in his
life, which was a little disconcerting in itself, but he was determined to
enjoy it while he could. Unfortunately, his afterglow was interrupted by an
overly curious Gryffindor brat.
“Can I ask you something?”
Snape opened his mouth to speak, but Harry preempted him with an eyeroll and
added, “In addition to the question I’ve just asked, that is?”
“You may as well,” Snape answered, “though I cannot guarantee a satisfactory
response.”
“Fair enough. How many, er, partners have you had?” Harry asked, feigning
nonchalance.
“Including yourself?”
“No, I just mean people you’ve…you know…”
Snape smirked and supplied, “…had proper sex with?”
Harry blushed and nodded. “I told you mine, remember. Or, you know, lack
thereof.”
True enough. “Very well, if you insist. Thirty-nine.”
Harry’s jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly and smirked. “I always knew you
were a sexy devil, but thirty-nine?” he asked, petting Snape’s hair.
No one will ever want to touch you.
Snape shook the memories out of his head. He had known there would be
questions. “I should explain. The first was Kirlian McAllister when I was in my
sixth year at school. Then, between the Dark Lord’s first and seconds
incarnations, there were thirty-one Death Eaters. Six were men I met at the pub
in Hogsmeade.”
And he stopped there, wondering if Harry would actually add them up. He did.
“That’s only thirty-eight.”
Snape looked away, willing Harry to remember their first lesson this term. He
had never said it out loud and had no wish to start now. You like this, don’t
you, you filthy boy? He doubted if he could.
“Oh. Right. I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly, then asked, “The, erm, Death
Eaters?”
“No need to fret, I did not spent my time having torrid affairs with my fellow
Death Eaters. It was…punishment. For being half a wizard,” I am tainted, “for
being a half-blood,” Snape explained.
“Half a wizard? Wait. Merlin’s beard, it that why half your body’s been carved
to bits?”
“It is,” Snape answered and wait for the inevitable outburst of righteous
indignation. I am shamed. Perhaps another rant about hypocritical bastards. He
was sure it would not be pretty, and he was not looking forward to it. He had
relived the experience enough already.
But all Harry said was, “Ah, sorry again. Would you tell me about McAllister?
Is that who you were writing about after the Amortentia section? The one you
fell in love with?”
I am unworthy.
No one will ever love you.
Snape did not particularly remember what he had written after the Amortentia
section in his sixth-year Potions text over twenty years ago, but it really
could not have been anyone else.
“Love,” Snape scoffed. “Yes, I suppose I did rather fancy myself in love.
Foolish. He was a year ahead of me and, though I did not know it at the time,
our relationship was based mostly on sex and convenience. He suggested that I
join the Dark Lord when I came of age—he may have also hinted that he could
never have a relationship with someone who was not a fellow follower.”
“So you did.”
Snape nodded.
“And then he broke up with you anyway, didn’t he?”
You don’t deserve to be loved, boy!
“He did,” Snape confirmed, cursing the gullible, smitten fool he had been, then
instructed, “Change he subject.” His afterglow was suffering immensely.
“Yeah, okay. So, do you have any idea what Malfoy’s planning? I’m pretty sure
he’s already almost killed Katie and Ron.”
Well this was not exactly an improvement. Harry was managing to hit just about
every sensitive subject tonight. He would have liked to refuse to answer and
demand another subject change, but he had a disturbingly difficult time denying
this young man anything if it was in his power to give.
“I know what his task is. I was forced into making an Unbreakable Vow to
protect him and aid him in its completion if he found himself unable to carry
it out. However, it seems he does not trust me enough to share his plans on the
matter.” Snape could feel Harry about to burst with curiosity and cautioned,
“Do not ask me what his task is. It is not my secret alone.”
Harry pouted. “Fine. At least you don’t think I’m crazy, insisting that he’s up
to something. No one else believes me.”
Worthless boy.
“Glad to be of service.”
Harry gave what he must have thought was a seductive smile. “I can think of
some other services you could provide,” he said, looking Snape up and down like
he intended to feast upon his body.
I am disgusting.
Snape pulled him in for a kiss. “Is that so? What makes you think I am at all
inclined to…service you?” he teased, nibbling Harry’s delicious ear.
March 21, 1997: Harry
When Snape called an end to their lesson and they adjourned to his sitting room
for tea, fairies started flitting about in Harry’s stomach. He was always a bit
nervous at the prospect of intimacy with his favorite Potions Master, but it
was usually a good sort of nervous—more like anticipation. Tonight, however, he
had a plan.
It was not an especially well thought out or coherent plan, but it was a plan
nonetheless and he thought it had a respectable chance of success even without
a step-by-step strategy. Tonight he was going to have sex with Snape—though he
really ought to start thinking of him as Severus instead of only using the name
in the heat of passion, what with his plan and all. Tonight he was finally
going to lose his virginity.
He had even done research for his plan. Well, Hermione certainly would not have
considered reading one book to be research, but for Harry it was huge. There
hadn’t been anything like what he needed in the Hogwarts library, even in the
Restricted Section, so he’d snuck through his secret tunnel to Hogsmeade. After
applying a hasty glamour, he ducked into the bookshop and found the perfect
book: The Hopelessly Naïve Wizard’s Guide to Great Gay Sex.
It had been his near-constant companion since its purchase and he’d nicknamed
it The HNWGGGS. No, it was not a terribly clever or endearing nickname, but it
was quicker than thinking out the whole title—that, and he didn’t really like
being referred to as ‘hopelessly naïve’ quite so regularly, even if it was only
in his own mind. He’d had over a week to absorb everything the book had to
offer and thought he was ready.
But what if he didn’t know enough? What if he chickened out? What if he made a
complete fool of himself? Hence the fairies and the flitting.
“What heated debate is raging in that vacuous head of yours?” Snape asked,
amused, startling Harry back to the present. He tried his best to be suave.
“Oh, nothing much. Just trying to decide if I should kiss you before or after I
finish my tea.”
Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Is that so? I daresay you would do well not to delay
too long.”
Harry smiled, recognizing the statement for what it was—a request to ‘please
kiss me as soon as humanly possible’.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty good tea,” he said. His teasing was belied by the
fact that he immediately set his tea aside and walked toward Snape.
No, not Snape. Severus.
“Yes, I do not see how you can bear to part with it,” said Severus, setting his
cup aside as well and standing so that he and Harry were millimeters apart.
Harry cast wordless, wandless warming charms on both their cups, whispered,
“The tea will wait,” and led Severus into the bedroom where he methodically
removed their clothing and gently pushed his—his what, his lover?—back onto the
bed. If they weren’t lovers yet they soon would be, so he had better get used
to the term.
He was determined to carry out his plan tonight. He didn’t want to stop for
Severus’ inevitable questions—Are you certain? Do you not wish to save yourself
for someone more suitable?—and thought he knew a way to avoid them. He’d read
about something in The HNWGGGS, and while it didn’t sound
particularly…sanitary, from what he could tell it was pretty much guaranteed to
make almost any wizard writhe and beg for it.
Starting with the man’s pliant lips, Harry kissed his way down the body laid
out before him. He placed a kiss on the tip of Snape’s—no, Severus’—cock but
moved on quickly, causing the man to moan in frustration.
That was short-lived. When Harry spread the silky-smooth cheeks of his arse and
licked Snape’s hole, he let out a whole different kind of moan. Harry licked
again, applying a bit more pressure, and the welcome noise was repeated.
“You like that?” He did not wait for a response, which was fortunate since
Severus seemed incapable of giving one, beyond the moaning of course, and went
right back to it. It was not nearly as tedious as he’d imagined and the sounds
Severus was making were more than enough to cancel out the slight nervousness
he still felt. Remembering the suggestions from the book, he pointed the end of
his tongue and pushed gently inside.
“Angh! Harry, oh…” Severus groaned, pushing back against Harry’s tongue. Harry
decided The HNWGGGS was one damn great book.
He kept it up for another few minutes, then pulled away, eliciting a whimper
from the needy man below him.
“Severus,” Harry said, then waited to make sure he had the man’s full
attention. Once the dark eyes were trained on his, he announced his plan. “I
want to have sex with you tonight, Severus.”
Severus waited a long moment, then did something that started Harry wondering
if he’d dropped into an alternate reality or something. He pulled his legs up
to his chest, held them there with his hand behind his knees, and said, “Then
do so. Please.”
This was not Harry’s plan. It wasn’t. But oh Merlin, he just looked so hot like
that, all spread out and waiting. Severus actually wanted him to—he fished for
another word, one that didn’t sound quite so silly, but none was
forthcoming—top? Apparently so.
“Lube?”
“Bedside table,” Severus answered.
Harry summoned it and the glass jar slapped into his palm. He dipped his
fingers in the viscous fluid and dipped his head to smell. Cinnamon. Cinnamon
and ginger and lemon.
Harry pressed one finger against the tight pink pucker and paused to double-
check his permission. “Are you sure? I don’t—I might mess up.”
“Harry, anything you do could only be an improvement. It will be fine,” he
said, then added softly, “Please.”
Well, with an invitation like that he could hardly stop. Still, from what he
knew of Severus’ previous experiences and from what he’d just said, it had not
been particularly pleasant for him in the past. Harry was determined that
whatever it took, Severus would not feel any pain tonight.
Slowly, he pressed his index finger in up to the first knuckle and waited for
the relaxing of muscle the book had said he’d be able to feel. Yes, that was
it. His finger slid the rest of the way in. He moved it in and out a few times
then added a second, crooking them slightly, searching for the spot he’d read
about.
“Dear sweet…Merlin, what was…what was that?”
That must have been it then. He grinned, placed a firm hand on Severus’ hip to
keep him from writhing too much, and brushed it again.
“Oh my…ah…Harry, please,” Severus moaned.
Harry slipped a third finger in, made sure his lover was as loose as he could
get him, and withdrew. With more lube than was probably necessary—better safe
than sorry and all that—he slicked his cock and positioned himself.
“All right?”
Severus was pressing back against him. “Yes, please Harry, now. I need you
now.”
Harry gathered every ounce of self-control he had, which was rather difficult
after the plea he’d just heard, and pushed into Severus as slowly as he could
manage. Once he could go no farther, he searched his lover’s face for signs of
pain and saw only longing. Gently, he began to move.
Soon, it seemed neither of them could abide the leisurely pace.
“More, Harry. Faster. Harder,” Severus panted, and Harry was only too happy to
comply. He could tell by the look on Severus’ face when he found that spot
again, and tried to keep his angle consistent.
With a mixture of ecstasy and irritation, Harry felt his orgasm gathering
sooner than he would have liked. He wrapped a hand around Severus’ straining
erection, determined that he would make his lover come first.
And he did. Moments later, a high keening sound leaked from Severus’ throat and
his body tensed, and then Harry could actually feel his orgasm from the inside.
The sensation was simply too euphoric and he thrust hard a few more times and
spent his own seed deep inside his lover.
He must have collapsed afterward, because the next things he was aware of were
Severus’ heart pounding in his ear and his hand running through his hair. He
smiled against Severus’ chest.
“Well that was pretty spectacular. I don’t know why I was so nervous—we could
have been doing this for weeks! Me next, okay?” he asked, and raised his head
so he could see Severus’ face.
It he didn’t know any better, he’d say there were tears running down Severus’
cheeks. Really, what else could it be?
“Oh gods, I hurt you didn’t I? I was so worried and I tried, I—oh, I’m so
sorry!”
Severus shook his head and one corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile.
“No, I felt no pain. Harry, I…it has never been like that for me. No
one…you…I…I thank you, Harry.”
Harry felt like his heart might just burst out of his chest. He leaned up and
kissed the tears off his lover’s face. Severus wrapped his arms around Harry
and rearranged them, settling his head on Harry’s chest. Harry felt a warm kiss
pressed against his bare flesh, then they were both drifting into a contented
sleep.
***** The Task at Hand *****
April 22, 1997: Snape
He sat hunched at the desk in his quarters, scrawling derogatory remarks on
fourth year essays in red ink and trying to ignore the aching in his hand and
his back and the niggling in the back of his mind that said he’d rather be
doing other things, that he’d rather have a certain someone there with him to
chase away the loneliness that tended to creep in when he was absent. And,
rather than the evaluation of his students’ knowledge, Snape found himself
thinking of his days in muggle primary school and what he’d heard the other
kids saying about amusement parks. From what he remembered about the rides—the
way they took you up, down, around in circles and how they left you reeling,
stumbling, feeling a little sick and like you weren’t quite sure where you were
or which way was up—this thing he had with Harry was sort of like that.
Whatever ‘this thing’ he had with Harry was.
It had been two months, and Snape still felt like he had no idea what was going
on. He did know that he liked the way Harry made him feel, the sounds he could
draw out of the young man with his fingers or voice or mouth, the comfortable
way they talked together and drank tea together and sat together in complete
silence that was somehow not silent at all. Whatever it was he liked it, but he
still felt completely out of control, and that was a feeling to which he was
not at all accustomed.
He was also feeling somewhat useless. The Order now had no one to bring back
inside information on Death Eater activities, and other channels through which
to gather intelligence were rather unreliable. Sometimes it seemed the Order
was learning of the Dark Lord’s actions through the Daily Prophet right
alongside the rest of wizarding Britain.
Another consequence of his discovery as a spy was that Draco now trusted him
even less than before, which was to say, not at all. There was no chance for
him to uncover the boy’s plan, except perhaps by accident. He could not help
hoping that perhaps he would not learn anything of it at all until it was too
late and thus avoid…well, he wasn’t going to think about that.
So, since he could not do anything else useful, he was throwing himself into
getting Harry ready. They still trained three days a week for as long as they
could manage. It helped that few weeks back, the Granger girl had guessed the
full extent of his and Harry’s relationship—Snape had no idea what Harry had
said to her when she confronted him, but apparently she approved—and made
excuses for Harry when this whereabouts were questioned.
Harry had finally mastered Occlumency, and lately Snape was having rather a
hard time keeping himself from being permanently damaged during their duels.
Just yesterday he had found himself telling tales to Madame Pomphrey about
tripping down stairs as she repaired the damage from the Bone Shattering Hex
that Harry had shot right through his shield. The most amazing part was that
more of Harry’s magic was still being released every time they touched, though
from what Harry told him the duration of the tingling sensation was getting
shorter. Snape even dared to speculate that by the time all his magic was
available to him Harry would be the most powerful wizard alive, dared to hope
that Harry just might be able to pull off what the entire wizarding world took
for granted he would do.
But, despite that and all the things Harry had been through in his short life,
Snape could not help dwelling on the fact that it had been a short life. Harry
was still so young, full of life and potential. His sweet smiles and trusting
eyes made Snape’s chest ache.
So many times he had thought about telling Harry to forget about him and find
someone like himself, young and vibrant, who could share the wonders of the
world with him as they discovered them together.
But then he thought about his own life expectancy and, in true Slytherin
fashion, invariably decided to enjoy what he had while he still could. Harry
could have a proper relationship with a proper young wizard or witch later,
after all this war and unpleasantness was finished.
May 7, 1997: Harry
“You know about the Horcruxes, right?” Harry asked, then furrowed his brow and
cocked his head to the side. “Horcrises? Horcruxi?” he tried, but just shook
his head. “Whatever.”
Severus snorted. “Horcruxes. I know what they are. Why are you asking about
those, of all things?”
Harry set his teacup aside. He had thought for sure Dumbledore would have
talked about them with Severus. He had, after all, been in the perfect position
to gather information about them.
“You know that memory of Professor Slughorn’s that Dumbledore had me after?
Turns out Voldemort probably made seven of them.” Wait, that wasn’t right. “No,
seven piecces of his soul, so six Horcruxes. I can’t kill him until all of them
have been destroyed.”
Severus’ eyes widened. “Those are extremely dangerous! He expects you to find
and destroy six dark artifacts? Has he finally gone overboard on the lemon
drops and lost what was left of his feeble mind?”
Harry smiled inwardly to hear Severus so concerned for him. He might not be a
very demonstrative man, but Severus let him know it little ways that he cared
for Harry.
“No, there are only four left—that diary that almost killed Ginny was one, and
Dumbledore destroyed one last summer.”
“That ring was a Horcrux! I helped him contain the dark magic poisoning him,
but he never told me it was a Horcrux. I thought it was simply a cursed
artifact.” Severus scowled, clearly upset with being left out of the loop.
“Well,” Harry said, “we’re trying to figure out what the rest are and where
Voldemort might have hidden them. I hoped you might have some ideas about that,
because we know a little but I think we’re kind of stuck.”
There was no response. Severus was just sitting there continuing to scowl at
his hands wrapped around the mostly empty teacup on his knee.
“Severus?”
“I cannot believe Albus felt he could not trust me with this,” Severus muttered
to his lap and closed his eyes tightly like he was cursing himself for being so
foolish. “I truly thought he trusted me.”
“Hey,” Harry said, moving closer so he could rest a hand on Severus’ shoulder,
“he does trust you. That’s just how he is—you know, he likes to keep things
close to his chest so he can do that all-knowing thing. He trusts you. I trust
you.”
Harry hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say and he knew Severus needed to
hear it, but it was still scary and he wasn’t sure this was the right time for
it. Well, are you a Gryffindor or not? he chastised himself.
“I love you, Severus.”
Severus’ head snapped back up and his dark eyes searched Harry’s, pleading.
“No,” he whispered, “you don’t, don’t say that, not to me.”
Harry brought his other hand up to caress Severus’ cheek. “I do. I can’t lie to
you—I love you.”
Severus pulled away from him abruptly and shouted, “No! Stop saying that!” He
rose from the sofa and dragged his hands through his hair, pacing.
Well. Harry had known Severus probably wouldn’t take it well, but he wasn’t
expecting outright refusal. What had gotten into him?
Suddenly Severus stopped his frantic pacing and turned to face Harry. “You’ve
no idea what I have to do, what he’s asked me to—you won’t feel that way by the
end of term, I can promise you,” he declared, then slumped back onto the sofa
and let his head fall into his hands, defeated.
“You’re right, I don’t know what you have to do—I assume it’s this mystery task
that Malfoy’s been charged with that you’re going to have to finish for him.
But you’re wrong about the rest. I love you right now and I’ll love you when
term is out and you’ve done whatever it is you’re going to do and I’ll love you
a hundred and fifty years from now when I’m on my deathbed. I hope you’ll be
there with me, but even if you’re not it won’t change the way I feel.”
Harry searched his mind, but he knew he was no poet and he couldn’t think of
any better way to put it. Instead, he reached for Severus’ hand, raised it to
his lips, and placed a lingering kiss on his pale fingers.
Whatever this thing was that Severus had to do was obviously tearing him up
inside. He looked panicky just from thinking about it.
“Won’t you tell me what it is? Maybe I can help you,” Harry entreated.
Severus shook his head. “No, I made an Unbreakable Vow. There’s nothing you or
anyone else can do to help. And besides—”
“It’s not your secret alone,” Harry finished for him, “I know. I just hate
seeing what it’s doing to you. At least I can be certain that when it happens,
no matter what I is, that you didn’t want to do it. That you did everything you
could and, in the end, you had no choice. And I will still love you.”
Severus seemed to know he was beaten and gave him a sad half-smile. “I always
knew you had trouble with forming coherent thoughts, so I suppose I can’t
complain.”
“That’s right, you git,” Harry said, pulling Severus off the sofa and backing
toward the bedroom, dragging him by the hand, “I’m just a doddering half-wit,
at least when I’m this close to you. Want to go see if you can help me finish
the transition into a mindless puddle of goo?”
Severus pulled Harry toward him with a growl and captured his mouth in an
overwhelming kiss.
Harry took that as a yes.
***** Reckoning *****
June 11, 1997: Snape
It seemed as though an eternity passed in the few seconds between the time he
heard the softly spoken plea from Albus’ lips and the time he raised his wand.
It was time enough to remember all the times he had sat and talked with his
mentor, the times Albus had drawn conversation out of a reluctant Snape and
made him feel like a human being for a few moments. Time enough to regret all
the times he’d turned down offers of tea and myriad sweets, drugged or
otherwise. Certainly more than enough time to remember all the reasons he
loathed himself.
But foremost in his mind, however much he might deny it, was the thought that
after this Harry would never look at him the same way again.
He took a breath, steeled himself, and spoke the words.
For a split second, it seemed as though everything was standing still and he
thought that maybe the curse hadn’t worked.
And then he was dead. Ablus was dead. The only man who’d ever trusted him, and
perhaps even cared for him, was falling to the ground, already lifeless.
But, no. He hadn’t been the only one. Harry had cared for him, trusted him. No
doubt that was over now. He felt his chest heave in what he told himself was
not a sob, glad no one was there to see him, and turned to go.
“Severus, wait!” he heard, and spun to see Harry pulling his invisibility cloak
off his shoulders. He opened his mouth, but he did not trust himself to speak
without breaking down, and he did not dare look at Harry’s face. He could not
bear to see the betrayal, the contempt he knew he would find there.
He was startled when he felt Harry’s hands take his shoulders in a firm grip.
“Severus! Are you okay?”
He looked up at the earnest tone and unexpected words, but still he could not
speak. Was Harry forgiving him? His actions were unconscionable, how could
Harry look at him with anything but utter loathing?
“No, of course you’re not okay. I can’t believe he asked that of you,” Harry
said as he wrapped strong arms around Snape’s thin frame. Snape’s body began to
shake with sobs and he fought to control himself. This was no time to give in
to grief.
“Hush now. I know it’s hard to…to lose him. It’s hard for me, too. But we can’t
just stand here—Death Eaters will start coming up those stairs any moment.”
“Yes,” Snape whispered. “They will come, as will Order members. I must flee.”
Harry let out a faint whimper and threaded his fingers through Snape’s hair. “I
know you’re right. I know it, but I don’t want you to go!”
“The Dark Lord and his followers will be looking to finish what was started
back in January, and everyone else will likely be of a ‘curse first, ask
questions later’ mindset, after…after what I’ve done. Nowhere is safe for me.”
Harry pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “Yes, you’re right. Do what
you have to do. But when you can, Severus Snape, you come back to me!” Harry’s
eyes shown with fierce determination, and Snape felt a faint flicker of warmth
kindle in his chest.
“I’ve got to go after the rest of the Horcruxes, but when you can you find me.
I’ll have to stay hidden too, probably with Ron and Hermione. We can hide
together. You promise me, Severus, that you’ll come back to me. I told you I’d
love you always, and I still believe that.”
Snape stared at him for a moment before nodding jerkily. “Yes. Yes, I’ll find
you. I’ll find you, Harry.”
And then they were kissing desperately. Snape never wanted to let him go for
fear they would not meet again, but eventually Harry pulled away.
“We’ve stayed here way too long. Go, Severus, run! I’ll chase you out, watch
your back, but you’ve got to get out of here now!”
One last kiss, and they ran.
August 23, 1997: Harry
Harry sat hugging his knees outside the tent. He didn’t know exactly where they
were—some forest somewhere—but he didn’t really care. They had a promising lead
on the locket Horcrux, and Hermione had overrun the tent with color-coded notes
and index cards and books in languages he didn’t recognize, but none of that
was on Harry’s mind at the moment.
He was thinking about Severus. Severus, and the fact that he hadn’t come yet.
Harry had explained about what happened on the tower to Ron, Hermione, and
Professor….no, Headmistress McGonagall, and he was fairly sure they believed
him. After all, it wouldn’t do for Severus to show up only to have Ron curse
him to the Southern Hemisphere on sight.
He hadn’t told anyone else, though. He’d hoped that since he was the only
witness, the news would not spread. It had worked for a while, but eventually
word had got around. Still, he was reluctant to talk because he wasn’t sure if
anyone would believe him. He knew that Severus wouldn’t want him to lie about
what had happened, and he was afraid of making things worse by speaking too
soon.
He’d expected Severus to turn up by now, and he was sorely tempted to screw the
Horcrux hunt and go find him. If he wasn’t worried that his clumsy searching
would only draw more attention to the man he loved he would have done just
that. He tried not to entertain the thought that someone else had already found
him and he was injured, or worse. Another possibility was that Severus had
decided not to come after all, and that was almost as painful.
He was aware of the clearing where they’d pitched the tent being particularly
lovely, with its wildflowers and the stream just over there, but he could not
appreciate it in the least.
Severus had to come, and he had to come soon. There was an aching emptiness
inside him, and Harry knew that he wouldn’t be able to carry on with this task
much longer without him. Beyond that, he didn’t think he could survive it if
something had happened to Severus or he’d changed his mind.
Just as the tears were welling in his eyes and threatening to spill over, he
felt a presence at the edge of the wards. He knew he should be worried about
Death Eaters attacking or hapless muggles stumbling upon them, but all he could
think was that Severus had come at last.
“Harry?” called the silken voice he had been longing to hear. He lunged to the
edge of the wards and threw his arms around his Severus.
“You came, you’re here, you’re safe, you came back to me, you’re safe…” he
babbled into Severus’ shoulder. He looked haggard, worn and tired, but he was
here, he was alive.
“Merlin, Harry, how I’ve missed you.”
They held each other tight, swaying back and forth, until Severus pulled away
and said, “Harry, I’ve got to talk to you.”
Harry nodded. He thought he could listen to anything, as long as Severus was
there, speaking to him.
“I know I have nothing to offer you, I am nothing but—”
“No, Severus!” Well, maybe not anything. “You are everything to me, and—”
“Stop, Harry. Please, give me the consideration of listening to what I have to
say without interruption. Just let me get through this.”
Reluctantly, Harry nodded. He could listen quietly, then convince him that
whatever awful thing he was about to say wasn’t true.
“Thank you. As I was saying, I know that I am nothing but an emotionally
stunted, mean, ugly old man. I know that I’m a difficult, if not impossible,
man to care for. I have almost no experience in relationships of any nature,
much less romantic, and until very recently I had no idea what love was. It was
not something I believed myself capable of. But I find that that is untrue.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Severus silenced him with a look. Harry wished he
would get through it already. It sounded like he was saying he loved Harry but
didn’t think he was good enough for him, and Harry was itching to tell him just
what he thought of that.
“I am not finished yet. I have been a schoolteacher, earning a schoolteacher’s
salary, for fifteen years. I have nothing to offer you but what you see before
you. My father left me nothing but copious debt and a ramshackle house filled
with grim memories that I have no wish to revisit.”
“My mother, on the other hand—” He paused to reach into his robes and remove
something, but he kept it concealed in his hand.
“My mother left me these,” he said, and pressed the object into Harry’s palm.
It was a small box, and Harry looked up and Severus questioningly. Severus
tilted his head toward the box, so he tentatively opened it.
Harry snapped his head back up, eyes wide and mouth slack.
“The Prince family bonding rings.”
“B-bonding? Is that like…getting married?” Harry stuttered.
“Muggles get married, wizards bond. It is deeper, and incontrovertible.”
“Forever? Till we die?” he whispered.
“Until we die and after. All eternity.”
Harry gulped past the lump blocking his throat. “You would…you would want to do
that with…with me?”
Severus looked down. “I understand if you do not wish it—the things I’ve
done.... But I had to ask—these past weeks have been excruciating and I do not
think I can live my life without you. Still, I know that you are young and I am
not ideal—”
Harry finally snapped out of the daze he seemed to be in and flung himself at
Severus, clinging so tight he was sure to leave bruises.
“Yes! Yes, yes, I love you, yes yes. I’m yours, my Prince, as you are mine. Yes
yes,” he sobbed and he could feel Severus’ body sag against his with relief.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Severus whispered, “I love you so much, Harry. More than
I can say.”
“It’s okay,” Harry answered, “There are no words for what I feel for you,
either; I understand perfectly.”
If we live through this, Harry thought, it’ll be a wonderful life, indeed.
Never boring, no. But definitely wonderful.
 
END.
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