The Producers

Harry crashed noisily through the door and plonked himself on the sofa, barely giving Snape time to whip away his outstretched legs and save them from being crushed. The Potions Master appeared unfazed and continued to read his book, all the while listening to the harsh breaths Harry was expelling.

His face, Snape noted, after having covertly peered over the thick tome in his hands, was radish red and his ears were bright pink. Snape felt his nostrils quiver with the desire to snort. How much Potter baiting could he get away with after the last twenty four hours’ worth of disasters?

“Good tournament?” he drawled, still not looking up from his weighty hardback.
Harry responded by throwing himself further into the sofa.

“Ah. Perhaps a commiserate drink is in order?” Putting down the book, he drew his wand and levitated the bottle of Scotch and two glasses from the desk. Harry continued to find the fire fascinating. It seemed that he had recently been afflicted with selective hearing.

Undeterred, Snape continued to administer healthy sloshes to each of the glasses and pro-offered one. Almost begrudgingly, Harry swiped the drink from Snape’s hand and slugged the contents back in one go, cradling the empty tumbler in his lap morosely.

“Dear me. We are having a miserable Christmas aren’t we?”

Evidently, Harry’s deafness had only been ephemeral.

“And whose fault is that?” he said contemptuously, eyes still trained on the fireplace.

“What’s the matter, Potter? Did Santa Claus not bring The Boy Who Lived enough presents this year? Perhaps you were on his naughty list.” Snape primly took a sip of his own firewhisky.

Harry let out a long, exaggerated sigh; a sigh that plainly said: ‘You are so unbelievably predictable that I can’t even be bothered to dignify that with a response.’

“You should count yourself lucky,” Snape continued, “he never brings me anything.”

“Oh right, you think this sofa just magically appeared do you?” Harry said, throwing him a disdainful glare.

“I know it did, Potter, I saw it with my very own eyes. It was pure luck on my part that I was not sitting here when the exchange occurred.” Snape ingested another microscopic dash of his drink, deliberately taking his time since the boy was obviously waiting to be offered another.

Only someone scrutinizing Harry intently would have seen the corners of his mouth quirk infinitesimally. Snape happened to be such a person at that precise moment.

“Actually,” Harry said, still coating his words acerbically, “In all the drama yesterday I forgot your other presents.” Snape cocked his head at Harry and attempted a sneer, but it was distorted by an encroaching smile and the end result was a twisted grimace.

“Well, I’m touched. And only a day late, too.”

“That’s if I bother to give them to you,” Harry snapped.

“Of course you will. Or I might be persuaded to take back the gifts you yourself received.” Snape’s eyebrow told Harry he wasn’t joking.

“Fine,” he growled and went to his bedroom, returning moments later with two brightly wrapped presents, one in each hand.

He dropped them none too gently in Snape’s lap, and reclaimed his seat on the sofa.

Snape picked up the heaviest parcel. The sloshing sound, added to the shape of it, confirmed that it was scotch.

“Whisky,” he muttered before pulling off the wrapping paper. He eyed it in what he hoped looked like scorn to Harry; the label was extremely old and the corners were peeling away from the bottle.

“Second hand gifts, Potter?” he remarked, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s not second bloody hand!” Harry spluttered, “It’s a four hundred year old bottle of the finest single malt whisky ever sold!”

“So it is,” Snape drawled in a fake mocking tone. “But you only needed to replace the bottle you pilfered with one of the same value. I did not expect you to blow a year’s endorsement fee on it.”

“Can’t you ever just say thank you?” Harry moaned, shaking his head in defeat.

“Thank you,” Snape said, sending the exquisitely heavy bottle to the desk with a wave of his wand.

The second present was not so easily discernable, not even after he had managed to pry the wrapping off, almost losing a fingernail in the process. Potter must have used a whole roll of Spellotape on it!

Snape turned it over in his hand and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the multicoloured cube. Finally, he gave in.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Rubik’s cube,” Harry pronounced smugly, as though he had just delivered a gripping in-depth analysis of it.

“Evidently. But what does it do?” Snape continued to turn it over in his hands.

“It doesn’t do anything. It’s a puzzle. You have to match all the same colours on each face of it.”

“But it’s already done!” Snape protested, wondering how much money Potter had been conned out of for something that had already fulfilled its debatable usefulness.

“No, look,” Harry reached across the sofa and tried to take it. His finger brushed Snape’s hand and they both flinched at the contact.

He had to prise at it until Snape released his vice like grip. “Watch.” He proceeded to twist and turn it in all directions until it was a patchwork quilt of clashing colour.

“There. Now you put it back the way it was.” He gave it back to Snape who stared incredulously at it. Placing it in his lap, he drew his wand and muttered under his breath. The cube once again had even, matching sides.

“No!” Harry rolled his eyes, “You don’t do it with magic. It’s a Muggle gadget. You’re supposed to test your... I don’t know... abilities or something. It’s meant to be a challenge. Honestly, you’re so weird sometimes.”

Snape idly twisted the cube a few times, until the colours interspersed again.

“Right, well have fun with it. I’ve got to catch up on some coursework before we go out. You are still prepared to go, aren’t you?” Harry chided.

“Most certainly. I have been looking forward to it all day.” A small white lie couldn’t hurt, Snape decided. “We shall leave at eight o’clock.”

“Okay, that’s great, then. Yeah, great. Okay. See you later.” Harry slipped off the sofa and went to his room. He really did need to get a move on with his essay since it would be due in when term started again. He mused that he had a good three hours in which to study before he’d need to get himself ready. He dreaded to think about what the evening might bring.



Gathering up the loose sheets of parchment, Harry mentally patted himself on the back. He had used the present Santa Snape had brought him, choosing to believe it might actually do some good, and had been amazed at how well he could retain and regurgitate the information into a well planned, finely composed article.

He loosely tied the parchments together and replaced the Revista Servi in his trunk before surrendering himself to a steaming hot shower.

The cascading water felt like tiny needles stabbing his pores. He scrubbed his body roughly, taking more care than usual around his arse. It didn’t actually hurt anymore, not real pain anyway. He could still feel, well, something; if he’d had to have identified it, he would have said it felt more like emptiness than any physical affliction.

He brooded a little over the farcical Quidditch matches and knew he was probably to blame for his team’s loss; his concentration had been appalling. No thanks to Draco bloody Malfoy. Harry still hated him with a vengeance, even after his father had been incarcerated in Azkaban; he reasoned that they were now both practically orphans and no one had ever shown him much sympathy for his losses, so why should Draco be afforded any better treatment?

That’s rubbish! His brain scolded. People have always told you how sorry they are about your parents. Quit feeling sorry for yourself.

‘Whatever,’ Harry shot back, his train of thought continuing undeterred. What had Malfoy said to make Snape touch him in such an obviously protective way? Harry’s hackles raised at the implication. As if it wasn’t enough that things had gone as badly as they had between them yesterday, without Snape moving swiftly on to deflower a pretty boy like Draco. Harry allowed himself a grim smirk; Draco was hardly a delicate little daisy. Regardless, it had pissed him off no end and if he’d not been in such a bad mood about losing the Quidditch tournament, he would have tackled Snape on the subject.

Not that he was entitled to ask those sorts of questions. That much had been made as plain as the nose on Snape’s face.

Harry briefly toyed with the idea of writing a letter to Ron. He wanted to ask just how infuriating female love interests could be so he had a comparison. He didn’t think much of Ron’s chances of survival though, if Hermione got her hands on his reply. He could already guess what his friend would say anyway.

He finished washing his hair and let the water drive away the last suds of soap and shampoo clinging to his body, deliberating over what to dress in whilst towelling dry. What should he wear to an exclusively male bar? He was reminded of a time, not so long ago, when he’d cried with laughter at the image of Snape in leather, dancing to cheesy pop anthems. Harry couldn’t believe Snape would actually dance or wear leather.

Eventually he settled on his best jeans and a dark green t-shirt that he knew would compliment his eyes. His new top was really cool because it had the name of his favourite wizard band splashed across the back and he liked it even more because it was a present from Ron.

Harry chanced a peek in the mirror; his hair looked like it had encountered a tornado. He tried to get it under control but his effort lacked subtlety and he eventually gave up with an exasperated groan. He had managed to get a bit of fringe to hang nicely over his scar though, so the hairstyle wasn’t completely without merit.

Tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, he slipped on his shoes and took a deep, steadying breath before leaving the safe haven of his bedroom for territories unknown.

***


Snape was still sitting on the sofa when Harry emerged. His top lip was pulled back in a vicious grimace as he wrestled with the Rubik’s cube. Harry smirked and sat down next to him.

“If you’d prefer, we could just stay in and spend the evening with that,” Harry said, motioning at the toy.

Snape dropped it as though it had suddenly sprouted mould.

“That is the most ridiculous, pointless, uninteresting, nauseating object I have ever had the misfortune to come across,” he snarled; quite a feat considering his lips were already pulled back so far Harry could see gums.

“So basically, you couldn’t get the colours to line up?”

Snape ignored the direct slur on his intelligence and turned his disdain onto something capable of a reaction.

“Are Mohicans all the rage now?”

“Funny. And there I was thinking we were going to a Potions Convention.” Harry looked pointedly at Snape’s robes.

They were definitely not his teaching robes though; Harry had seen those enough times to tell the difference. These were far smarter, less worn and better made, and cut so beautifully that Harry could see how snug the fabric was against his lithe arms and proud chest. They were unquestionably flattering.

“There is no dress code this evening. The establishment we are going to is very.. relaxed.” Snape refrained from adding that it was so relaxed it would probably admit a werewolf at full moon if the werewolf in question was a raving homosexual and could afford to buy a drink.

“Relaxed. Sounds perfect. Absolutely perfect. Right then. Excellent.” Harry clamped his mouth shut. His verbal diarrhoea was becoming a nasty habit.

“Excellent.” Snape parroted. He drained the last of his drink and got to his feet. Harry nervously followed him to the Floo and one after the other, they stepped into the fireplace and shouted ‘Colonel’s Quarters’, disappearing in a puff of electric green.

***

For about ten seconds, Harry couldn’t see a thing. He blindly groped his way out of the fireplace and stood still, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the darkened room. His only initial sensory perception was the soft thumping of music.

Squinting, he managed to make out the haughty robe clad form of Snape sidestepping his way through the gathered wizards and heading for the bar. Harry scurried after him, not wanting to be left alone for a second. Who knew what fate might befall a young man on his first big gay night out?

Taking in the dingy, outdated decor, Harry briefly wondered if he wasn’t perhaps straight after all. He couldn’t imagine wanting to frequent somewhere like this for the rest of his life.

Catching up, he stood alongside the older man at the bar and pulled out his wallet.

“No need,” Snape waved his hand, “It is already taken care of.”

Harry watched as a barman with impossibly big muscles squeezed into an impossibly tiny vest, set out three glasses and proceeded to fill them to the brim. It looked like whisky, but in the dim light, Harry couldn’t be sure.

“Thanks,” he said, picking up one of the drinks. “Why are there three? Is he joining us?” Harry thumbed at the barman and made a face that for all its intention, failed to convey a believable leer.

“No. There is another acquaintance of mine attending tonight. He should be arriving any minute.” Snape turned and leant against the bar.

“Oh God, who? Not Charles? I mean it Snape, I’m not going to stand around here so you can rub our noses in it. I don’t think I could even look him in the eye.”

“Hardly. Charles wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this. At the very least he would have needed three thousand watt lighting in which to reflect his dazzlingly white porcelain capped teeth. Not to mention his unerring distrust of a bar that has a raised stage on which to dance.”

Harry turned then and for the first time since his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he properly assessed the decor. There was indeed a stage, albeit currently unoccupied, but it was still early after all. In the middle of it, a thick silver pole ran from floor to ceiling. Discreet booths adorned both sides of the main dance area and quite a few of the red velvet seats were already engaged.

He felt a bit odd to be in a place with absolutely no women whatsoever. It wasn’t that he disliked the lack of female presence, just that he’d never thought about separating the sexes like this.

He was about to tell Snape that when a distinctly feminine high-heeled silhouette sashayed across the floor just metres away from him.

“I thought you said this was a male only bar!” he whispered urgently, tugging on Snape’s sleeve.

Snape brushed the hand away as if he were swotting a fly. “It is,” he hissed back.

“But there’s a woman, look, over there!” Harry vigorously nodded his head in the direction of the retreating person.

“Are you seriously so lacking in cultural intelligence Potter? That,” he extended a long bony finger, “is no woman.”

Harry squinted through the thickening haze. Somewhere nearby a smoke machine had choked into life. Red stilettos, obscenely short mini-skirt, fishnet tights. So far, ticking all the usual boxes when identifying a female. But then he noticed how unusually tall the figure was, the really broad shoulders. Spade sized hands, a hairy...

“Merlin’s balls!!” Harry squeaked, “It’s a man in a dress!”

“Ten points to Gryffindor.” Snape quipped. “A further ten points if you can refrain from talking in such a disparaging way and tell me what the correct term might be?” His nostrils were quivering again, threatening to snort.

Harry had forgotten to close his mouth so Snape obliged with a rather forceful prod to the underside of his jaw.

“Still searching that pea brain of yours? I see you weren’t paying attention in Wizarding Anatomy last year. Transvestite, Potter. Not my particular tipple of choice, but as you can see,” he gestured across the floor, “there are some who find the concept appealing.”

The transvestite had indeed been stopped by several wizards on her way to the toilets, and she chatted animatedly with them.

Harry scratched his head. “Hey,” he protested, “There’s no such class as Wizarding Anatomy.” A loud crack interrupted the conversation, heralding the arrival of another patron.

Draco gracefully stepped out of the Floo and paused a moment, scanning the room for his ex Potions Professor whilst letting nearby punters get a good long look at him.

Lean, clean and brilliantly blond, his combined youth and arrogance guaranteed him a cleared pathway to the bar. Fine hair swished around the shoulders of his silk robes as he walked and he would have sworn on a Dark Mark that he could hear wolf whistling directed at him.

“Professor Snape!” Draco quickened his last few strides and stopped in his tracks as the man standing beside him turned around, mirroring his own horrified glare. Draco was the first to recover his wits.

“Potter!” he spat, and then to Snape, “What’s he doing here?” ‘Oh God,’ Harry thought, this was turning into his worst nightmare. The very last person he wanted spotting him in a place like this was Malfoy. He could only imagine the pleasure Draco would take in outing him to the entire Wizengamot.

“Boys, boys. Play nicely. We are all here to have a civilised drink and enjoy the ambience. I warn you, I will not spend the night refereeing your infantile quarrels.’

Snape picked up the remaining glass and handed it to the blond. Still eyeing Harry warily, Draco drank deeply. A smile touched his lips as he evaluated the situation.

“You’re queer?” he stated rather than asked, gleeful when Harry blushed.

“So are you!” Harry shot back, earning himself a withering look from Snape.

“Mr Potter is very new to the exploration of sexuality. I offered to escort him here tonight so he could perhaps find a little enlightenment.” Harry’s chest constricted tightly. That was about as far from the truth as it was possible to get.

Okay, yeah, he would admit he was new to this particular side of things, but he hardly needed any ‘enlightenment.’ He still had a mildly tender arse to prove it. And this so called exploratory trip had been Snape’s way of trying to get one over on him, thinking he wouldn’t agree to it. Well he had, and here he was.

“A virgin queer?” Draco snorted and tossed his head back. A grin exploded across Harry’s face.

“Nope, not a virgin. Not anymore.” If Harry could have stood any closer to Snape to show his intentions, he would have. But the crowded bar meant they were already shoulder to shoulder, so he made do with snaking his arm behind Snape’s back and resting it on the bar; casually enough that Snape wouldn’t notice but predatory enough for Draco to get the message loud and clear.

Draco’s eyes raced in disbelief between the two of them. Then he remembered Snape’s violent reaction to the boyfriend question earlier that day. He might have fucked Potter, but that was as far as he was likely to get.

Draco had always liked Snape, platonically until he had turned sixteen, and then in a ‘Crush on the Professor’ kind of way for the last two years at school. Snape was certainly a far better prospect for the evening than most of the bar’s clientele. Besides, Draco wasn’t after a love affair; he was going to make the most of his freedom. He sensed that Snape wasn’t one for intense long term relationships either. So much the better, if that was what Potter was after and Draco suspected that it was. Fidelity and commitment. What boorish Gryffindor traits they were.

Despite having given them a sombre verbal warning, Snape sensed a confrontation brewing. Not least because of the provocative way Harry had none to subtly alluded to the procurer of his virginity. Even Longbottom could have worked out who had relieved him of his virtue.

The afternoon’s intake of scotch had taken the edge off of his irritable mood, but had also filled his bladder to near bursting, and he seized it as an excuse to escape.

“I strongly advise the two of you sort out your differences. I shall return shortly.” Before either of them could protest, he stalked away in the direction of the toilets.

Harry scowled.

Draco scowled back.

Harry crossed his arms and Draco put his hands on his hips, which caused Harry’s frown to become a smirk.

“Something funny, Potter?”

“Only you, Malfoy. Now I know why you stayed in Goyle’s pants so long when you were a ferret. Shame you had to transfigure back, you were definitely cuter as a rodent.”

Harry raked a hand through his hair and saw a rather desperate looking Snape attempting to evade a conversation with the transvestite in favour of getting to the toilets. Served him right for neglecting to mention Malfoy would be there.

“Urgh!” Draco looked disgusted. “Don’t even waste your time. You’ve got as much chance of getting into my pants as a Weasley has of avoiding sunburn.”

Harry shook his head in amusement. It never failed to amaze him just how egotistical Draco was.

“Don’t worry yourself, I wouldn’t shag you if you were the last pure blood on the planet. I’d rather make love to my sock, for eternity, than go anywhere near your arse.”

Draco looked downright insulted. “My arse?! Think I’d bottom to you, do you Potter?” Harry shrugged his shoulders and appeared unconcerned. He was mercifully thankful that he’d spent so many hours reading those stories; they had given him an encyclopaedic knowledge of such phrases as bottoming and topping and *gulp* rimming, something he definitely wanted to experience sometime soon.

“I think you’d lie down like the good little Slytherin you are and beg me to fuck you.”

Draco snorted. “You want to get out of the dungeons a bit more. The lack of oxygen down there has obviously affected your brain,” he leaned closer to Harry and ghosted his ear, “I know for a fact you’re a bottom.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. It was Snape, right? Your first?” Harry hated the way Draco managed to make it sound as if Snape regularly relieved boys of their virginity.

“So what?”

“So Potter, you don’t honestly think a man like that is going to bottom to a bumbling idiot like you?” Harry clenched his jaw.

“And you would know, how?” Draco’s smug smile faltered; Harry was mightily relieved because it confirmed what he had hoped; Draco had not slept with Snape. Nameless, faceless ex lovers were one thing, but to know Draco had been with him would have been torturous.

“Whatever. I’m not standing here arguing with you all night. People might think we’re together.” Draco shuddered theatrically and swiped his drink from the bar and stalked across the dance floor. Harry saw Snape emerge from the toilets in time to catch Draco’s arm. Draco gesticulated wildly and glared accusingly in Harry’s direction. Snape continued to grip his arm lightly whilst talking to him. Finally, Draco’s body visibly relaxed and he nodded sagely, shooting Harry one last scowl before going to sit in a booth.

Snape wearily returned to the bar and downed his drink in one. He signalled to the barman who moved with surprising speed to serve him. When the drinks had been poured and paid for, Snape released a long sigh.

“I notice you and Mister Malfoy are still as tediously juvenile as ever.”

“He started it! You should have heard what he said to me!” Harry finished his drink and retrieved the new one.

“I am well aware of Draco’s exceptional ability to get a rise out of you; however, I had hoped that you might have matured enough by now to allow it to go over your head. Obviously I gave you too much credit.”

Snape snatched his glass and crossed the room, taking up a booth seat opposite Draco. Harry’s mouth opened and closed in shock; Snape hadn’t even given him time to protest!

Now what was he supposed to do? If he joined them he’d be forced to watch Draco flirting with Snape all night, no doubt it would serve the dual purpose of winding Harry up and making his interest clear. But if he stayed where he was, he risked being approached and he wasn’t really sure he was ready for that just yet. Deeply engrossed in weighing up his options, Harry didn’t notice when a warm body came to rest beside him.

“Well I would ask you if you’d like a drink, but it looks like someone already got there first.” Harry stopped staring at the uninviting prospect of Snape and Draco and snapped his head around.

A wizard, Harry knew, despite his similar style of Muggle dress, was smiling shyly at him, still poised with one hand wavering uncertainly in the air as though unsure whether he actually wanted to attract the barman’s attention or not.

Harry wanted to answer him but a chocolate frog seemed to be stuck in his throat, making his response sound something like...

“Guh,”

Harry coughed and tried again.

“Sorry, got something in my throat.” Merlin! What had he said that for? Even to his own relatively chaste ears it had sounded disgustingly like a come on.

The shy smile turned into a wide grin and Harry noticed little dimples appear on the otherwise slender face.

“Shit. I didn’t mean that...” Harry said, mortified, “I was going to say, actually, I’d love a drink. I mean, I wasn’t actually asked if I wanted scotch and it would be nice to try something new for a change.”

Harry had to refrain from physically clapping his hand across his mouth in horror. He had just accepted a drink from a total stranger. A total raving homosexual stranger in the totally alien environment of a gay bar. He shuddered internally at the thought of Ron having access to a See-All right about now.

“Great, what would you like? They do some pretty cool drinks here, just don’t look too closely at the glasses; Scourgifying is not really as effective as a proper wash. They do a mean Spitting Serpent! Are you from Hogwarts? Slytherin right?” The young man gestured at Harry’s t-shirt.

Harry had just about recovered enough of his wits not to gibber inarticulately again.

“No, Gryffindor. S’just a present from a friend. He knows I like The Charming Princes.” Harry turned around to show the back of his t-shirt as proof.

“Cool! Me too. Like the band I mean. I was in Ravenclaw, few years ago now, probably wouldn’t have known each other...” He trailed off and narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. “God, aren’t you...”

“Yeah.” Instantly Harry felt his heart plummet as the delicate strands of a new camaraderie ebbed away. He’d not had much in the way of normal conversation recently, and this man had been easy to chat to, for all of two minutes. Why did he have to realise he was talking to The Boy Who Lived?

Harry stared at the floor and waited for the inevitable ‘Can I see your scar?’ question, pleasantly taken aback when it wasn’t forthcoming.

Instead, the stranger offered his hand and smiled, “I’m Max.” Harry couldn’t help smiling back and presented his own, feeling oddly elated that the simple gesture of a handshake would still apply in the circumstances. He didn’t know what he’d expected in a gay bar, but shaking hands probably wasn’t top of his ‘techniques used for being seduced’ list. As soon as he’d thought it, he mentally berated himself for assuming the man was after anything more than a pleasant conversation and someone to drink with.

“I’m, err.. Harry.” The prolonged handshake fleetingly progressed into a gentle tangle of fingers before Harry caught himself and snatched his hand away, blushing.

Max chuckled and turned back to the bar. “So, what are you having then?” he said, eyes pointedly seeking the barman again.

“I’ll give that Spitting Serpent a go, thanks.”

Harry took the opportunity to study Max unobserved as he waited for his drink. The man looked to be in his early twenties, a guess more or less confirmed when Harry did a quick calculation of how many years ‘a few’ might be since he’d left Hogwarts.

Golden grains of sand appeared to be sprinkled through his dark blonde hair, which flopped lazily around his ears. Not in a messy way like Harry’s, more like it had been deliberately styled to look impossibly mussed. Like he’d just got out of bed. Harry suppressed a shiver at the thought. Equally, sand sprinkled eye lashes rested delicately against his high cheekbones whenever he blinked slowly; Harry noticed he did it quite often.

He was nicely tanned, not overly so, more sun-kissed than ravaged. From a side profile, Harry couldn’t see his eyes and he hadn’t been paying attention before. He waited until the drinks were placed on the bar and he had one in his hand before he initiated eye contact.

Merlin! Harry knew he almost spluttered it out loud. He’d definitely drawn attention to himself because Max had cocked his head and was staring at him with a puzzled expression.

“Umm, your eyes...I’ve never seen...” Harry couldn’t stop staring.

“Rainbows?” Max smiled endearingly, flashing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. How the hell had he not noticed straight away? The bloody awful lighting might have been to blame but now he had locked onto them, Harry was finding it dreadfully hard to tear himself away. Diagonal lines of lilac bled into blue, into green, yellow and red and finally orange. He was mesmerized.

“Green ones are just as beautiful.” Max whispered, leaning closer to breath the words against Harry’s ear.

Harry blushed and dropped his gaze to the drink in his hand. The glass was tall and slim, wisps of smoke escaping from the top, concealing the bubbling green liquid beneath it. A tiny dragon was balanced precariously on the rim, glaring at Harry. In as many minutes he was struck dumb again. It probably wasn’t a good look.

“Wow!” Harry exclaimed at the frothing concoction and in particular, the dragon.

“You have to knock him in. He’s part of the drink.” Max made a poking movement with his finger to demonstrate but didn’t touch the miniature beast. Harry frowned a little.

“I don’t want to eat him. ”

“He’s not real! It’s just an ingredient spelled to look like a dragon. You need to add him or the drink won’t taste right.” Harry watched the tiny creature gingerly navigate it’s way along the glass edge tightrope. Every few steps its hind legs slipped and it scrabbled to pull itself back up.

Harry’s glass holding hand shook as he chuckled at its efforts, causing the dragon to wobble even more. It retaliated with a tiny ball of fire in his direction and he jerked backwards in surprise, the final wrench landing the dragon into the steaming liquid with a resounding plop.

Harry looked aghast and Max erupted into loud peals of laughter. So loud, in fact, that half the bar turned to locate the source of amusement.

Snape was bored to tears. He had left Harry at the bar, believing the boy would eventually follow. He had hoped the two adversaries could attain some level of maturity and move past the bickering and insults of their schooldays. Plainly, that was not going to happen any time soon.

He had taken the seat across from Draco, but realised after sitting down that he was facing the toilets and couldn’t see Harry. Draco had the view of the entire dance floor and bar, although his gaze had been fixated on Snape with unnerving intensity for the last twenty minutes. And not just watching; blathering incessantly too. The lewd innuendos were becoming rather tiresome and Snape wondered if another toilet break so soon would seem implausible.

“And so I said.. you’re welcome to take my broomstick for a ride anytime you like!” Draco snickered and wiped little pearls of mirth away from the corners of his eyes.

Snape maintained a stony face. It didn’t take a phenomenal amount of effort.

“Yes, well, needless to say, he did! Later that night, in fact, though I kicked him out the next morning, despite all his begging. I can’t be doing with those needy types. I mean, it was just a fuck! Why can they never see that?”

Snape looked suspiciously at Draco, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the little snake’s eyes had narrowed imperceptibly. Daring. Challenging. And undoubtedly flirting.

“What mental insanity must you be suffering from to think that I would wish to hear the sordid details of your sex life?” Snape drank deeply, cursing himself for having invited the runt along.

“Sorry Professor,” Draco said, looking suitably abashed for all of one second before reneging on his repentance. “I just thought what with you and Potter...”

Snape slapped his palms down hard and the drinks jumped off the table.

“Once again, Mister Malfoy, for your own protection, I would urge you to Mind. Your. Own. Business.” Snape tucked his canines behind his lips and sat back.

Draco felt twin thrills course through his body; one fear, one arousal.

“Alright, no need to be prickly about it. I was only making conversation.”

A deep, resounding laugh echoed around the room; it was so loud that just before he instinctively turned to find the source of it, Snape wondered if a sonorous charm had been cast.

He spotted the bronzed Adonis instantly; he looked astonishingly similar to the model gracing the cover of the Swish and Flick he’d brought Potter for Christmas. Snape felt a small stirring in his groin region at the sight of such a phenomenally good looking man. A little voice in his head protested that malnourished mop-haired Quidditch brats were far more appealing to the eye but Snape ruthlessly squashed it.

The person responsible for the Adonis’s merriment looked uncannily similar to a malnourished mop-haired Quidditch brat, causing Snape’s jaw to hit the table.

Draco was also staring with a likened expression on his face but he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin for nothing. He immediately tried to turn the situation to his advantage.

“Looks like Potter’s having fun,” he purred, sneaking a quick look at Snape. Even in the murky light his face had drained from sallow to ghostly. Draco thought he’d like to discover where all that blood had gone.

“Quite a catch too, wouldn’t you agree?” Snape still did not respond or move. Draco puffed his cheeks in frustration and made a sound not unlike a raspberry.

“Do you want another drink then? I need another drink.” He drummed his fingers impatiently. Eventually taking the silence as a yes, he exited the booth and headed for the bar.

Snape sneered and snarled, ground his teeth and clenched his fists. All to no avail. Potter was far too engrossed in the outrageously good looking man to notice the Ex Death Eater shooting him Death Inducing Glowers across the dance floor. Snape entertained the idea of throwing a hex but the bar was crowded and there was no guarantee it would hit Potter or his sickeningly attractive companion.

It’s all your own fault! You had that fine piece of arse in your bed not twenty four hours ago! And what did you do? Let the past ruin everything again.

He couldn’t really disagree, not that he had the strength to. It was as if the spectacle of seeing the boy turned loose to be mauled by every pair of hungry eyes in the place had sapped the last of his energy.

Snape forced himself to turn away; needing to look at anything other than Potter being wooed. Every part of his brain was screaming at him to intervene, to construct some unlikely emergency that would have them Flooing back to Hogwarts before you could say ‘Voldemort’s Back’.

Draco returned with the drinks and Snape was ironically grateful for the distraction. Draco, it seemed, was pleased to be the centre of attention again.

“Really,” he scoffed, “I don’t know what anyone sees in him. Just because he’s got a scar on his head everyone think he’s some deity. Saint bloody Potter, my arse.”

Snape gifted him with the hint of a wry smile and Draco positively keened. Evidently believing his luck had changed, he pressed on.

“Shall we have a dance? I really like this song.” The fast tempo was more suited to someone of Draco’s age group, and if Snape had been even marginally inclined to take to the dance floor, it certainly wouldn’t have been to frantically gyrate to music as pathetically adolescent as this.

“Do I look like I dance?”

“Oh.” Draco sat back a little deflated. “Oh well, doesn’t mean you can’t watch me dance.” He grinned wickedly and downed his new drink. Snape didn’t know anything about Malfoy Junior’s ability to hold his liquor, but he was pretty sure that, added to what he’d already drunk, a double scotch in one gulp would make for a rather unsightly hangover in the morning.

Draco clambered to his feet and made a beeline for the stage with a practiced flourish of his robes. Snape questioned just how much influence he’d had on the boy the past seven years. Clearly he’d learnt something in his classes and not necessarily how to brew a good potion.

He watched with subdued amusement as Draco climbed the steps and disrobed, revealing a snug fitting black top and similarly waist hugging black trousers. The dark fabric was a beautiful contrast against his creamy flesh and pale hair. Walking across the stage, he headed straight for the silver pole and grasped it confidently.

The graceful movements suggested it was easy to hook a leg and fall backwards in a perfectly executed swan dive, barely capturing the pole with the very tips of his fingers before twisting his hips and swinging in the opposite direction.

Wrapping both legs around the metal, Draco shimmied up it far enough that when he leant backwards, his head was mere inches from the floor, arms outstretched in an arabesque. Snape’s face conveyed as much admiration as it was capable of, impressed by the polished performance he was witnessing. He wondered where Draco had learnt to dance like that.

The music changed tempo and Snape briefly closed his eyes against the frenzied beat pounding his skull. Someone had obviously hitched up the volume too. Draco adjusted to the new rhythm flamboyantly, his limbs a flurry of movement as he swung and dived, released and caught and shamelessly revelled in the increasingly raucous appreciation of his gathering audience.


Harry was down to the dregs of his third Spitting Serpent. It did not escape his attention that the drink shared its initials with one Severus Snape. He had been stealing sly peeks all evening in his direction and the bastard hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid his way. Emboldened by drink, Harry mentally gave the man in the booth a one fingered salute.

Max’s eyes had lost a little of their captivation for Harry, and he found himself thinking how much more attractive inky, black pools were. Dark, soulful eyes were far easier to get lost in. The rainbows made him think of the Judy Garland songs Aunt Petunia used to play.

Wasn’t she a gay icon or something? Judy Garland, not Aunt Petunia. He babbled silently to himself. Really, these drinks were far too addictive.

He continued to nod mutely in agreement with everything Max said until...

“You agree?? I can’t believe you think that’s okay!”

Harry’s head shot up.

“Eh? What?” he gulped the last of the drink, hoping Max might repeat himself.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! No, just these are really delicious but I’m feeling a bit light headed.”

‘Light-headed? What are you, a girl?! His little voice shouted in disgust.

Max chuckled his deep, throaty rasp and placed an arm around Harry’s shoulder, a perfectly innocent gesture if demonstrating the ability to physically support an inebriated body. Harry didn’t feel that he was quite that much in need just yet.

“They affected me that way too when I first started drinking them. Really potent stuff but you get used to it. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get to bed okay.”

Harry goggled; he was absolutely certain that had been a pick up line. Part of him wanted to run away and join Snape in the booth; the other, well-on-its-way-to-being-hideously-intoxicated part of him wanted to consider what ‘getting to bed okay’ with Max might be like.

Not for the first time that evening, he wondered if he wouldn’t have been safer sat at home, reading about this kind of stuff than actually experiencing it firsthand. The thought was quickly banished though, with the emergence of a spine-tingling memory from the day before. Theory was all well and good, but the practice had been incredible.

No, he adjusted mentally, Snape had been incredible.

Laughing just a little too nervously, he frantically waved at the barman for attention. Mercifully, service was swift and by the time he’d gulped down a good third of his fourth SS, enough time had elapsed that he didn’t feel he needed to respond to Max’s flirtatious innuendo.

The music intensified, both in volume and rhythm and the large room seemed to have quadrupled in patrons. Harry’s view of the booth was obstructed by a sea of people surging forward and crowding the dance floor. The raised platform of the stage, however, was clearly visible, and Harry slopped his drink down himself when he saw what and who all the fuss was about.

“Umm, Max, could you excuse me a minute? I just need to go and talk to my friend.” Harry gestured towards the far booth. Max craned his neck to follow the direction.

“Merlin! Is that Prof.. Professor... ” Harry wanted to get over there before closing time so he finished his sentence for him.

“Snape, yes. He’s alright actually, when you get to know him.”

“Oh God,” Max’s multi-coloured orbs widened in horror, “Are you.. he...” Harry wondered why the man looked so scared. It wasn’t like Snape could inflict detention on him anymore.

“No, just friends.” Harry sort of lied. “You’re welcome to join us?”

“Uh, no, it’s okay, thanks. I’ll just wait here, I think.” Max plonked himself down on a recently vacated barstool, reinforcing his reluctance.

“Right, well, I’ll be back in a minute.” Harry weaved through the tightly compacted audience, still showing their vocal appreciation for the snake-hipped Slytherin.

Harry slid into the booth. “Did you know Draco could dance like that?”

“No. It appears there are a lot of things about my former students that I was not aware of.” Snape didn’t break eye contact with Draco as he spoke.

“Oh yeah? What else have you learnt about him then?”

“I wasn’t referring to Mister Malfoy.”

“Oh. Me. Well what do you think you know then?”

“That you are shallow enough to be attracted by good looks more than anything else. It is always useful to know for any future evenings out. I shall know what type you are looking for and point them firmly in your direction.”

Snape refused to look at Harry; he picked up his drink and slugged it back.

“He’s got a nice personality too.”

“I’m fascinated.” Snape growled, so fiercely that a curtain of black hair fell across his face.

“And rainbow coloured eyes.” Harry started to wonder who he was trying to convince.

“Anyone with a grain of Potions knowledge knows it is possible to create a brew that will have that effect,” he sneered, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to go about changing one’s eye colour for the sake of vanity.

“Oh.” Harry felt a bit disappointed. He had thought Max’s eyes were amazingly unique. He resolved to ask him if they were for real when he returned.

“Any other engaging qualities? Perhaps ones that aren’t Potion based?” Snape finally caught Harry’s eye and winced at how downcast the boy looked.

Dammit, Potter baiting wasn’t nearly so much fun these days. Why could he not resist the temptation to piss on Potter’s bonfire? Now the brat was looking all dejected and hurt again. He didn’t look much like someone who would take a heart and break it into a billion pieces, but Snape couldn’t take the risk.

“Shouldn’t you be getting back? I highly doubt anyone with a fascination for multicoloured eyes and a firm backside will be able to resist him if he’s left standing solitary for much longer.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t want to miss such an exciting possibility, would I?”

A chorus of loud boos echoed around the bar when Draco left the stage, promising to return after he’d had a quick drink. The cheering resumed but his smile faded when he saw Harry in his seat.

“Shouldn’t you be over there, telling your new boyfriend that you only know how to bottom?”

“Shut up Draco,” Harry and Snape said in unison, both quirking a surprised eyebrow at the other.

Draco flounced away to the bar with a toss of his head. They continued to eye each other warily. Harry sipped his drink. Snape looked like he couldn’t be more disgusted with the company if Sirius Black himself had been sat there, in Animagus form and drooling all over the red velvet.

When Draco returned, Harry gave up and silently took his leave.


Two hours later Harry was still stood at the bar with Max, conversing about the thrill of being a Quidditch seeker.

After returning from the awkward booth episode, he had been surprised by Max’s sudden coolness towards him.

Apparently, a good looking blond had approached him while Harry had been away and thoughtfully let Max know that he was not enjoying a delightful evening with Harry Potter at all, but rather a Polyjuiced version of him that was actually Professor Flitwick.

It took Harry some minutes to convince Max that the blond was actually his nemesis rather than a concerned acquaintance and that there was no basis whatsoever in Draco’s claim.

During the same two hours on the other side of the room, Snape had barely twitched a buttock muscle. He had expressly forbid himself from turning around to see what Potter was doing, and so his focus was either concentrated on the toilet or his peripheral vision of the stage.

Draco had alternated between the stage, the pole, and the booth in equal measures. He had also made all the trips to the bar and snickered each time Harry had shot him a poisonous look, congratulating himself on his sharp wit.

Because he was having so much fun demonstrating his remarkable athletic abilities to a most appreciative crowd, Draco had taken to downing his drink in one and getting straight back into the spotlight. The alcohol had really started to kick in though, and his movements were becoming sluggish.

The audience seemed to notice as well, and when Draco’s hand missed the pole completely, causing him to teeter backwards and fall on his arse, the crowd jeered. Outraged by the swiftness with which a mob could turn from applause to heckles, Draco attempted to curry favour by taking all but his silk boxers off.

Snape noticed that Draco had definitely not inherited his father’s thick covering of chest and navel hair. He also observed that the boy was close to being paralytic, and he didn’t envy himself the job of scraping Draco off the floor and carrying him home.

Finishing his last drink of the night, he sought Harry.

“Potter. I’m leaving.” He glared at Harry’s companion, startled by the realisation that the man looked familiar.

“Hello Professor Snape.” Gods, the youth was positively falling over himself, grinning maniacally and hopping from foot to foot like he desperately needed the toilet. Obviously, he had been the subject of one too many unfair detentions.

“Ah. Mister Couldridge. I do hope you made the most of your priviledged education.”

“Oh I did sir! I’m...”

“I didn’t say I was interested.” Snape cut him off and turned back to Harry.

“As I said, it is time to leave.”

“Okay, I’m ready to go when you are. What about Draco?” Harry drank his drink past the halfway mark. It hadn’t escaped his notice that his loathed ex classmate was stage bound, practically naked and gyrating against the pole as if his life depended on it.

“I am taking him home.”

“Right, so shall I meet you back at ours?”

“No, Potter. You misunderstand me. I am taking him home.” Snape had no idea why he had just implied what he had. He was certainly planning to take Draco back to Malfoy Manor and ensure he was safely tucked into bed, but he had no intention of joining him there, or in any other chamber. Still, he thought nastily, it wouldn’t hurt Potter to be marginally misguided. After all, he had spent the entire evening chatting up a six foot two blond hunk with gaudy rainbow coloured eyes. Revenge was a dish best served cold.

“Oh.” Harry seemed to consider this for quite some time without responding. Snape crossed his arms impatiently. Max was still shifting from foot to foot and Snape began to suspect an undiagnosed case of bladder weakness.

“Potter?”

“Hmm? Oh right, yes. Are you bringing him back to ours?”

“What? No, I shall take him to his.”

‘Take him at his,’ Harry thought morosely. Snape had managed to suck all the fun out of the evening quicker than a Dementor’s kiss.

“Listen, it’s getting late, owl me sometime, yeah?” Max darted in and placed a perfunctory kiss on his cheek.

He held Harry’s gaze just long enough to say ‘I think you’re really, really, really hot but Snape is one fucking scary bastard and there’s something going on here and I’m not prepared to have my balls hexed off until you’ve sorted it out,’ before slipping away to the Floo.

“Guess I’ll just go home then.” Harry was thoroughly miserable now. He scowled at the sweaty form of Draco, still unclothed, not so much gyrating as twitching now. Harry tried not to think about how much sweatier he would be later when Snape was balls deep in him.

Snape began to feel a pinching in his chest. It felt ever so slightly like regret. Or maybe it was simply a heart attack.

Not only had he scared off Harry’s love interest, but he’d also managed to make the boy think he was going off to do Merlin knew what with Draco bloody Malfoy.

Changing his mind, he had been about to attempt a salvage operation when Harry put his glass on the bar and walked to the Floo without so much as a goodbye.

Snape was left with a semi-naked Malfoy, the dregs of a Spitting Serpent and a faltering erection. None of them were particularly appetising.

***