Fire Call

Infernal Appeal



For the second time in as many days, Harry flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, anticipating the imminent arrival of a flaming Snape in the inglenook.



His unsettled mind lurched erratically between jaded irritation, disbelief and incredulous amusement, undecided as to which emotion was the strongest. Harry couldn’t believe Snape had had the audacity to cast a hex on him in the middle of a battle; and not just any old battle, the battle! A hex that was manipulative and sneaky and downright bloody clever. A hex that had left Harry very sorry he’d ever wished an erection away, as he had done many times before.



Mainly in class, in fact. Potions, to be precise. With alarming regularity. He could admit that now, as agonizing as it was. At the time, he had dismissed it as the devious workings of a hormone ravaged body. Blood had surged to his groin, flooding it with dangerous intensity, leaving just enough haemoglobin behind to temper his cheeks; a mortifying prospect when at any moment, Professor Snape might notice and narrow those dark suspicious eyes, glide in his direction, tower over him and catch sight of the telltale bulge underneath his robes and ridicule him mercilessly.



In his fourth year, he had argued the assignment of a werewolf essay in favour of Quidditch and Snape had swooped down on him, bringing his scowling face within an inch of Harry’s. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to come in his pants at the heart-stopping proximity. Afterwards, in the safety of his curtain shielded bed, he had nonchalantly passed it off as an irrational reaction to the fear but...



Oh God.



Harry shivered at the onslaught of such memories. Snape had made him hard. All those times, it hadn’t been thoughts of Cho or Ginny or *cough* Oliver Wood in the showers after practice. It had been Snape. His long, bony fingers expertly gripping a stirring rod as Harry had unconsciously imagined they might grip him. That cold, impenetrable stare that seemed to strip off his clothes and expose his vulnerable body. The deep, rumbling voice that cut him to the quick with harsh words and yet still excited his fragile nervous system, intensifying his arousal to unbearable levels. And oh Merlin! The swish of those mysterious black robes...



Being able to truthfully acknowledge this now brought enlightenment; why his masturbation had been so frantic after that particular class, why his orgasms seemed to be ripped from his body in a blistering crescendo of white fire. Just a sharp twist of Snape’s head in his direction had inflamed a passion that at sixteen, Harry had not dared to analyse.



Bollocks. There was no bloody denying it now though. He was hopelessly attracted to Severus sodding Snape. Snarky bastard ex Potions Professor and current ‘golden boy’ of the Wizarding world. A title the man neither wanted not respected. A title that Harry found himself having to share.



His irritation flared again as he remembered how contemptuous Snape had been towards him, how the man exuded an icy aura that even the most thermal of people couldn’t melt. Practically everything that came out of Snape’s mouth was a sarcastic putdown. Harry knew his friends would be highly suspicious if they discovered he’d agreed to this date of his own volition. They would drag him back to St Mungos and have him screened for Imperius (in spite of the fact he was immune to it) or perhaps insinuate that a knock to the head had caused this obvious insanity. Surely he wouldn’t have consented to it in his right mind? Come to think of it, he hadn’t been in his right mind! He’d had a three week delayed orgasm! No small wonder then that he’d...



The flames recaptured his attention as they licked the red brickwork and climbed higher, a crackle distorting the contours of them.



“Mr Potter.”



“Hello Prof...Mr...Sn...Sir,” Harry was rattled and hated himself for it. Knowing exactly how the man would respond to his shortcoming, he silently mouthed the words with Snape as he spoke them.



“Eloquent as always.” The familiar scorn was oddly comforting.



“Yeah.” Harry agreed, for lack of anything else to say.



“I have booked us a table for dinner this evening, eight o’clock, at the Serpentine,” Snape said confidently, causing a few hairs on Harry’s neck to stiffen.



“The Serpentine?” It sounded a little too Slytherin for Harry’s liking.



“Yes, boy, the Serpentine. Are you familiar with it?” Snape enquired, though not nastily. Just ever so slightly as if Harry was a tiny, irritating splinter that occasionally rubbed the wrong way.



“No. I’ve never been there before.”



“It is not on the Floo system but you may Apparate to Diagon Alley and I can meet you there. Unless you have reverted to your pre-wizarding disposition of using an automobile, in which case, I cannot help you with directions. My knowledge of Muggle modes of transportation is thankfully limited.”



Harry rolled his eyes. “Not necessary. I’ll already be in Diagon this afternoon. Where exactly is this place anyway?”



“It is not a ‘place’, Potter. It is one of the finest dining establishments in Britain. You should be cognisant that there is a dress code.” A flame licked the side of Snape’s fiery mouth, creating the wispy curl of a sneer.



“Okay, I get it, smart clothes. The address?” Harry pressed hurriedly, in case he changed his mind altogether.



“We shall convene outside Gringotts and I will escort you there. I would hate to be left tarrying with a bread roll whilst the concierge refuses your admittance.”



Harry snorted. As if they would turn Dark Lord vanquisher Harry Potter away. He could turn up in a thigh high toga and winkle pickers, they’d still let him in and Snape damn well knew it.



“Okay, so I’ll meet you at Gringotts, just before eight?”



Snape hesitated briefly before confirming and Harry just knew the man was itching to say something flippant like ‘ten points to Gryffindor for an adequate summation.’ He watched the heightened flames retreat to a warm glow, a few ashes spilling onto the hearth and wondered what on earth he was going to wear.



***





Harry looked in the mirror, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time that evening. He was due to meet Ron and Hermione in the Leaky Cauldron at six, and he hoped they were enough of a distraction to stop him going to the toilet every five minutes for an update on his hair.



The mirror’s dulcet encouragements halted abruptly when Harry’s hands fell to his side, finally contented with what he saw.



“You’re not going to leave that cowlick sticking up are you?” It muttered in disgust. “Use some spell-gel or something!”



“Shh,” Harry snapped irritably, “It doesn’t make any difference, it always sticks up like that.”



“Well I won’t expect to see a companion with you in the morning then.” It retorted haughtily.



That gave Harry pause for thought, and he wondered just what exactly was expected of him on this, god, what was it? A date? A recollection of the good old days? A chance to be relieved of his virginity? Harry hadn’t thought about it until now. He shook his head to dispel the doubts and silenced the mirror, fed up with its incessant chattering.



If nothing else, Snape certainly couldn’t complain about his attire. He had spent the whole afternoon trawling through polythene covered robes, brand new robes that were gifts from well-wishers, admirers and just about anyone else who had bothered to note down his vital statistics. Vital statistics which, yes, had been given out as Very Important Information in the ‘Potter’s Private Parts’ section of the Daily Prophet.



Harry wondered what sort of person would bother to go to the length of having robes made up as a gift for him, but his wardrobe, verbally groaning under the weight, was testament that there were indeed plenty of people willing to do just that. They couldn’t even be returned, since the tidal wave of owl post had been so huge he’d taken to leaving his window open, letting the owls toss the packages in as they swooped past in one continuous stream of hoots and feathers.



Admiring the flattering cut of the silk blue robes he had chosen, Harry smiled, certain that if anyone was going to be turned away from the Serpentine tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.



***



Harry spotted them immediately, occupying two of the three stools crowded around a wonky legged table. Hermione had a deep frown line across her forehead. Harry wanted to tell her it would become permanent if she didn’t lighten up a bit. The war was over, after all. Ron’s head was bowed in what Harry understood to be contrition which left him in no doubt Ron was the cause of Hermione’s consternation. He hoped they weren’t having a domestic because two hours in the company of brow-beaten Ron (and what brows that girl had!) and pissed-off Hermione was not Harry’s idea of fun.



“Hi guys,” he said, startling them out of their heated discussion.



“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed warmly, bad mood forgotten as she jumped up to envelope him in a rib-cracking hug.



“Alright mate,” Ron said glumly, nodding his head before returning to his pint.



Once released from her death grip, and able to breathe again, Harry took their drinks order and made his way to the bar, unsurprised to find Ron alongside him when he got there.



“Is everything okay Ron?” he asked tentatively, waving down the barman and repeating the required beverages.



“Oh yeah, everything’s fine,” Ron said sarcastically.



“Er.. want to talk about it?”



“Can’t mate. I’d get Crucio’d if I did.”



“Blimey, that sounds serious,” Harry said with genuine concern, wondering what could be so bad his best friend couldn’t confide in him. Ron elbowed him, his eyes darting frantically from Harry to the drinks and back again. Harry stared at the three glasses as he handed over his money, confused.



“What? You didn’t want a beer?”



Ron snuck a look at Hermione and when satisfied she wasn’t looking at them, shook his head vigorously and repeated the frenetic eye signal.



Harry looked down again and tried to work out the significance of their drinks and the connection it bore to Ron’s obvious dilemma.



“What is it, Ron? Two beers and a pumpkin juice. I don’t understand how that...”



Oh shit. Hermione had asked for pumpkin juice instead of her normal butterbeer.



Harry snapped his head up and took in Ron’s wide-eyed expression. There was pure terror behind those saucer-like orbs.



“Oh Merlin! Mate! Does that mean what I think it does?”



Ron nodded his head. Harry’s mouth fell open.



“Hermione’s...” he glanced over at her, still oblivious, and brought his head closer, “pregnant?” he whispered.



Ron nodded again. Harry, utterly gobsmacked, considered it for a long moment before his surprised look turned slightly accusing.



“Ron, how far gone is she?”



Ron held up five fingers.



Five weeks. Harry did the maths and the accusatory look became more sinister.



“Are you telling me that while I was throwing off death hexes, you and Hermione found time to get a little action in?”



Merlin! Was he the only one who had taken the final battle seriously? He began to wonder what everyone else had done that day. Perhaps Seamus had sneaked off to place a bet on a sure thing in the 4.15. Maybe Neville had popped to the greenhouses to attend his mandrakes.



“Keep your voice down!” Ron hissed, finally breaking his silence, “We thought it might be the last chance we’d have! I didn’t want to die a bloody virgin!” he said, looking like it might be the worst fate that could befall a boy. Harry was reluctantly inclined to agree.



“God, what are you going to do?!”



“It’s been a bit of a shock and everything, but we’re going to keep the baby. Mum thinks we should get married. I agree with her, but Hermione doesn’t. Says it doesn’t change anything. She’s putting up a good fight.” Ron nodded in her direction, emphasizing his point.



“Right. How’s the pregnancy going?” Harry asked, despite his aversion to all things anatomically female.



“Have you seen the hormones on it? And bloody hell, the morning sickness.” Ron suppressed a shudder, “Remember when I was chucking up those slugs? This is nothing compared to that.”



Harry suddenly felt very glad of his sexual inclination. There was no way in this lifetime he was going to get someone pregnant.



Taking two of the drinks, he motioned for Ron to follow him and made his way back to the table.



Despite the uneasy start to the evening, Harry found himself enjoying their earnest conversation. It was joyful to be in the real world, not having to constantly look over his shoulder for death eaters or Voldemort. They talked and laughed about everything, no longer worried that their young lives might be cut short at any moment by a well-placed Avada Kedavra. Although, Harry thought, Ron did look like his young life had been cut short by a well-placed ejaculation, poor sod.



But as eight o’clock approached, Harry was thoroughly relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he forgot to keep an eye on the time.



***



“Oh, mate tell me about it! I’ll never forget the look on old McGonagall’s face!!” Ron chuckled heartily before snapping his mouth shut and glancing around furtively, half expecting to see a pissed off tabby cat in the general vicinity. Relieved not to find one, he carried on.



“And do you remember the time we found that dead bat and put it in Snape’s desk? With a note saying ‘Last Will and Testament of Mr Bat– I leave all my earthly possessions to my next of kin, Professor Severus Snape’” Ron shook his head in amusement and drained the rest of his pint.



“Oh shit!” Harry swore loudly at the mention of the man’s name, “What time is it?”



Hermione gave him a reproving look before checking. “Ten past eight. Why?”



“Shit! I’ve got to go!” he hissed, jerking backwards off the stool and clapping Ron on the back, half heartedly waving an apologetic hand at Hermione before barrelling out of the door.



He sprinted down Diagon Alley, not even stopping to gaze in the display window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He dashed past it in a blaze of blue silk, thinking only about getting to Gringotts. He cursed under his breath as he dodged Goblins and witches alike, running at full tilt until the imposing grey building came into view. Harry slowed to a jog and scanned the area, trying to catch his breath. He was hardly unfit, but the punishing pace had really given his lungs something to think about.



Snape was nowhere to be seen.



‘Ten minutes late!’ Harry wanted to shout out loud, it hardly constituted being stood up! He leant dejectedly against a column and tried to convince himself it was probably for the best anyway. Perhaps Snape had also had second thoughts and hadn’t come either. Harry consoled himself with the fact that Hermione and Ron would likely still be in the pub and began to retrace his steps at a far more leisurely rate.



“Mr Potter.” The baritone drawl mocked his name as it floated through the dusky air. “Your total disregard for etiquette is quite astounding.”



Harry spun round and felt his heart contract as he spotted Snape’s dark outline, lurking in the shadows of a narrow alley adjacent to the bank. Harry let out a sigh of relief and moved towards him.



“Hi, really sorry I’m late.”



“You realise it is quite probable our table has been given to somebody else?” Snape said, looking mightily pissed off but strangely sexy at the same time.



“Uh, right. Perhaps we’d better go and see. We could always go to Fortescue’s if they have,” Harry said cheerfully in an attempt to placate Snape’s obvious irritation.



“You wish to subject me to neuralgia on our first date?”



Harry felt a weird flip-flop in his chest at the insinuation that there might be a second date. He walked faster to keep up with the long strides and found himself gazing rather appreciatively at Snape’s arse. It was bizarre, he thought to himself, that if anyone else had taken him out on a date and just spoken to him that way, in that tone, he would have told them where to stick their posh restaurant.



“Not if you don’t want to, I was just...oh never mind.”



In silence, they passed through a length of candle lit passage way until the narrow alley widened. In the distance, Harry could make out a tall building, seemingly constructed entirely of marble and adorned with beautiful carvings of snakes, not for one moment looking anything like the death eater’s establishment Harry had imagined when informed of its name.



Two doorman stood guard in their heavy brocaded uniforms as one by one, individuals and groups were politely turned away. Harry gasped at the sheer opulence of the place and unconsciously tried to flatten his hair.



“I’ve never been here before,” he said peevishly.



Snape slanted his eyes at him, “Did you expect Hagrid to bring you here when first he picked you up? From what I heard, your plebeian palate would have been more suited to an ice cream parlour at that time. It appears that may still be the case.”



Harry smiled good-naturedly, feeling far more at ease than he would ever have thought possible in Snape’s company. Perhaps it was the fact that the snarky comments were only light humorous prods rather than malicious vindictive slurs. Out of the context of the classroom, it made all the difference. Besides, he was about to have dinner in a top restaurant, with a man that whilst not conventionally handsome, was certainly more than edible in Harry’s eyes.



His stomach and cock both rumbled in agreement.



Drawing nearer, Harry noticed one of the doorman stepping forward to greet them, a smile gracing his face that had not been present when refusing entry to the other would-be diners.



“Sir Snape, welcome!” he gushed, drawing a deep bow that rooted Harry to the spot in amazement.



Snape barely withheld a tut. “There is no need for the use of titles. Mr Snape will be perfectly adequate.”



Harry glanced up and saw a blush colour the pale cheekbones. The man was clearly unsettled by the doorman’s grovelling display. Harry wondered if all guests were received in such a manner. Whatever the case, it definitely extended to war heroes.



“And Sir Potter!” he enthused, once again curving into a stoop so low his nose almost scraped the red carpet. Harry wasn’t sure where to look but Snape tersely saved them both from further awkwardness.



“May we be seated? Admittedly we are behind schedule but I hope that will not invalidate our reservation.”



“Of course not Mr Snape! We have the very best table for you and your guest. Please, if you will follow me.”



The doorman nodded to his counterpart and swept through the gilded door, holding it open for them to pass through unhindered. The buzzing of chatty diners hushed as they followed him into the atrium of the restaurant, and Harry was surprised again when they were led up a grand spiral staircase, emerging onto a smaller level with far fewer tables, far more serving staff and if possible, even more sumptuous furnishings.



The area was quieter than downstairs, although the bustle of activity could still be heard. Rather perfect, Harry thought, that they could hear the general hum of conversation without having to shout at each other across the table. And Merlin, what a table!



The doorman led them towards a floor to ceiling bay window that Harry worked out must be directly above the entrance. The ornate table looked out over the landscape of Diagon Alley and further beyond into Muggle London, the blinking lights of the Thames clearly visible.



“Wow.” Harry exhaled as his chair was pulled out for him. “This is unbelievable.”



“I take it you are not of a mind to seek ice cream after all?” Snape enquired, allowing a demure quirk of his mouth.



Harry licked his own, whether at the mention of ice cream or at the sight of those pale, thin lips almost smiling at him, he didn’t know.



“No, this is perfect. How can we be so high? We only came up one flight of stairs but I can see the whole of London from here!”



“Magic, Potter. I do wonder if you will ever cease to be so in awe of it.”



Harry stared out of the window, readying a reply but Snape spoke again. “Though since I find it somewhat endearing, I hope not.”



The gentle tone caught Harry by surprise and his gaze moved from the breathtaking scenery to the man seated opposite.



“Do you think we might be able to call each other by our first names? I mean I can’t call you Professor anymore and I absolutely refuse to call you Sir, and Mr Snape sounds a bit, well, weird.”



“Yes I suppose it does. I am not heavily inclined to call you Sir Potter either.”



Harry smirked and Snape matched it.



“Well, how about Harry and Severus then?” Harry propositioned.



Two crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne appeared on the table in front of them. Snape poured a generous amount of the bubbly into both and offered Harry one.



“To Harry and Severus,” he toasted, holding his glass aloft.



“Harry and Severus,” Harry echoed, drinking deeply.



He set his drink down on the table and sat back, raking a speculative eye over ‘Severus’.



“So that hex...” Harry began, because he really did want to get this part of the conversation out of the way rather quickly.



“Yes?” Snape glowered, stiffening slightly at the mention of it. Harry gulped, feeling very young again. Evidently Severus wasn’t going to be any less easy to procure an apology from than Snape.



“Why? I mean how? When?”



“Why, because I was presented with a unique opportunity to do so. How, surely you know the mechanics of casting a spell by now and when; during that thirty second respite in the battle when the Dark Lord’s robes briefly obscured his vision and his minions were frantically attending to him.”



“Just before I took him out with that final AK?” Harry gawped.



“Yes, I believe that was rather a stroke of luck for both of us. He was forever being warned of the perilous nature of wearing multi-layered robes in conflict.”



Harry couldn’t argue with that. He himself had experienced the problem of lengthy robes and gusty winds.



“But why me? I mean you hated me at school, didn’t you? And now you’re a bloody hero, you could have any man you wanted.” Harry just couldn’t get his head around the idea that Snape had any feelings other than malevolence towards him.



“Yes I could, couldn’t I?” Snape agreed, though he showed no hint of arrogance about it, merely that it was an irrefutable fact. “And I did not hate you at school. Admittedly I treated you with more disdain than the majority of students but I thought you understood the reasons for that.”



The appearance of a waiter bearing menus temporarily halted their conversation and Harry took the opportunity to quietly mull over Snape’s words whilst scanning the extensive list of dishes.



After a good five minutes of perusing and being utterly unable to make a choice, Harry broke the silence.



“See anything you fancy?” he said, quirking an eyebrow in a suspiciously good impression of a recent ex Potion Master.



Snape levelled a hungry gaze over the top of his menu. “Not unless they have started serving Quidditch brats as entrees.”



Harry felt his throat dry out and quickly rehydrated his mouth with another sip of champagne. He remembered the handful of times he’d been allowed to watch cartoons with Dudley, specifically the ones where an unsuspecting animal turned into a walking slab of meat before the very eyes of its hunter.



“Hmm,” Harry ran a shaky finger down the menu, “doesn’t look like it.”



“Pity.” Snape said, turning his attention back to the matter of food.



Harry kept his eyes down and tried to focus on what he should order, but his stomach kept jumping about and he couldn’t concentrate.



The waiter reappeared with a quill and parchment notepad, waiting patiently until they were ready to order.



Snape replaced his menu on the table and tilted his head to converse with him.



“ I will have the Consommé of Berkshire crayfish with tortellini of confit chicken and \'crudités\' of vegetables to start, followed by the fillet of black bream with smoked potato purée, maple and almond glazed chicken wings, wilted greens, and marjoram jus.”



Impressed beyond words at the flawless pronunciation, Harry felt his jaw slacken and fought to maintain his composure.



“Very good Mr. Snape and for you, sir?” the waiter enquired genially.



“Uh..” Shit, Harry cursed, he hadn’t actually made a decision yet. “I’d like the pers...pers...”



“Persillade of rabbit with autumn vegetables ‘à la grecque’ and grain mustard vinaigrette? Sir?” the waiter nodded vigorously, as though trying to talk Harry into it.



“Yeah, that’s right and for my main I’d like the Sautéed Pav...Pav...”



“Sautéed pavé of Loch Duart salmon, smoked bacon, clam and sweetcorn chowder?” he bleated enthusiastically as he scribbled.



Harry glared at the infuriating man and was sorely tempted to say that no, actually, that wasn’t what he had wanted to order but Snape was smirking at him and there was something wrong about it, or rather, there was something not right. Harry realised with a start that the smirk lacked any trace of the derision normally accompanying it and was perhaps more genuine amusement than anything sinister.



“Yeah, that too but knock off the bacon please.” he frowned, determined to assert at least a little dominance over the situation.



“Certainly, sir.” The waiter finished writing with a flourish of his quill and retreated to the kitchens.



“Knock off the bacon?” Snape challenged, cocking his head.



“Too fatty. If I want to make the grade for the Cannons I have to keep my body in shape.” Harry told him seriously.



“I cannot imagine any Quidditch team turning down the revered Harry Potter,” Snape said smoothly, holding his glass elegantly where stem met base and sipping the fizzy liquid.



“Yeah, well I want to get in on my own merits, not because of who I am,” he countered defensively.



“Then you should have nothing to worry about. You seem excellently proportioned to me.”



Harry smiled and didn’t ask why he couldn’t have just said something ordinary like ‘You look fit,’ but he supposed if that were the case, it just wouldn’t be Snape. Severus. Snape. Severus. God this was weird.



“Is your secretary an animagus?” Harry asked suddenly.



Snape looked surprised at the question, “Yes, as a matter of fact, she is.”



“Thought so,” Harry smirked. “Would she by any chance be a Rottweiler?”



“Is that a breed of dog?” Snape’s brow furrowed in annoyance at the possible implication.



“Yeah, a bloody-minded guard dog. Would sooner have your leg off than let you through the door.”



“Ah.” Snape visibly relaxed, “Yes, Miss Jennings does have a rather firm manner about her. It is necessary though, given the nature and volume of calls I currently receive.”



“Well she’s doing a fine job of scaring everyone off.” Harry chuckled. “I was almost prepared to live with the side effects of the hex after speaking to her.”



“Then I am glad you continue to be such a persistent little wretch.” Snape said, that hint of a smile playing about his mouth once again.



A myriad of electrified nerves skittered down Harry’s spine at the sight of it. How unbelievably bizarre it was to be having this flirtatious conversation with a man that had been so damnably rude to him for so long, never having shown any hint of interest in him in any context, let alone a sexual one. Guh. Sexual. Snape. Sexy Severus. Harry’s Parseltongue began curling itself around the sibilant words, threatening to spill them into the air.



Harry dragged his eyes away from the glittering black orbs and made a great show of examining the landscape.



“What do you do, exactly?” Harry asked, still watching the slowly rotating London Eye.



“I give counsel on a wide variety of subjects. Some people require complex potions, others commission me to write papers for academic journals. I have a publishing deal with Obscurus books to provide them with a comprehensive guide to defeating Dark Lords. I am surprised you have not yet been approached. They had rather hoped we might work on it together.”



Harry turned his head sharply. “A comprehensive guide to defeating Dark Lords? Is that a joke? Merlin! Like we need any more causing problems, we only just got rid of the last one!”



“I believe the resource is more likely to encompass Dark Art Defense material than an actual step by step manual. I thought you might like to co-write the chapter ‘How to take advantage of the situation when a Dark Lord is momentarily blinded by his outer garments.’”



Harry let out a loud honest laugh, startling himself and a few nearby diners. Snape merely looked bemused and waited for an answer.



“Er, no, I think not. There’s only a few of us who know about that. Probably best not make it public knowledge.” Harry couldn’t stop grinning, or squish the feeling of how strange it was to be enjoying himself so much in the company of this man.



“As you wish. It could be an interesting project nonetheless.”



Harry made a non-committal noise and resolved to think about it at a later date.



Their entrees arrived with a distinct lack of fanfare, for which both men were grateful. Harry was pretty certain Severus dined here regularly, and not just since his new found glory. How else would the staff know what sort of approach to take with him? Although the deeply creased frown lines might have given then a big clue, Harry snickered internally. No one with that kind of face would want a huge fuss to be made of them whilst dining.



The food was beautifully presented and mouth watering. Harry wanted to attack it with gusto but found himself staring in horror as a never ending parade of cutlery appeared at either side of his plate.



“Not a regular occurrence then?” Snape said, motioning at the silverware.



“Why would anyone need seven sets of knives and forks?” Harry exclaimed. Talk about overkill.



Snape ignored his question. “Work from the outside in,” he suggested.



Harry picked up the outermost set and breathed again, grateful that help had been offered without ridicule or scorn for once.



They ate silently, occasionally taking up their champagne glasses at the same time and locking eyes as the bubbles slipped down their throats. The more Harry glimpsed those eyes, the further compelled he was to lose himself there. Such dark, brooding, soulful eyes. Sexy eyes.



His hunger temporarily pacified, Harry set the knife and fork down and groaned in appreciation.

“That was really nice,” he said, watching Snape take another mouthful before slowly easing the folk out from his thin lips. The action inexplicably caused Harry’s cock to twitch.



“Delicious,” Snape agreed, straightening his own cutlery to indicate he had finished.



The plates disappeared and Harry gestured at the view.



“I’ve never been on the London Eye,” he said wistfully, knowing really that there was no reason why he should have done, having been at Hogwarts for the past seven years.



Snape followed his line of sight. “Ah yes, the supposed modern miracle of the Muggle age. A shame they will never know it was the work of wizards.”



“Really?” Harry said in surprise, “I didn’t know that.”



“I am sure there are plenty of things you are not yet aware of. Now that the world is your oyster and no longer overshadowed by the presence of evil, you will come to know them all in time.”



Harry thought that was rather a nice thing to say.



“Have you been on it?” he asked.



“No!” Snape snorted incredulously, “Do I look like the kind of person that would get a thrill from riding a dangerously unstable Ferris wheel?”



“You just said it was the work of wizards!” Harry protested. “How dangerous can it be?”



“The erection of it was indeed the work of wizards. The construction, however, was not.”



Erection. Harry couldn’t help it; the blush burned a fiery path up his throat and whipped across his face. Snape’s eyebrow twitched in query before he too realised the double entendre his choice of word held.



“Merlin! Are you always so childish?”



“You did that on purpose!”



“I was talking about construction!” Snape rolled his eyes theatrically and examined the elaborately painted ceiling. Harry was thrilled when he noticed a vein in Snape’s temple pulse harder, the only indication he too was flustered.



“Perhaps you should choose your words more carefully. We still have two courses to get through, after all.” Harry smiled cheekily.



“Two courses?” Snape retorted, composure regained, “ I do not remember offering to provide dessert. You will of course be endowed with a suitable wine to drink with your dinner. Pinot noir.”



Harry chuckled, about to engage his verbal fencing skills when the waiter appeared with their main courses. Snape poured the newly Apparated wine himself and selected another knife and fork from the assortment. Harry followed suit and lost himself in the delightful combination of flavours and textures, his taste buds cheering him on in appreciation.



The silence wasn’t at all uncomfortable, more companionable, and Harry was happy to eat without having to converse. Somehow, he didn’t think Snape would be the type to appreciate him speaking with his mouth full anyway. Harry sipped his wine, his breath catching in his throat when he saw Snape watching him, line etched face completely unreadable. Merlin, those eyes, how intense they felt, trained on him like that. Stripping away his layers and rendering him mentally naked.



Harry swallowed the last delicious bite of salmon and quelled the urge to lick his plate. Once again, Snape was a few mouthfuls behind him and he spent the time watching the smooth, cultured movement of fork to lips, fork to plate. There was something rather hypnotic about it, Harry thought. Hypnotic and sensual.



“I suppose it is only polite to offer you pudding after all.” Snape sighed, as though the gesture physically pained him.



Harry made a concerted effort to stop staring at the man’s lips. “Uh, I’m feeling a bit full actually, that was amazing food.”



“Did you think I would take you to an inferior establishment?” Snape asked, looking a little offended.



“No of course not, I didn’t mean that. I was just saying, it was really nice, that’s all.”



Snape divided the last of the champagne between their glasses. “I am glad it met with your approval, Sir Potter,” he smirked.



Once again the plates vanished and Harry cradled his drink in his hands. “Do you want pudding?”



“No, I believe I am suitably well fed.” Snape exclaimed, leaning back in the plush velvet chair.



Harry felt nervous again and wondered what he was meant to do now. Would Snape bid him goodnight and Apparate directly from the table? Would they sit here all night and drink copious amounts of champagne and wine? Was he supposed to invite him back for...Merlin... coffee or something? Harry didn’t think Snape, Severus, Snape, no Severus, would know the Muggle tradition and it’s veiled meaning.



“I...uh,” he started, trailing off and taking another sip of the fortifying alcohol for courage.



Snape intervened and carried on the conversation. “Are you aware that Gilderoy Lockheart has two new competitors for Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Charming Smile Award’? You and I are in the running as rival contenders.”



Harry swallowed his drink down the wrong way and a fountain of bubbles rocketed up his windpipe, jettisoning across the table.



“What?” he spluttered, through his chokes, “You?! Most Charming Smile?” Harry couldn’t stop the wracking giggles escaping his mouth, even as Snape attempted to glare him into submission.



“May I ask why you find that so amusing?” he demanded.



Harry choked back his sobs, “I’m not saying you’re not charming or anything but you don’t smile!” he bellowed, dissolving into laughter again.



Mercifully, the waiter appeared and Snape requested the bill. He finished his drink and waited patiently for Harry’s mirth to subside, spending the time picking a miniscule bit of lint off the tablecloth with such aggression that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d demanded to see the manager and insisted on a refund for the inconvenience.



“Yes, well despite your obvious amusement at the situation, you may like to know that I have no intention of accepting such a ridiculous accolade, even if I were to win it,” he sniffed.



Harry needed to change the subject because his ribs were aching from laughing so much and Snape was looking less and less impressed with him and the tablecloth by the minute.



“Do you want to come back for coffee?” he asked, trying for a sultry smile.



Evidently it was the one Muggle tradition Snape was familiar with; Harry didn’t fail to notice the glint in his eye at the suggestion.



“I imagine that might be pleasurable,” he intoned.



Harry would be the first to agree he could sometimes be a bit dense, especially where matters of the heart were concerned, but there was no mistaking the drop in octave and growl of promise the words and tone suggested. He shivered pleasantly.



“Great. Shall we go then?”



As if sensing time was of the essence, the waiter hurriedly lolloped to their table, making Harry think of that one time Filch had run awkwardly into the Great Hall. It would have been enough to set his giggles off again if the butterflies in his stomach hadn’t been preoccupying him.



The waiter laid a small silver plate on the table, and Snape touched the parchment on it with his wand. The waiter crowed in thanks and left them alone. With that taken care of, his attention returned to Harry.



Harry swallowed thickly under the steady dark gaze and tentatively got to his feet. The champagne, whilst not seeming to be particularly effective when sitting, came into its own as soon as he stood up.



Snape was beside him in an instant, holding out a steadying arm. Harry thanked him and once the initial head rush subsided, felt much better.



Still holding Snape’s arm, they Side-Apparated away from the swanky surroundings and into the darkness.



***

The second the wood solidified beneath his feet, Snape was on him. Strong fingers gripped Harry’s shoulders, steering him backwards until his spine connected with the wall. His lips were caught up in a brutal kiss as Snape framed Harry’s face roughly in his palms.



Breathless from the speed and surprise of the attack, Harry quickly regained composure and responded with identical urgency. His hands flew around Snape’s neck, fingers locking to keep the plundering lips firmly pressed to his own as a slick tongue traced hungry patterns over his mouth. Harry moaned in pleasure, parting his lips invitingly, thrills coursing through him when he felt a wet warmth accept, collide and explore.



Too soon, Snape broke the kiss and dropped to his neck, licking and nipping the sensitive skin before sucking it into his mouth. Harry was firmly pinned against the wall, with Snape’s palms rubbing rough circular motions over his hips, his chest still pressed up tightly against Harry’s.



“Last night,” Harry panted, winding his fingers through the long black hair, yanking it backwards none too gently to better position Snape’s mouth over a particularly sensitive spot, “What you said...”



An exhaled affirmation glanced hotly off a raised patch of goose bumps, making Harry shiver. Emboldened by the heady mixture of lust and vintage champagne, Harry blurted out, “I want it, I want all of it. Do it to me, now.”



Snape instantly moved his mouth away. Harry mourned the loss of contact, forcing his hips forward to challenge the gripping hold pinioning him to the brickwork.



“What exactly do you want from me, Potter?” Snape growled into the enclosed space between Harry’s ear and the wall, a veil of thick black hair sweeping across Harry’s shoulder, tickling the side of his heated face.



Harry dug his fingernails into the neck muscles flexing under his touch, delighted when Snape arched his spine. He turned his head slowly until his mouth was close enough to flick his tongue out and catch Snape’s earlobe.



“It’s Harry, remember, “ he whispered, “and what I want, is you, doing everything you described in glorious detail last night,”



Snape pressed a sharp hip into his groin, his hand between their bodies sliding over the silk robes, across the taut stomach muscles beneath it before moving around to firmly cup Harry’s arse. Harry gasped as his buttocks were squeezed roughly and propelled forward, Snape’s erection mercilessly grinding against his own through layers of fabric.



“Perhaps we should recapitulate then, Harry,” Snape smirked, never letting an inch of air penetrate the space between them. “As I recall, I began by licking up the inside of your thighs, sucking your hard, weeping cock into my mouth and tasting you, before circling your tight, hot hole with my finger, breaching it and stretching you, making you ready for a good solid fucking, my cock buried in your slick, desperate channel.”



Every nerve in Harry’s body electrified at the words, nails unconsciously scoring tracks across the sensitive flesh of Snape’s neck, causing him to hiss in pleasurable pain.



Interpreting the action as unspoken assent as Harry hoped he would, Snape twisted his head around and spied the open bedroom door, grasping Harry’s wrist forcefully and dragging him through it.



Harry had a momentary flashback to another time he had been forcibly moved like this. Then, he had only experienced pounding terror and sickening fear, not gut-churning excitement and explosive arousal.



But Harry had no time to consider all of that now; as suddenly as the floorboards beneath his feet became carpet, he was thrown onto the bed and straddled, strong thighs attempting to control his already thrusting hips. Impossibly turned on, Harry began ripping apart the tiny black buttons that hid the body he so desperately longed to be skin-close with.



Snape was no more considerate with Harry’s robes; shiny blue buttons popped off in all directions, skittering across the counterpane and carpet. Harry lifted his shoulders and wriggled to free his arms, setting again to the task of undressing the other man. Snape interrupted only to administer searing kisses whilst tearing off his clothes, until Harry felt blissfully cool air tickle his torso.



He muttered crossly as the stubborn buttons refused to be torn from their roots, and Snape impatiently released a handful of Harry’s hair to retrieve his wand.



The abrupt change in sensation, from touch through material to skin on skin, not to mention getting a first proper look at the subject of his unconscious teenage fantasies took Harry’s breath away.



Snape’s long, lithe frame, finally divested of the restrictive clothing, was gently toned and deliciously pale, decorated by a network of angry scars that predominantly criss-crossed his collarbone. Harry raked his gaze down a thick trail of coarse, black hair until his eyes found what they were seeking.



The base of Snape’s long, broad cock, nestled in a thatch of tight, dark curls. Heart hammering against his ribcage, Harry reached out tentatively and slipped his fingers around the thick shaft, loving the feel of silky pink flesh gliding through his loose fist.



Snape thrust himself into Harry’s hand and laid his palms flat against his chest, twisting a nipple with such undiluted aggression that Harry’s lungs contracted, expelling a whoosh of air.



The swollen head and leaking slit strained dangerously against the confines of taut foreskin and Harry was overwhelmed with the urge to roll it back with his teeth. He pushed himself up on one hand, the other still working the solid length and tried to bend his spine far enough to get his mouth to where his hand was.



“Fuck, I can’t...I want you in my mouth...lay on your back,” Harry demanded, shocking himself.



Even more shocking was Snape’s immediate compliance as he rolled off Harry to stretch and recline on the bed. Harry wasted no time in wrapping his lips around the throbbing flesh, taking the earthy scented cock in his mouth. Thrill after thrill cavorted down his back as each appreciated movement rewarded him with a jerky twitch in the hollow of his cheek or a pulsing vein against his tongue.



He experienced a fleeting moment of startling clarity; of belonging, of being needed and being allowed to be needy, the sure and certain feeling he had that nothing on earth could smell or feel or taste as good as having Severus’ aching cock in his mouth.



Harry nearly ejaculated at the overwhelming notions and Snape’s quiet grunts did nothing to strengthen his self-control. As if sensing that so much stimulation might be Harry’s undoing, Snape grasped his arms and pulled him up until their faces were mirrored, defying the urge to rut back against the insistently thrusting hips.



“Quite...” lick, “the little,” tongue, “dominant,” nip, “aren’t we?” Snape ground out between attacking Harry’s lips.



Harry roughly jabbed his erection into Snape’s thigh. “No quite so little,” he panted, willing his body to slow down and wait for his brain to catch up.



Snape threaded his fingers through the messy hair and fisted them, sharply drawing Harry’s head sideways to expose a long, lean strip of smooth, unblemished neck that he seized with his teeth.



Harry moaned and bucked wildly against the firm grip, desperate to provide his cock with the unfamiliar friction of another chafing it.



“Uh...please, I can’t, I’m going to come,” Harry babbled.



“You will not come until I am inside you.” Snape rasped and Harry just knew that if the man kept growling like that, he wasn’t going to be able to comply.



“God, please! Now!”



Snape rolled them over until he was on top, bracing his weight on one elbow. With no sweet words or caressing motions, his hand found Harry’s arse, fondling the cheeks briefly before swiping a long finger down his crack. Harry yelped as it brushed across his hole, partly because he was unaccustomed to the feeling and partly because it felt bloody good.



Snape muttered a few charms and Harry felt the strangest of sensations; a tingling feeling inside his arse and around his opening, a slick coolness coating the walls, and the alien feeling of his muscles having been stretched like they were elastic. A spell that he definitely wanted to learn sometime soon.



The previous evening’s fantasy position with his knees bent back his chest suddenly became reality and Harry instinctively held them in place as Snape positioned himself. Momentary panic filled him as something thick and blunt pressed against his bottom, but Snape muttered soothing words of reassurance and Harry once again entrusted himself to the man above him.



“Oh God!!” He bellowed at the breaching, eternally grateful when Snape stopped to allow him his breath back. After a moment, he nodded and felt another push, then it stilled and again and gods, again, until Harry was convinced there couldn’t possibly be any more of the man to fill him up.



A final push sheathed Snape balls deep and Harry moaned in appreciation at the heavy weight finally coming to rest next to his perineum, short scratchy hairs flush against his most intimate area of skin. The worst of the burn had eased and Harry wanted more, wanted to know what it would be like to feel those warm round sacs slapping hard against his arse. He locked his legs around Snape’s back, a natural, unconscious action and then begged.



“Move,” he pleaded, watching Snape’s face as he obliged. He looked so different, Harry thought. So at ease and Merlin, passionate. If that word could ever be accurately used to describe the man, then it was now.



“What does it feel like?” he half whispered, genuinely wanting to know and thinking it was a good way to distract himself from the momentary discomfort.



“It feels...no...you feel... so hot, so incredibly tight,” Snape said with no small effort, “Perfect,” he added with a deep sigh.



As though realising the words he had spoken were actually very tangible, Snape’s restraint broke and he ploughed into Harry, eliciting a hiss of surprise, encouragement and appreciation.



“I Am. Going. To. Fuck. Your. Brains. Out, Potter” he rasped, punctuating each word with a short, sharp thrust.



“Oh god, yes, do it,” Harry begged, too immersed in the gathering tightness in his balls to remonstrate the use of his surname.



Fucking his brains out was a very accurate description, Harry managed to surmise, just as the last of his brain capacity fled thanks to some well angled thrusts that hit his prostrate.



“Can’t...wait, Severus please!”



“Touch yourself, then,” Snape said through gritted teeth, redoubling his efforts as Harry fisted his own cock, managing a few scant stokes before his awareness centred only on the blistering release blazing a trail through his groin, shouting as he came in thick jerky spurts that splattered white strips across his belly. Convulsing though it, he didn’t notice the faltering rhythm in his arse.



As the last pulses of his orgasm died away, Harry felt Snape’s beginning. He managed to open his eyes just in time to see the corners of Snape’s mouth twitch in concentration and his brow crease deeply before he too jolted spasmodically, unleashing one final, deep thrust and emptied himself inside Harry.



They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and sweat and immense satisfaction, Harry joining his arms around Snape’s back as he unhooked his ankles and relegated his legs to the more comfortable surface of the bed. Snape held him tightly until their breathing evened out, Harry eventually shifting under the weight his cue to move.



He tried to think of something to say but it all seemed so inadequate. ‘Wow’, or ‘that was fantastic’ or ‘can we do that again right now’ or even ‘who knew a greasy git like you could be so fucking amazing in the sack,’; all seemed to fall short of what he was really thinking. Snape was quiet too, Harry noticed, musing that the man was probably battling some post-coital inclination towards sarcasm.



Not wanting the silence to become uncomfortable, Harry spoke.



“Would you er...like that coffee now?” he said to the ceiling.



Snape snorted. “The night is still young and I have other clients to attend to. You can expect my bill for services rendered in the morning.”



Harry sat bolt upright and spluttered, “What?!” before noticing the lazy smirk on Snape’s face.



“Oh. Ha. Funny. Congratulations on your first joke.”



The lazy smirk grew wider until it could only be described as a grotesque parody of a far-reaching grin.



Harry drank it in, thinking nothing could look as ridiculously sexy as that.



“You know,” he murmured, lowering his face until his lips were within kissing distance, “Lockheart and me might just have some serious competition after all.”



***