The Producers

Harry was obsessed with the clock. He was convinced someone had it jinxed to make it move as agonisingly slowly as possible. Never had a lesson dragged on so long, he thought morosely. All day his brain had been conjuring up questions to ask Snape and he could not wait to get home and begin his interrogation.

Finally, through a haze of disjointed thoughts and queries that had nothing to do with his lecture, he heard the professor dismiss class. Delighted, he threw text books haphazardly into his rucksack before practically jogging to the door. He strode through corridors and down staircases, descending ever lower to the dungeons. It was darker in the labyrinth of stone hallways but the dim light didn’t bother Harry; their quarters were beautifully lit and always made him feel more at ease than anywhere else he’d lived.

He burst enthusiastically through the door and threw the bag into his bedroom. He’d been given a long essay to research and write but knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it until he had grilled Snape and got all the answers he was after. Shrugging out of his robes, he changed into his preferred style of dress; jeans and a t-shirt, and returned to the lounge.

Snape wasn’t back and Harry wondered what was keeping him. Glancing up at the bookshelf he noticed the sheaf of papers that had caused so much trouble the night before. The shock of Snape’s admission had made him forget to challenge the unfairness of having his personal effects confiscated and the realisation suddenly rankled.

Rebelliously stepping closer to the desk, he drew his wand. “Accio papers,” he muttered. The papers did not move a millimetre. Harry frowned and tried again, with no more success. He wondered if his wand was broken and glanced down at it, turning it over in his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, a piece of paper caught his attention. It was lying on the desk and Harry was convinced it had not been there before.

Potter,
If you are reading this, then you have obviously failed once again to be obedient. Why does this not surprise me? I have spelled the papers you so desperately seek to remain elusive to you.

Should you make any further attempts to gain them, they will spontaneously combust. I am well aware that you remain indignant about what you perceive to be my rights (or lack thereof) concerning you and your possessions, but for now, it will have to remain a discussion for another time.

Unfortunately, I have been called urgently to London and so regretfully our little heart-to-heart this evening must be postponed.

Have an enjoyable sundown,
Severus

Harry reread the note, finding it odd that Snape had signed it ‘Severus’. It wasn’t that their relationship was too formal for the use of first names, just that Snape had always been Snape, or Professor.

Snape mostly called him Potter, which again, wasn’t about being official since it was usually said with a certain fondness, just that was how it was. Occasionally he called Harry by his given name, normally when Harry was upset about something.

Harry was feeling a little upset now, realising as he had a third look at the note that Snape would not be coming home to have that cosy little chat. He’d spent the day with a burning desire to find out more about the man, personal stuff that Snape had obviously not been comfortable sharing with him before now. This surely indicated a deepening of trust between them, an opportunity Harry had been relishing.

Another dawning realisation was that the stories were stuck on top of the bookshelf, with no way for Harry to acquire them without the whole lot being reduced to a pile of ashes. If he hadn’t tried to retrieve it, the note might not have appeared and he wouldn’t have been alerted to Snape’s sudden departure. This meant that Harry would have been sat waiting all evening, twiddling his thumbs. The thought annoyed him. Of course, his brain rationalised, Snape knew very well that Harry was guaranteed to attempt to reclaim the papers in his absence. Harry bristled with the conflicting emotions of feeling indignant and transparent, but couldn’t deny liking the sensation of being so well known by someone else.

But what good was that when he now found himself with nothing to do? He had really been looking forward to spending the evening with Snape , and his second choice of activity, reading more fanfic, had also been denied to him.

Moreover, what exactly had Snape had to rush off to London for? What could possibly be more important than spending an evening spilling his darkest secrets to Harry?

Or.. his brain added.. perhaps the question was not what, but who…

Sighing, Harry trudged back to his bedroom and removed three textbooks from the rucksack, acknowledging that he may as well begin that essay after all.


Despite his earlier disappointments, Harry had been able to make a good start on the task at hand, reading several relevant passages and managing to form a reasonably coherent introduction before finally putting the work away in favour of some down time.

During the course of the evening he had frequently helped himself to Snape’s bottle of scotch, so much so that denying otherwise would be laughable. When it started to get really late, Harry had resorted to reading the Daily Prophet, eyes frequently darting from the newspaper to the fire, waiting for the tell tale pop and puff of smoke that would herald Snape’s return home.

The words on the pages in front of him did not seem to be able to permeate his brain. He would start to read an article, only to come back to himself a minute or so later and realise that while his eyes had travelled the paragraphs, he was still clueless as to the content. Reading always made him tired and he briefly closed his eyes, body warm from the fire, muscles heavy with relaxation.

Disjointed thoughts fluttered through his psyche, but none of them made much sense to his drowsy mind. Distantly, he heard a small crack and a wisp of smoke infiltrated his nostrils. The leather next to him protested with a creak, reluctantly yielding to the intrusion of someone sitting down.

“Potter?” The rich tone caressed Harry’s ears, as he drifted between sleep and consciousness.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing sleeping on the sofa?” Harry tried to form some words.

“S’waiting for you,” he said breathily, opening one eye to focus lazily on the form beside him.

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, boy,” Snape replied sternly, “You should have been in bed hours ago.”

“So should you.”

“Indeed,” Snape conceded with a smirk, “However, I am home now and I, unlike you, have not had the benefit of a cat nap, so I think it is high time I depart for my bed.”

Most of Harry’s wits had returned to him and he propped himself upright, fixing his emerald eyes on Snape. He regarded him for a moment, looking for signs of... what exactly? He wasn’t sure.

“Yeah, suppose you must be very tired, all that gallivanting round London doing Merlin knows what,” he prodded.

Snape could spot an excavation for gossip a mile off.

“Bed, Mr Potter. And it appears you owe me a new bottle of scotch,” he chided as he rose.

Harry groaned at yet another failed attempt to extract any interesting disclosures. The newspaper had slipped from his grasp whilst he had been sleeping and had come to rest in a crumpled heap by the fire. Harry picked it up and tossed it into the flames before retreating to his bedroom, no more enlightened tonight than he had been yesterday.



Most mornings, Harry didn’t encounter the other man. The Potions Master was up before the crack of dawn, regardless of how late into the night he was prone to stay up, prompting him to speculate whether Snape ever actually slept.

Harry, in stark contrast, would deter getting out of bed until it was absolutely necessary. When he heard the other bedroom door open and close, Harry usually groaned and buried his head under the pillow. This morning however, he had been wide awake for a good hour, and waiting for that telltale sound. And when it finally occurred, he leapt out of his bed as though the sheets had suddenly ignited beneath him, barrelling through his bedroom door.

Snape was dressed in his usual black robes, the remarkable row of buttons meticulously fastened the entire length. The boisterous and unexpected appearance of Potter so early in the morning caused Snape to jump back against the door, half expecting the boy to shout ‘Fire!’

“What has happened?” he barked, heart thumping against his ribs.

“Eh? Oh nothing, I just wanted to catch you before you left.” Harry advanced further into the sitting room, casually running a hand through his dishevelled bed hair.

“Dear Gods boy! Are you trying to give me a coronary?” Snape groused, mopping a tiny bead of sweat from his brow.

“Sorry.”

Harry grinned and leant against the back of the sofa, hands either side to steady himself. “It’s just I wanted to talk to you about…” Gods, that had done it, what was he supposed to say? That he needed to grill Snape about what he had been doing in London last night? That he wanted to know if he had a boyfriend? That he was desperate to hear all about Snape’s secret double life as a Potions Master come Homosexual Predator?

“If this is about my actions regarding your fantastical literature I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss it at present.” Snape’s face was fleetingly dead pan, but an infinitesimal curl of the lip told Harry he knew full well that was not the pressing issue. Harry bravely soldiered on.

“No, I mean, yes, we do need to discuss that, but you promised we would talk last night and I spent hours waiting for you, not knowing where you were.”

“That is utter nonsense,” Snape admonished. “I am fully aware that you received word of my absence.”

Bugger. He should have known Snape would discover the spell had been activated.

“Well even so, it wasn’t very fair...” Harry reluctantly acknowledged the whine in his voice and abruptly stopped mid sentence. Snape paced to the door in silence and grasped the handle before turning around to face him.

“Really Mr Potter, you seem to be extraordinarily concerned with my personal dealings. One might say obsessed. If you put half as much effort into your studies...”

“I thought we were friends! Friends share their problems,” Harry began, but Snape cut him off quickly.

“I can assure you I have no such problems, quite the contrary, in fact. I am more than content with my life as it currently stands. I am certainly not in need of a sympathetic ear. Now, you will have to excuse me as I have lesson plans to attend.”

Without waiting for any further protestations, Snape swept out in a flurry of dark fabric.

Harry listened to the fading footsteps and suffered a twinge of redundancy. Snape had no issues about his sexuality; he didn’t need ‘Compassionate Harry’ to analyse his existence with, and furthermore, he had made reference to being content with his life. That had to mean Snape was seeing someone, surely?

Harry resolved to stop thinking about it and decided he could get another few hours sleep in before his lectures began, but back in his bed, no matter how hard he tried, he could not achieve slumber. After a restless twenty minutes he finally admitted defeat and rose from the normally accommodating mattress. Dressing quickly, he settled upon the idea of composing a letter to Ron and Hermione.



Snape sat at his desk with his head in his hands. He was not usually prone to such bouts of consternation but a particularly tedious fourth year lesson has once again descended into chaos and he knew he only had a fifteen minute break before another irksome class would arrive to further test his patience.

He attempted to clear his mind, urging himself to think of nothing at all, and it might have worked, had Harry bloody Potter not popped into his subconscious.

What was wrong with the boy at the moment? Snape wondered if he had been mistaken in allowing Potter to move into his quarters permanently. Over the last few years, their companionable twice weekly visits had seemed a good indication that they would be able to live harmoniously together on a full time basis. But the last few days had given Snape serious doubts. Harry’s ridiculous infatuation with utterly pointless fiction that would only serve to deter him from his studies; his heightened sensitivity on the subject; his indignation on just about everything, and now his continual prying into Snape’s private life… Snape didn’t need an O.W.L in Divination to predict rather worryingly, major problems ahead for both of them.

Had his own admission stirred some kind of awareness in the boy? Snape couldn’t recall Potter ever actually discussing his personal life with him (not that he would have been interested if he had) but it seemed affairs of the heart had been a private issue that neither of them had been willing to discuss before now.

Snape knew that had he not consumed quite so much whisky after the boy’s sudden melodramatic fleeing, nor been so incensed by Harry’s accusations levelled at him, he would never have blurted out that most private of revelations. It wasn’t a matter of being ashamed that kept him from being openly gay; he didn’t feel the need to go around shouting it from the rooftops. It wasn’t anyone else’s business, after all. Of course Dumbledore had known; the meddlesome old wizard knew everything, had done since a young Snape had started Hogwarts, his ever present smile never faltering for a moment, kind words and the unspoken offer of moral support omnipresent in his twinkling eyes.

‘I’m moving out.’

Snape heard the words again as clearly as if Potter was standing next to him whispering them in his ear. Damn the boy. Bandying threats about just because he couldn’t get his own way!

Childish reverie in the corridor announced the arrival of his next class, and Snape drew himself up to his full imposing height, once again summoning his most sinister face in the hopes that it would ensure a quiet and uneventful lesson.


Harry had been genuinely riveted by the day’s rousing lecture and it had inspired him to visit the library afterwards in an effort to continue his research. Two hours later, he had revised and extended his introduction, and made a commendable effort on the first three chapters. Feeling rather pleased with himself, he left the library.

As he made his way down to the dungeons he slowed his step a little, considering the alternatives to returning home. He had gotten the distinct impression that he was being avoided and if that was the case, he wasn’t going to give Snape the satisfaction of seeing that it troubled him.

However.. his brain prompted…

‘However,’ said a resonant voice inches from his ear that gave his neck goose bumps, ‘should you not wish to return to our quarters tonight, I can guarantee that there will be no further opportunity for us to engage in the tedious discussion you are so clearly intent on having.’

Harry swivelled around. “Were you reading my mind?” he hissed.

“Is there anything in there worth reading?” Snape retorted. “Don’t be such a megalomaniac, Potter. As if I have nothing better to do with my time than go poking around in your sordid little subconscious. I merely observed the slowing of your footfall, the hesitation with which you were approaching our collective residence. It was glaringly obvious you were thinking of other means to entertain yourself this evening.” Snape took the opportunity to step around a dumbfounded Harry and strode purposefully away.

Harry mentally kicked himself in the kneecaps and reluctantly hurried after the receding black cloud.


“Very well.”

Snape settled on the couch and poured himself a large glass of scotch. When had he started to drink so much, he thought grimly to himself. Oh yes, since the brat had moved in.

“Here is how this will work. I will allow you to ask me five questions. Only five. Then, you will allow me to ask you five questions. I will answer anything you choose to ask and you must do likewise. You may ask the first question, and then I shall follow by asking you one until our five questions each have been put. Is that clear?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically over the rim of his tumbler. Merlin, he was going to need some liquid courage inside him for this.

“What is your first question?” Snape leaned back into the sofa and assumed a pose of such uncharacteristic casualness that it threw Harry off his train of thought.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of questions had been whizzing around his brain ever since Snape had uttered the words ‘I am gay, Potter.’ Yet now he could not think of a single one.

“Do you have to be so intimidating about it?” Harry rebuked, “You’re making me nervous.”

“I resent that implication. I do not believe I am being the slightest bit intimidating. What a poor first question!” Snape crushed the urge to smirk at Harry’s outraged face.

“Hang on that wasn’t my question!!” he whined.

“I’m afraid it was propositioned as such. Now, my turn. Have you ever had sex?” The silky soft tone was positively lewd. If Snape was trying to embarrass him, he was doing a damn fine job of it. A vicious blush pinked his cheeks and he prayed the other man wouldn’t laugh outright at his evident mortification.

“Err, well not really,” he began. “I kind of did some stuff with Cho in the fifth year. Actually, she did more stuff to me than I did to her, but we didn’t, you know..” cough.. “do.. it..”

Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on his drink, not wanting to see the amusement he was sure would be etched on Snape’s face. This wasn’t turning out to be as fun as he had initially envisaged.

“I see,” said Snape, sounding for all the Wizengamot like he couldn’t actually have cared less. Harry was determined not to let his moment pass again.

“So my second question, even though you cheated me out of the first one,” he said, shooting an affronted look, “Is where were you last night?” Harry leaned forward in anticipation, resisting the urge to lick his lips.

“I was in London, as you were already aware since I left you word of it. Another ridiculous question, ” Snape tutted, and shook his head.

“You know what I meant! What were you doing in London? Who were you seeing?”

“Well now you have asked two questions and concealed them rather questionably under the guise of being one. Which do you want answered?”

Potter baiting was far too easy, and far too enjoyable a habit to relinquish.

“Who were you seeing?” Harry repeated.

Snape took a long sip of whisky and rested the glass in his lap before returning his gaze to meet Harry’s.

“I was with a man. His name is Charles Lannington. He lives in London; even you may have worked that out by now. We... have an arrangement that suits both our needs. It may have escaped your notice but being a full time teacher at Hogwarts is rather unrewarding in terms of one having a private life.” Snape watched intently as Harry swallowed dry air.

Fucking Hell! Snape actually has a boyfriend!

“I am well aware that you find the notion of my attractiveness to another human being quite humorous, however I can assure you I have had no shortage of admirers, either in my younger years or presently.”

Harry was now convinced Snape was reading his mind and he consciously made an effort to keep his eyes averted and put to use his Occulmency training, just in case.

“I don’t think that about you,” Harry protested, “It’s just I’ve gone from knowing absolutely nothing about your preferences and private life to finding out you like men and have a boyfriend. It’s a fair bit of information to get my head around,” he muttered defensively.

“Did I say I had a boyfriend?” Snape spat the last word contemptuously. “I do not have a boyfriend.” He really hated that word. Boyfriend. It made him think of silly teenage girls giggling and fawning over the newest muscle ripped Quidditch player to grace Witch Weekly. Not to mention the long term association a word like ‘boyfriend’ conjured in one’s mind. Snape shuddered imperceptibly.

“But you just said…”

“What I said, Mr Potter, was that I was with a man, a man with whom I can offer and receive mutual beneficial services.”

“That doesn’t sound very...” Harry struggled to say it, “Romantic.”

“Precisely. But that does not suggest that our association is lacking. On the contrary, we are both consenting adults, and quite content with our arrangement.”

Harry shivered a little despite the burn of the fire against his face. It all sounded so, well, clinical.

“But don’t you want to be in love?”

Snape turned a disdainfully sympathetic stare in Harry’s direction.

“Romance? Love? Bluebirds singing in the trees?” he snorted. “Love is for fools, Harry. The quicker you learn that the stronger your constitution for life will be.”

Harry hadn’t thought of himself as a romantic up until now, but if that label meant he believed in an enduring, solid love that could last a lifetime, that one person could light up your mornings and inflame your nights, day after day, year after year, then he would feel no shame in admitting it.

“I believe we are back to me,” Snape said jovially, interrupting his thoughts. “My second question, Potter, is the small matter of your sexual orientation.” A small tic under Harry’s right eye began to twitch furiously and he brought a finger to his face to cover it.

“Well straight I guess, I’ve never thought about being with a man in that way. I mean, you’re supposed to be with girls right? Unless you’re gay, of course,” he added quickly.

“You would have me believe that you spent five years in a dormitory full of boys and never once indulged in any nocturnal male bonding?” Snape looked incredulous.

“No! And I never saw or heard anyone else doing that either,” Harry added, in case it was something they should all have been participating in rampantly.

“Prissy little Gryffindors,” Snape scorned blithely.

“Perverted bloody Slytherins,” Harry retaliated gamely.

“If you haven’t tried something, how do you know you don’t like it?”

Careful, Severus, a voice scolded, you don’t want to be putting ideas into the boy’s head.

“Well, I..” Harry really wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to offend Snape by dismissing the idea outright, but at the same time, he didn’t want there to suddenly be an offer of the two of them trawling disco playing, sweaty gay clubs either. An image of Snape dressed in tight leather trousers, swaying his snake like hips to some bawdy Muggle music caused Harry to choke back a laugh.

Snape looked mortified; the merest suggestion of a male lover had exposed just how juvenile the boy was. “I wasn’t making a joke, Potter,” he said coldly.

Harry struggled to compose himself. “I suppose I don’t really know. I mean I haven’t exactly had much experience either way. Nor the time to do anything about it.”

“Yes, one’s studies do tend to get in the way of... intimacy.” Snape drew the word out in long, pronounced syllables that sent countless tingles down Harry’s spine.

Merlin! What was that about?

Harry made a non committal sound and shifted his vision back to Snape.

“My turn.” Free flowing whisky had loosened Harry’s tongue and his eyes glinted wickedly as Snape’s narrowed in response, sensing grave danger in the ensuing question.

“Do you fancy me?”

And there it was. Out there in the ether. Bold as bloody brass. Harry waited for the fractional widening of the obsidian orbs, the drawing back of thin lips into a familiar and comforting sneer, an explosion of crimson on those marble white cheeks. He was sorely disappointed. Snape did not so much as twitch a buttock muscle.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“You wish I were lying.”

“Oh.” An unidentifiable emotion tinged Harry’s voice. If Snape had had to have taken a wild guest, he would have defined it as an uneasy blend of relief and disenchantment. Perhaps just a pinch of deflated ego to flavour it.

“My turn.” Snape said gleefully. Harry was still thinking about the ridiculously short answer he’d been spoon fed when Snape hit him squarely in the stomach with his subsequent one.

“Potter, are you trying to get into my robes?” Snape articulated the whole sentence in one elongated sigh, as if he had instead asked when a particularly nasty case of genital warts might clear up.

“No!”

“Liar.”

“You wish!”

“Not at all.”

“My go.” Harry brightened a little, eager to forge ahead. “What do men do in bed together?” he said quietly with no hint of impudence, just sounding genuinely interested.

Snape silently held Harry’s stare, perhaps for a fraction longer than was entirely necessary before he began to speak.

“Do you have so little imagination that you would need to ask?”

“Alright, let me rephrase the question then. What do you like doing in bed?”

Shut up! Harry’s brain yelled at him. Need to know! Some bizarre, twisted amalgamation of his groin argued back.

Snape examined the intently focused, expectant face carefully. Flushed cheeks, probably too much whisky and warmth from the fire. Eyes slightly dilated, again, could be attributed to the whisky.

“I like fucking, Potter. Good, hard, solid fucking.” He waited for a nervous laugh, or a babbled avoidance of the statement, perhaps even a change in subject. Nothing. Just Harry Potter, penetrating him with serious sea green eyes, challenging him to expand his assertion.

Playing it cool, are we boy? Very well, I’ll rise to your challenge.

“I like crushing our mouths together. I like slipping my tongue in between his lips when they’re fat with arousal, feeling the sharp contrast between teeth and flesh. I like threading my arms around his waist and pulling him closer. I like feeling his excitement, his wanton lust for me through his robes. I like pushing my tongue into his mouth, exploring the fiery heat therein. I like running my hands down his body, barely brushing over his straining erection. I like undressing him slowly, appreciating every inch of his muscular body as I do it.

“I like the way his eyes betray his desire, his desperation, to have me doing these things to him. I like pushing him down onto the bed. I like falling on top of him, ripping his clothes with a frenzied excitement that I know arouses him, almost painfully. I like grasping his cock in my hand and feeling the silky shaft react to my touch, seeing the tiny veins furiously pumping blood, begging for mercy under the onslaught.”

Snape allowed himself a moment’s respite and re-evaluated Harry’s face. The rosiness had drained away and left him ashen, even with the orange hue of the fire painted across his cheeks. His mouth had fallen open slightly, and his eyes had dilated so far that only the faintest hint of green could be distinguished. Snape congratulated himself heartily.

“Oh look at the time,” he drawled, “I do believe we will have to save the rest of this riveting question and answer session for another evening.” Smirk.

Harry swallowed and finally found his voice, or what was left of it.

“But you haven’t finished answering my question,” he rasped.

“I think I’ve given you quite enough information to satisfy your morbid curiosity for the time being.” Snape was already on his feet and moving towards his bedroom.

“Goodnight, ” he called in a disturbingly sing-song voice as he crossed the threshold and firmly closed the door.

Harry swiped a hand over his forehead, convinced he would find rivulets of sweat there. Gods, that had been... fascinating? A whole other side to Snape that Harry had not known existed before now. Snape as a lover.

He shook his head slightly to dispel any vivid images that might assault his mind. Snape had spoken with so much sensuality. How had he never noticed it before?

***