Reconciling Lily's Eyes

CHAPTER THREE



Harry awakes Christmas morning warm and cosy in bed, his head nestled in overstuffed down pillows, duvet pulled up to his ears. Disoriented, he blinks around the room and finds his glasses beside the bed on a small table. Putting them on, he realizes he\'s still in the sitting room, and the pattern on the duvet matches that of the sofa he fell asleep on last night.



He feels a little silly for not having thought to Transfigure it himself.



At the foot of the bed near the now cold fireplace, a pile of presents sits, and he grins despite himself. A childhood spent on Privet Drive meant never expecting much of anything on holidays, and he feels he\'s entitled to a bit of childishness now. He calls for Snape who is, of course, nowhere to be found, but that hardly matters when he\'s tearing open shiny-papered boxes of chocolate frogs, a pair of surprisingly nice socks from the Dursleys and a green Weasley jumper.



If Snape had a similar pile this morning, it\'s gone now, along with the flask Harry saw him almost buy in Borgin and Burkes. With no idea what else he could get the man, Harry owled the shop and purchased it for him.



Along with the object, which is rather more expensive than Harry anticipated, came instructions for its proper use:



Put even the smallest drop of any liquid into this vial, replace the stopper, and it shall be immediately filled with the exact amount and quality for the purpose desired.



Harry thought it odd, since the thing was only a few inches tall, and tried it with a drop of coffee. It filled at once with brown liquid and, when he emptied it into his mug, filled it just high enough to allow for sugar and cream. He put in a drop of cream, and it poured out just the right amount to add to the coffee. On a whim, he tried it with water and poured it into the bathtub and was astonished when enough poured from the glass for him to bathe, at the exact temperature he liked.



He pondered what Snape could want it for, obviously not coffee because that came from the breadbox, or bathing because he apparently did that in the sink, and wrote Burke to ask if the flask was really a Dark object.



That depends on what you put in it, was the reply.



He hopes Snape won\'t use it for anything too illegal.



As no one is around to order him to do otherwise, Harry decides that as it\'s Christmas, he\'s entitled to lounge around a bit, and he takes the chocolate frogs back to his sofa-bed and munches them under the covers. Belly full of chocolatey goodness, he closes his eyes and drifts in and out of sleep.



It is the noises from outside, high pitched and excited sounding, that finally rouse him. Sliding out of bed and walking to the window, he finds a rather unexpected sight.



In the courtyard below, over a dozen girls are congregated, all in heavy winter robes, some wearing trousers, each with a broomstick. Some of them are speeding about the courtyard, swerving around the now dry fountain, laughing and pulling at the twigs in the tails of each other\'s brooms. Two are tossing a large ball back and forth, and the rest appear to be examining another girl\'s broom, which she holds up proudly in front of her for their inspection.



It makes him miss his own broom, and Quidditch, and he wonders if that\'s what they\'re practicing for. Intrigued, he bundles up and heads down to join them.



"I still can\'t believe your parents got you a Nimbus!" he hears one of the young witches exclaim as he enters the courtyard. "Do you have any idea what the import fees are on these?"



"I am sooo jealous," another says. "All I got was a pony!"



Harry smiles and stuffs his hands in his pockets, trudging out through the snow to the girls. They stare at him in alarm for a moment until the girl holding the broom shouts at him.



"Harry Potter!" she calls. "Merry Christmas!"



The other girls giggle and grab onto each other\'s robes, whispering and clapping their hands to their mouths.



Harry does his best to smile through his wince when he recognizes the speaker as the flip-hair blonde from Snape\'s dreaded second year Potions class. "Happy Christmas to you too," he tells her. "I hear you\'ve got a new broom?"



She beams. "It\'s a Nimbus, a 2001," she clarifies with a haughty look, "imported directly from Britain. One of the best brooms in the entire world!"



Harry remembers his second year, when the entire Slytherin team walked out with their matching Nimbus 2001\'s, complements of Malfoy\'s father, and feels an odd pang of nostalgia. "I used to have a Nimbus back when I was in school. I was crushed when it got ruined and I had to get a new one. Very nice brooms, those."



An older girl in a pink tasselled stocking cap looks stricken. "What happened to your broom?"



"Duh!" says the blonde, "His godfather Stubby Boardman\'s pet Dementors wrecked it during a benefit concert! Haven\'t you read The Boy Who Lived: The Unauthorized Biography?"



Harry feels ill.



"Are you here to watch our practice?" a tall brunette asks him. "We\'re getting an early start. We\'re going to the Quodpot Upper Eastern Area Regionals this year!"



Harry blinks. "The... Quodpot Upper Eastern Area Regionals? What\'s that?"



"It\'s the big competition each school in New England sends their best team to. We call it QUEAR for short," the flip-hair girl tells him.



"Sounds great," Harry says doubtfully. "Quodpot\'s the one with the exploding balls, right?"



One of the witches titters. "He said balls!"



Harry rolls his eyes.



"Let\'s go ladies, time to start practice!" the blonde shouts, waving her new broom in the air. "With the Chosen One on our side, we can\'t lose!"



He ends up staying and watching them practice, though he\'s not entirely sure he understands the rules other than the fact that they have to get the ball into the pot before it explodes in their faces. It seems pretty elementary in comparison with Quidditch. Playing in an all stone arena seems a bit foolish also, and he asks the blonde about it afterwards.



"We\'re not allowed to practice off school grounds after the season officially starts. We used to, and everyone ended up failing all their classes, and parents were complaining to the School Board and threatening to hex the Director\'s ears off," she explains.



Harry shrugs. "Sounds reasonable. So what about Quidditch?" he asks hopefully. "Do you play that too?"



"There\'s a club, but it\'s not very popular," she tells him. "I mean, we\'re Americans-- we like watching shit blow up."



"Ah," says Harry, "well that\'s, er, reasonable as well, I suppose."



He waves as they leave tells the girls he\'ll come watch them again when he\'s able. He thinks he actually might. It\'s nice to get some fresh air, and their happy giggles make him smile.



Snape, in addition to not acknowledging his Christmas gift, has apparently decided that anything involving any part of their bodies coming in direct physical contact with each other simply does not exist.



He seems to have a sixth sense about cutting him off every Harry tries to bring it up. Maybe his Legilimency is finally up and running again after the blow it took in Chicago. Eventually Harry stops trying, as he doesn\'t really know what he wants to say about it in the first place. He can\'t imagine confusing things like this probably happen to people who haven\'t had a piece of Dark Lord trapped in their head for seventeen years, anyway.



A letter comes soon after Christmas, not from Ginny but from Ron.



Harry

I didn\'t ask her. She was all in a panic about you leaving, and you can\'t get women to do anything when they\'re in a mood like that. I understand you leaving when Ginny was being so bloody awful to you, I know what she\'s like. But you could\'ve at least told your best mate what was going on, you know!

Anyway, it was good to see you and thanks for the presents. Ginny loves her new broom, I\'m sure she\'d tell you so if she weren\'t busy being a cow. Dad\'s fascinated by his too, he can\'t stop talking about it. He nearly broke it before Hermione showed him how to wind it up, and she had to stop him from taking it into the bath with him. He\'s not convinced, but we keep telling him that even though it looks like a shark, it has wheels for a reason.

Hope you\'re having a good one, though I can\'t imagine how. Hermione\'s talking about visiting now, but I tell her you don\'t want us there or you\'d ask. I\'m right, right?

Owl me back,

Ron



"They are not visiting," Snape informs him from over his shoulder.



Harry jumps, not having realized the man was near. Throwing him a look, he tucks the letter into his pocket. "She\'s Hermione. If she wants to visit, I doubt you or I could stop her. And Ron, well he\'s got no chance at all."



"They are not visiting," Snape says again, and Harry sighs.



"I didn\'t want them to visit. Stop jumping to conclusions," he says.



Snape scowls and stalks off.



Harry settles down on the sitting room floor with a book on Quodpot. He doesn\'t see what\'s so great about it, shit blowing up notwithstanding. It does make him want to fly again though, and he decides to write Ron back and have him pick him out a new broom. The thought of replacing the Firebolt that he lost along with Hedwig no longer upsets him so much now.



He only realizes it\'s grown dark when Snape lights the candles and starts a fire in the fireplace. The light burns his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, scowling when he realizes he\'s been squinting for quite some time. Quodpot is definitely not worth this kind of effort, and he flips through the unread pages with a discouraged sigh. How boring. What is it with these Americans, anyway?



Snape is sitting on the Untransfigured sofa with a mouldy looking book.



"What are you reading?" Harry asks.



Snape turns a page.



Harry scratches at his neck. "Is it any good?"



Snape shifts, pulling the book in front of his face.



"What\'s it about? Potions?" he asks, tapping his foot against the floor. "Dark Arts? Where\'d you get it? Would I like it? How--"



Snape snaps the book shut with slightly more noise than such a small volume should really make. "Perhaps I have not stressed enough the virtues of silence, Mr Potter," he declares harshly.



"No," Harry tells him, "I think you\'ve been pretty clear about that."



Snape looks murderous. "Then what in Merlin\'s name do you want?"



Harry frowns and looks back down at his book, poking at a Quaffle-toting wizard. He knows what he wants, but he doesn\'t know how to ask for it, or even if he should. He settles for, "Do you have any of that mead left?"



Rising to his feet, Snape slams the book down on the coffee table. "Do not speak of my mead. I should never have given you any in the first place!"



"I liked it," Harry insists, "and stop yelling, it\'s not like I forced you to pour me a glass!"



"You would do well to stay clear of other people\'s liquor, Potter!" Snape accuses, pointing a finger down at Harry.



Harry climbs up from the ground, angrily tossing his book somewhere across the room. "It\'s not like I\'m going to say no when it\'s hanging right in front of my face, now is it? Especially when I can\'t seem to get any elsewhere!"



Snape sneers. "If you expect me to believe there is a single tavern in the entirety of the Wizarding world that would not throw open its doors upon your triumphant arrival, you are most sadly mistaken!"



Harry feels like a Quodpot Quaffle ready to explode. "But I don\'t want their liquor, I want yours! I really like yours! And if you really didn\'t want me to have any, then why did you--" he makes a noise and throws his hands into the air. "Do you know how ridiculous this is? Why are we calling it mead when we both know full well I\'m talking about--"



"SILENCE, MR POTTER!" Snape shouts, drowning his words. He is glaring at Harry, jaw set and body rigid, with hard, cold eyes that make Harry wonder why he thought he might have this in the first place.



"I just want a bloody drink," Harry mutters, looking down at his toes. "Is that so much to ask?"



God, his life is so impossible. He hates it so very much.



"A drink."



Harry looks up



Something shifts in Snape\'s face, and a sneer twists his lips. "Just a drink?" he asks. "Is that all? Very well then."



Harry regards him distrustfully, heat beating suddenly hard in his chest. "I can have some, then?"



"Oh, I think so," Snape tells him, "though not from all the way over there."



Harry blinks. "What does that--"



Snape raises a hand, crooks a pale finger, and beckons him near.



Harry approaches warily, feeling awkward and suspicious and wishing his heart would stop beating like it\'s trying to escape his chest. He\'s not sure what Snape intends for him to do, so he comes to a halt just beyond arm\'s reach and waits.



Snape tips his head forward so very slightly in a nod.



Harry swallows and takes a step forward, and Snape is close enough to touch. He is regarding Harry with a level, even gaze from between his curtains of greasy black hair, his skin sallow and unhealthy in the light of the fire, the flames casting odd shadows about his eyes and his long, hooked nose.



Harry must be insane, he must be, and he tells himself, you are insane as he presses his palm against Snape\'s chest and leans in to press their lips together.



Snape\'s lips are different this time, soft and almost gentle. There is no anger or hostility in them, and Snape\'s tongue sliding across Harry\'s bottom lip makes him sigh and wrap his fingers around the base of the man\'s neck.



He\'s kissed like this before, up in Sirius\'s attic. There, away from Kreacher\'s attentions, the dust motes still hang in the air and the light filters through cobweb covered windows, and the heat makes every move drowsy and fuzzy around the edges. Snape draws his hands up Harry\'s sides, and Harry relaxes into his touch, soothed, leaning against Snape\'s body.



He makes a noise of protest when Snape pulls away, and tries to catch his lips one last time. Snape is holding him by the shoulders though, and he\'s left only able to gaze mournfully at his wet lips. Licking his own lips, Harry feels Snape\'s hands press on his shoulders, urging them lower, then pressing harder still, and he throws the man a questioning look.



"On your knees," he says, and gives Harry\'s shoulders a sharp squeeze.



Harry gapes for a moment but then shakes it off and does as he\'s told, steadying himself with a hand on Snape\'s thin hip.



Kneeling, his nose is inches away from the row of buttons down the length of Snape\'s robes. He thinks there\'s a point here somewhere, but he doesn\'t quite grasp it and stares blankly at the tiny black knobs.



Snape\'s fingers run through his hair, nails scratching so nicely at his scalp, and one hand stops at the base of Harry\'s skull, moving lightly against his skin. The other hand slides down his own stomach and comes to rest against the bulge of his erection, just below Harry\'s nose.



Harry feels his mouth go dry.



"Is there a problem, Potter?" Snape asks, a nasty edge to his voice. "Not quite so thirsty as you thought?"



Harry tries to swallow but can\'t. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he grasps harder at Snape\'s hip to keep from wavering.



"Or," Snape adds in a contemplative tone, digging his nails into Harry\'s neck, "do you find your vaunted Gryffindor courage has left you?"



Stung, Harry sucks in a sharp breath, tipping his chin up to see Snape\'s face. There is a cruel look of challenge in his eyes, and Harry sets his jaw, brushing Snape\'s hand away from his hard-on with determination. His fingers shake on the buttons, but he doesn\'t trust himself with a wand. After he has a half dozen or so undone, Snape moves his hand away and reaches inside.



Harry\'s always liked to think that for someone with a Seeker\'s build, he\'s not so badly off. Never sniggered at in the changing room, and Ginny\'s sure never complained, but his eyes widen when Snape pulls his cock from his robes. He\'s inches longer than Harry, and half again as thick. Harry doesn\'t suppose it\'s anything unnatural, but on someone as thin as Snape, it seems uncomfortably excessive, like swatting flies with a Beater\'s bat. And awkward too, with the crooked little bend near the top.



Harry\'s breath catches in his throat when he remembers what he\'s supposed to do with it.



Tentatively, he reaches two fingers out to touch at the wetness on the sticky purple tip, and Snape jerks. Taking a quick look up, Harry catches the unbelieving expression on the man\'s face, and tells himself he can do this. There\'s nothing to it; people do it all the time, even really stupid people.



Shifting his knees on the hard floor, he firms his grasp on Snape\'s hip and presses his parted lips down onto the tip of his cock. It jerks at his touch and slides wetly across his cheek, and he brings his free hand up to steady it at the base. Snape\'s hand is rubbing at his neck when he manages to get his lips around the thing, a sensation which is both relieving and disturbing.



Harry takes a few inches into his mouth but has to keep pulling away to lick his lips and try again. He thinks he\'s not very good at this because he keeps fighting the urge to gag. This is really the wrong position though-- he\'d do better with Snape lying down so he could straighten out his neck-- and the taste in Harry\'s mouth is nasty and bitter, not to mention the smell.



There\'s nothing to do but keep at it though, even if his mouth is too dry and he can\'t get proper friction with his hand. Snape doesn\'t seem to mind, his fingers kneading at the muscles in Harry\'s shoulder now, and Harry suppresses a gag and tries to work up a rhythm.



All in all, Harry decides this is not something he particularly enjoys, and he\'d really rather pause and regroup, or maybe stop altogether. Since he can\'t though, he thinks of what he\'d like if their roles were switched, what Ginny might do and what Snape did to him before, and squeezes his fist harder and presses his lips down more firmly.



Snape gasps, hand going tight on Harry\'s neck. "Teeth, Potter!" he hisses.



This has to be the absolute most embarrassing thing Harry\'s ever been scolded for, and he feels his face heat with humiliation. He can\'t fathom how Snape could possibly want him to keep going now, why he\'s petting at his hair and urging him to continue with soft little noises instead of sneering and pushing him away for being so incapable he can\'t even get a simple blowjob right.



Or why Harry himself is still hard.



Snape makes a particularly choked sounding noise, and his cock jabs at Harry\'s throat. Harry gags and looks up, trying not to break his rhythm, and sees the man has one hand clasped over his mouth, his eyes wide and staring down at him. The sight is really unnerving and Harry shuts his eyes against it.



His hand is getting wet with his spit now, and vile tasting precome, which are dripping down Snape\'s now even harder cock and making it easier to stroke, though it also makes a wet sort of noise that shouldn\'t be as appealing as it is. It\'s a squelching, like boots in mud, and it makes no sense that Harry wishes he had a free hand to stick down his pants when he hears it. Snape likes it too, and he\'s making muffled noises above him, his hand tensing and pushing Harry further down his cock, which is poking at his throat with the little jerks of Snape\'s hips.



Harry gags and for a moment Snape goes entirely still, and Harry\'s mouth is filled with something acrid and sick tasting. He chokes, trying to swallow it, but there\'s too much with his mouth already full with so much cock, and he coughs and pulls away. The taste is filling his entire mouth, dripping down his chin in sticky strands, and he gags again, coughing and trying to wipe it away.



His face feels hot and his eyes watery, and when he opens them he sees he\'s smeared the stuff across the front of Snape\'s robes. Snape\'s cock, wilting now, skin sliding back up over the tip, is wet and raw looking, and Harry gags again from the stink, bile rising in his throat, wishing the thing weren\'t so close to his face.



He grasps at Snape\'s hip again to help himself up off his sore knees, but Snape brushes him off and walks away toward the bathroom. The door shuts and Harry is left wiping at his lips and staring at his messy hand and the whitish drips between his knees.



Groaning, he pulls himself to his feet, and uses what seems like half a bottle of antibacterial soap to clean up his hands. After he\'s satisfied their cleanliness would impress Mrs Skowers herself, he washes his face and brings out his wand to spell away the mess on the floor. Even after rinsing it out, his mouth still tastes awful, and he opens the breadbox and finds a bowl of lemon drops inside, which help.



His head goes up when the bathroom door opens, but Snape walks straight to his bedroom, not even sparing him a glance. Harry sighs and decides to ignore the traces of a hard-on he, for some inexplicable reason, still has and get ready for bed.



Some time later, he\'s wiggling his toes in his slippers and staring at the Transfigured sofa and feeling itchy, like he\'s entered class without his homework and knows he\'s about to get a stern look from Hermione when she notices. Snape\'s door is open the barest crack, and he knocks lightly and slips inside.



Snape, in what Harry\'s sure is the same awful grey nightshirt he saw him in fourth year when Crouch broke into his stores, stares at him from the other side of his bed. He has a pillow in his hand and a shocked look on his face. Harry\'s never been into his bedroom before, on pain of magical decapitation, but it\'s fairly nice, with the large bed in the centre with a nightstand at its side and a wardrobe across from it.



"And what in the name of Merlin do you think you\'re doing in my bedchamber, Mr Potter?" Snape says, that shocked look never leaving his face.



Harry shrugs and walks to the near side of the bed, sets his glasses on the stand, and pulls the covers back. "My mouth still tastes like your come," he says mildly, and slides into the bed. The mattresses are soft and inviting, the pillow stuffed with down, and Harry closes his eyes, settling in and thinking he\'ll sleep here even if Snape doesn\'t.



A few moments later though, he feels a weight on Snape\'s side of the bed and smiles, reaching a hand across.



Snape slaps it. "No touching," he orders, "and be silent. If you snore, I shall be forced to hex your nose off and your lips shut."



"Mmm," Harry agrees, and drifts immediately off to sleep.



When he wakes up in the morning with Snape\'s arm around his chest, knee between his thighs and mouth breathing humidly against his neck, he feels like he\'s won himself the House Cup.



*****



Snape likes to molest him in his sleep.



Harry\'s not sure whether to be disturbed or reassured when he\'s awoken one night at quarter of four with a hand gripping his cock and a tongue in his ear, or some days later at half three with Snape\'s mouth latched onto his nipple and fingers sliding in and out of his mouth, his own fingers lacing themselves reflexively into Snape\'s greasy hair.



He tries to talk to Snape about it over breakfast one morning, but the man looks at him as though he\'s gone mad.



"Mind you don\'t start something you cannot finish," he says, shoots a murderous glare at his half eaten toast, and storms out the door.



In the end, Harry decides it hardly matters if they don\'t technically acknowledge it exists, since he likes it anyway.



He just wishes he understood it.



Other than that though life is good, and simple, and the wintry days seem to fly by effortlessly, one blending into the next. However, though he can\'t say he\'s upset to see Hermione in his kitchen sipping a cup of tea with Snape one chilly February morning, he has a sinking feeling it means he\'s in for a rude awakening.



"Good morning, Harry," she says, unsmiling as she regards him.



Harry runs his hand through his sleep-mussed hair and looks down at himself, feeling conspicuous in his wrinkled green pyjamas. "Hey, Hermione," he says in a still sleepy voice, praying she sees no stiff white patches on the front of his pyjama bottoms. "What\'re you doing here?"



Snape sets his coffee cup down rather too loudly and scoops up a pile of essays Harry corrected last night. "She is not staying, Mr Potter," he announces, and stalks out the door to insult and demean his hated second years.



Harry sighs and trudges over to the table to pull up a chair across from her. "You should\'ve said you were coming, I\'d have made sure to be up so you didn\'t have to deal with his morning moods. His first class is monstrous, one of them asked me to sign her bra. I told them he was a spy, and now they want to take espionage lessons. One of their parents threatened to sue at Parent-Teacher Conferences. How\'re you doing? How\'s Ron?"



Her expression is cold and stern like McGonagall\'s and Harry thinks if she pulled her hair back, she might just have something. "Harry, tell me what\'s going on."



Harry clears his throat and does his best to look innocent. "Is something the matter?" he asks.



"How long has this been going on?" she demands, setting down her tea.



"What\'s going on?" Harry asks. "Nothing\'s going on. What could possibly be going on?"



"You just walked out of his bedroom!" Hermione insists.



Harry shrugs. "So? That doesn\'t mean anything. I was sleeping. People sleep in bedrooms. It\'s normal."



Hermione\'s jaw drops. "Harry, you have a love bite on your neck!"



Harry brings a hand to the right side of his neck, just below his ear where he remembers Snape sucking at last night as he fondled Harry\'s balls, rolling them gently between warm, nimble fingers, and feels his cheeks heat.



Hermione looks incensed. "On the other side, Harry! What has he been doing to you?!"



"Oh, calm down, Hermione, it\'s not like that!" he tells her, wishing he could dig a hole in the wood floor and bury himself in it, since it obviously is.



"I can\'t believe this!" she exclaims. "He\'s taking advantage of you, Harry! Don\'t you see that?"



"Taking advantage of me?" Harry repeats with an incredulous snort. "What, with his charm and good looks? What are you saying? Are you mad?"



"Harold James Potter," she starts.



"Oh, here it comes," he mutters, feeling very sympathetic toward Ron at this particular moment.



"This cannot continue," she says in an accusatory tone. "He is a teacher, and he is using your good nature against you, corrupting you with--"



"If you want the truth," he cuts across her, annoyed, "I\'d say I\'m the one who\'s corrupting him. Or, I guess technically Dean and Corner are corrupting him, if you catch my meaning."



Hermione looks affronted. "Do you think this is funny?" she demands.



Harry says nothing, as it is quite obviously anything but.



Hermione makes an exasperated sound and looks about to snap, but she instead closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and puts her hands in front of her, palms toward Harry, and exhales very calmly. It\'s something new she does since she started work at the Ministry, a space of invented calmness which Ron refers to long-sufferingly as her "Hermione Bubble."



"Alright," she says evenly, drawing her hands into her lap. "Alright. Here\'s what\'s going to happen. You are going to pack up your things and come back to England with me--"



"I am not!" insists Harry. "I\'m not going anywhere! You go back right now, I don\'t care, but I\'m staying!"



Hermione glares at him. "And what am I supposed to tell everyone, Harry? What am I supposed to tell Ginny? Remember Ginny, your girlfriend?"



Harry groans. "This hasn\'t got anything to do with Ginny, Hermione! This is a completely different situation!"



"There is no different situation," Hermione tells him with an critical look. "Harry, you\'re cheating on her!"



"I am not!" Harry insists. "It\'s not like Professor Snape\'s some sort of seductress trying to win me over with his… look it\'s so ridiculous I can\'t even finish the sentence, Hermione! He\'s hideous and I don\'t have those sort of feelings for him at all! It\'s completely different!"



"You think it\'s not cheating because you don\'t have feelings for him?" Hermione asks. She shakes her head in disbelief. "Do you think that makes it better, Harry? Because I think cheating with someone you don\'t love is ten times worse!"



Harry gapes at her, at the word that just came out of her mouth, love. He tries to protest but finds his mouth working soundlessly, like a fish out of water.



"I know it\'s difficult for you, Harry, after all that\'s happened," Hermione says, voice now quiet and understanding. She rests a hand on his atop the table. "I know things are confusing. But this isn\'t the answer."



Harry swallows and takes a shaky breath. "If you\'d seen him on Halloween, you\'d understand. He was so… he was so out of it he didn\'t know who he was, or who I was, or… I have to stay, Hermione. I have to… maybe it\'s not exactly right, what\'s happening, but I can\'t just walk away. We have a connection, Hermione! And once we work that out, things will be settled and then I\'ll come home. But I can\'t now, not yet."



Hermione grasps his fingers and looks about to cry. "I\'m so worried about you, Harry!"



"Don\'t," he tells her soothingly. "Nothing bad is going to happen to me, I swear. I\'ve got everything under control. This is nothing next to Voldemort, right? Now how about I take a shower and we go down into the city? Muggle Salem\'s great-- there\'s so much witchcraft stuff around you\'d almost think magic really existed!"



He thinks by the end of the day, he\'s almost convinced her he\'s okay. She\'s smiling and joking, and laughing at the little "magic" talismans, useless herbs and cauldron-stirring witch cutout you can stick your head into for pictures. When they find one tourist shop down on Pickering Warf where they unexpectedly hear two old witches in the back room telling the proprietor exactly where he can stuff his "Buy two scoops of black beetles, get a cursed tarantula free!" Hermione bursts into laughter.



Harry hugs her, feeling very relieved.



She obviously doesn\'t understand what\'s going on between him and Snape, but that\'s fine. How should she when Harry doesn\'t even get it himself? All he knows is it\'s not wrong, at least not the way she thinks it is, anyway. In a lot of other ways, sure, but not like that.



He wants to invite her to spend the night, or even stay out the week, especially when he finds out she\'s gone out of her way and got him a new broom, a Firebolt just like his old one. Snape is regarding him coldly over dinner though, and making really acid remarks about Hermione\'s nosiness and choice in mates, so he wishes her a safe Floo back.



Where would she have slept anyway?



Harry\'s tired from a day of what felt like endless walking, and after one last triumphant glance at his broom, which he\'s propped in the corner by the pantry, he heads to bed. Snape hasn\'t spoken to him since Hermione left, and he wonders just how angry the man really is.



He doesn\'t have to wait long to find out, as Snape extinguishes the candles and climbs in beside him a few minutes later.



Harry\'s facing the wall, as he always does now, since Snape told him he "can\'t sleep with you bloody staring at me like that!" but shifts so Snape knows he\'s still awake.



Snape\'s arm snakes around his waist, and his lips press to the nape of Harry\'s neck, sending a shiver through him. They\'ve never done this before fully awake. It\'s nice.



"You should go home," Snape says. "How many times am I required to tell you this?"



Harry sighs and links his fingers with Snape\'s. "You should wash your hair," he counters.



"If I wash my hair, will you go home?" he asks, trailing kisses down to the collar of Harry\'s pyjamas.



"Mmm," Harry hums, relaxing into the mattress, "I might think about it."



"Liar," Snape murmurs against his skin, and the hot puff of his breath makes Harry squirm back against him. Snape pulls him close, fitting his chest to Harry\'s back and knees behind his, tightly like two spoons in a drawer.



Harry smiles when he feels the other man nosing at his hair and wishes he weren\'t so tired so he could enjoy it for longer. Snape\'s not hard, but he\'s so very much there, and Harry falls asleep feeling relieved that maybe Hermione hasn\'t ruined everything after all.



Sometime in the night, Harry awakes feeling pleasantly hazy and relaxed. Snape is pressed in behind him still, but moving against his now bare skin, but Harry\'s body is too limp and his mind too drowsy to care where his pyjama bottoms went. It feels good, warm and sort of wet like in the pitch black darkness of the night, and when he slides a hand down he realizes he must have come in his sleep because his soft cock is slick and hot, his balls hanging loosely against his left thigh.



He makes a contented noise and wriggles back against Snape, who\'s doing something between his legs. Drowsily, Harry slides his hand down and through his thighs, to find it\'s wet here as well. It\'s a good kind of wet, like a hot towel across your brow, or a sip of coffee on a cold morning, and he runs his fingers through it, pressing a bit at that nice spot behind his balls.



Snape hisses, and Harry wonders what he\'s doing down there, something with his cock, and reaches back further to touch it. It\'s hard and hot and gooey wet and moving between the vee of Harry\'s thighs, and he fists at it drowsily for a moment before relaxing again and leaving Snape to his own devices. He\'s warm and cosy and comfortably post-orgasmic, and he can\'t see any harm in it.



When Snape lifts him up by the waist, sliding his knees up under him so his arse sticks up oddly, his neck a little cricked against the pillow, he curls his arms up and mumbles about the loss of warmth, but without any real concern.



Snape presses his lips softly to the small of his back, and then draws his tongue up Harry\'s spine until his bunched pyjama shirt stops him. Harry\'s nice and warm again as Snape leans over him, his knees wedged between Harry\'s, and his slick erection slips across the cleft of his arse. Things feel odd but pleasingly hazy, as drowsy and peaceful as Harry is. Something blunt is pressing at his arsehole, and he relaxes to allow it in, letting out a sigh into his pillow.



Snape makes a noise, and Harry feels his hips press firmly against his arse. It\'s oddly comforting, and full-feeling, like nestling animals. He never would\'ve thought that\'s how it would be, but it is. Harry shifts his knees against the mattress, thinking he can probably just sleep like this. He feels something inside him twitch, like his body really wants to react but just can\'t be arsed to put forth the effort.



Above him, Snape shudders and draws his hips away, sliding them slickly back into place with a little grunt. Harry gives a drowsy smile and sucks at his bottom lip and Snape continues, each time making that same sound. It\'s a nice low, warm sort of sound, and Harry\'s sorry when it stops and he hears instead the sound of Snape spitting, and feels a cooler liquid slide down his arse crack.



It starts up again though, that sound, along with that warm, full animals feel. Harry thinks he actually falls asleep at some point because before he realizes, Snape\'s hands spasm and go hard on his waist, his hips smacking against Harry\'s arse. He\'s panting over Harry, and he kisses his neck, and then slides out of him with a slick slip and a fairly disgusting but far-away-like sort of squelch.



Harry sighs and lays back down properly on the bed. "C\'mere," he murmurs, running his fingers lazily across Snape\'s forearm. He can feel the old, dead skin that used to be the Dark Mark.



Snape makes a pained noise and draws himself up beside Harry, pulling the blankets up with him. The room is too dark to see, but Harry feels that Snape\'s nightshirt is moist and clinging to the skin of his chest, with a clumsy knot at his waist to keep it out of the way. He trails a shaking hand behind Harry\'s neck to tip his head under his chin.



"Warm," Harry whispers contentedly against his chest, and blissfully drifts off.



The next morning is substantially less amusing.



"Guh," Harry says, making a face as he awakens to find his pyjama bottoms back on and stuck to his thighs. He peels them off distastefully, wincing when he yanks out a few hairs, wishing Snape were there for him to whinge about it to.



Really, how disgusting.



When Snape finally returns, it is evening and he carries a large parcel of herbs, and Harry knows better than to mention what happened. He sits at the table sucking on a chocolate milkshake while Snape lays the plants out on the table, muttering evilly about something indistinct and throwing Harry occasional nasty looks.



When Harry gets to the bottom of the shake, he tips the glass to suck the rest through his straw, drawing patterns in the brown at the bottom of the glass and making obnoxious slurping noises he knows will annoy Snape.



"Is that entirely necessary, Mr Potter?" he finally asks, sounding abused.



Raising his eyes above the rim of the glass, lips pursed around the straw, he gives one last, loud suck.



Snape sighs heavily. "I shall be returning to my home this Easter holiday. If you continue with such childishness, I will not allow you to accompany me."



Harry blinks, straw dropping from his lips and plinking against the bottom of the glass. "I can go with you?"



"I cease to imagine I can coerce you from whatever foolish plans you may have in that over-inflated, former Horcrux head of yours," Snape tells him.



Harry smiles, incredibly pleased. "So that means I get to go with you, right?"



Snape sets his repackaged herbs on the table, crosses his arms, and glares at Harry down the length of his large, hooked nose. "I burn with hatred, Mr Potter," he announces. "Burn."



Harry shrugs and flips his straw around, licking off the chocolate-y end of it with a curl of his tongue.



Snape stares at him as though he\'s lost his mind.



Well, that\'ll be nice, he decides, going back for holiday with Snape. Maybe in his own place, the man will relax a bit and actually be able to talk about things instead of pretending they don\'t exist. Not that Harry\'s holding his breath or anything, of course, but still.



Walking his empty glass to the breadbox, he decides he\'s going to do his best to get Snape on that rug in front of the fire at Grimmauld Place. Or rather, get himself on the rug and Snape somewhere above him...



He opens the box and sets the glass inside, sliding the top shut and running his index finger along the carved grooves of the word BREAD, and ponders bringing that rug back with him. Will it be too warm for fires here in April? Actually, maybe he\'d be better off to forget about the fire, in case Snape gets too warm and decides to take his robes off. Gyuh.



"It usually works better if you pull on the knob," Snape informs him, looking over his shoulder at Harry\'s finger tracing the E.



"Yeah, I bet you\'d like that," Harry murmurs.



"What?" Snape says sharply.



"Nothing," Harry says, and opens the box.



Inside is another chocolate milkshake.



He didn\'t think he wanted another, but now that he sees it, he decides it\'s the perfect idea. Why eat something nutritious when you can pollute your otherwise healthy body with junk food? Isn\'t that the American Way?



Of course it is, and Harry reaches for the frosty glass.



He nearly knocks it over when his glasses go missing.



Harry sighs and rubs his forehead, one finger sliding over the raised skin of his scar. "Fabulous," he says. "Perfect."



Snape\'s hands clasp his shoulders and turn him so his back is toward the breadbox. He holds him there at arm\'s length, and Harry squints to see if he can tell what the man\'s doing.



"Stop," Snape orders.



Harry rolls his eyes.



"You look like an imbecile," Snape tells him, "stop it."



Harry sighs. "According to you, I am an imbecile. What does it--"



"Silence," Snape adds, and pulls him closer.



In a way, Harry\'s glad Snape\'s taken his glasses. He feels like he\'s getting a pretty thorough visual once-over, and even without being able to see Snape analyzing him he feels anxious, like he\'s up before the Wizengamot for the use of improper charms on kitchen implements or something.



Snape lets go of his shoulders and touches his fingers to Harry\'s cheeks.



"Close your eyes," Snape says quietly, and though Harry doesn\'t understand, he does.



Snape sighs, and rubs a thumb softly across Harry\'s lip. Harry feels his breath on his lips, but Snape\'s lips don\'t press against his. Instead, he feels them press softly, gently, to each of his eyelids in turn.



It feels good, and Harry wants to relax into Snape\'s palms, now against his cheeks, when Snape quietly tells him to open his eyes. He does, and finds Snape\'s eyes, so close they\'re clear even without his glasses, peering into his own. Their expression makes Harry ache somewhere deep inside, and he wants Snape to close them and let Harry kiss his eyelids as well.



Sighing exhaustedly, Snape drops his gaze, along with his hands, and presses Harry\'s glasses to his chest. "That will be all, Mr Potter," he says, and strides away.



That night in bed, when Snape can\'t escape, Harry asks him why.



"Though your precious little Gryffindor mind may seek an explanation for others\' every move, sometimes people do things just to do them," he answers, punctuating the rejoinder with a yawn.



"So it has nothing to do with the fact that I\'ve my mother\'s eyes then?" Harry asks, not meaning for it to sound as mean spirited as it does. Even so, he expects no answer and receives none.



Snape doesn\'t touch him for a month.



Though they still sleep in the same bed, Snape never so much as rolls over and brushes against him, and no amount of comments about liquor, knobs, or raunchy limericks does Harry one bit of good. Harry is at first confused, then angry, and then hurt. Unable to decide which state is more productive, he cycles through them at random intervals, sometimes doubling up for good measure.



Nothing works.



He mopes in the corner, and Snape ignores him. He picks arguments, but Snape won\'t take the bait. He even takes to wanking loudly in the toilet at random and outrageous hours of day and night, but to no avail.



Though some people may find comfort crying in bathrooms, Harry does not, and he resorts to joining in on Quodpot practices to distract himself from thinking he might. The team he met before, one of three at the school, has practice for an hour every day after school, and for several hours over the weekend. The girls think his new broom is the most amazing thing they\'re ever seen.



"That thing must\'ve cost, like, a million dollars!" the flip-hair girl with the Nimbus, whose name turns out to be Madison, announces.



The tall brunette, whom Harry now knows as Ashley, rolls her eyes. "Quidditch players don\'t make enough to buy a million dollar broom. They\'re European. It\'s probably like a hundred thousand."



"Oh, I am sooo jealous! My pony only cost twenty thousand!" exclaims Crystal, pushing her short black hair behind her ear.



Madison snorts. "Stop comparing your pony with the Chosen One\'s broom. Who wants to ride a pony? That\'s not sexy at all!"



When he\'s feeling particularly distraught about Snape, he lets one or two of them ride it and crosses his fingers they don\'t smash it against the flagstones. It\'s all very mentor-y and disgusting and usually ends up making him feel even worse. How can these girls only be a few years younger than him?



They seem so innocent.



As with practically everything related to Snape, Harry continues to be completely and upsettingly perplexed, though for some reason this time is a hundred times worse. Then one night in bed, very studiously keeping to his own side and facing the wall, yet another night of fitful sleep awaiting, something occurs to him: Maybe Snape likes it. Maybe he\'s perfectly content, delighted even, torturing them both this way.



"Professor," he asks, voice low so as not to have the man yelling at him straight off the bat, "are you happy living like this?"



Snape shifts and tugs at the blankets, and Harry can practically feel him scowling.



Harry sighs and fluffs his pillow, resigned. "Right," he mumbles. "Silence. Always silence..."



Snape sighs heavily. "Mr Potter, it has been so very long since I have experienced such a thing as happiness, I doubt I would recognize it anymore."



Harry frowns and lifts his head. "Professor..."



"Silence," the man snaps, and Harry lays his head back down and closes his eyes.



Things are only made worse in the following weeks by the fact that Harry feels Snape is hiding something. When Harry confronts him, Snape says he\'s barking just like his godfather who is, by the way, dead, and pardon me, I have a meeting with the Director. Harry\'s so adamant about it, Snape ends up warding the bedroom door against him. Not like it matters anyway, sleeping on the couch again, since all the man does is ignore him in bed, but it still stings.



Harry\'s diligent paranoia pays off though, when he spots an unopened letter addressed to Snape which is very obviously in Hermione\'s handwriting.



"What is this?" he demands, shoving it under Snape\'s nose.



"Nothing," the other man tells him. "Open it and see for yourself."



He does, and of course it is blank. He spends a half hour squinting at it, holding it up to mirrors, shining candles behind it, and trying to spell it legible. Finally, he burns it.



"She\'s only concerned about you," Snape informs him, "though why she would care when you have so obviously abandoned her and your brain-dead, ankle-biting Weasley sycophants is quite beyond me."



"Don\'t call them sycophants!" Harry shouts, not sure what it means but convinced it can\'t be anything nice. When Snape doesn\'t answer, he locks himself in the bathroom and composes a letter in response to Hermione that very eloquently sums up his every thought of her ever since she visited:



Hermione

Thanks for the broom. Stop ruining my life.

Harry



Then, just so he\'ll have someone on his side when he gets back for Easter, he writes an apology to Ginny. He hasn\'t heard from her in forever, but who knows what cock and bull stories Hermione\'s been feeding her. Probably that he\'s of very delicate constitution and should be left to convalesce by his own strength of... something Hermione-sounding, he doesn\'t know. With luck though, maybe Ginny won\'t completely hate him when they see each other.



He realizes quite vividly just how much she does not hate him when she gets him alone the first evening of Easter holiday when he stays at the Burrow.



Mr Weasley is snoring stretched out on the old sofa, his much loved wind-up shark beside him, a big toe poking through his worn sock, and Mrs Weasley shoos them all off to bed, reminding them they\'ll be going to see baby Victoire first thing the next morning. Harry\'s not really tired considering it\'s only afternoon back in America, but he gives her a quick hug and heads up to the twins\' old room, belly contentedly full, thinking he might read a while.



Ginny takes his hand and all but drags him into her room.



"Harry," she says, locking the door behind them, "strip. Now."



Harry gapes at her. "Wh-- what?!"



"I haven\'t had sex in months," she announces, eyes wild, "and I don\'t care how badly Hermione says you\'re coping with your own personal demons, I am getting laid tonight."



Harry attempts to pull his jaw up off the floor and fails. "Personal-- You-- what?!"



"I said," she repeats, pulling her robes over head with one fluid movement, "we are shagging whether you like it or not. Right. Now."



"But I don\'t…" Harry stares at her nearly naked form, feeling queasy. "We haven\'t even… talked in…"



"Oh, bugger talking," Ginny says crossly, reaching behind herself to unclasp her bra.



"But what about-- what about your mum? She might… if she hears…" he attempts weakly. Heart falling when he notes her incredulous look, he adds, "Ginny, we barely even know each other anymore! It\'s too sudden, it feels wrong!"



"Wrong?" she says, sliding her bra straps off her shoulders and tossing the bit of lace onto her bed. "I\'m your girlfriend!"



He\'s forgotten how perfect her breasts are, just the right size to fit into his hands, heavy but firm, the dark pink nipples pointing up just so… and the noises she makes when he runs his tongue across them… but he feels oddly like a voyeur, peeking in on someone else\'s sex life.



It doesn\'t feel right, he thinks. This isn\'t mine anymore.



"I can\'t do this, Ginny," he tells her, eyes glued to her breasts despite himself. Bloody fucking hell they\'re fantastic.



She makes an disbelieving noise. "What, you can\'t get it up or something?"



"I-- no!" he says, shocked. "I can get it up! I\'m fine with getting it up! It is up! I just..." he sighs forcing his eyes to the floor, "why does nobody want to talk anymore? Why is Hermione the only one who wants to talk, and all I want her to do is shut up?"



"Well if you were ever here, we could talk all you wanted," Ginny tells him, somehow managing to look imperious with her hands on her hips, even clad only in her panties. "But you\'re not."



"Oh, not this again," Harry groans.



"Yes, this again! If I didn\'t know any better I\'d say you were fooling around on me, Harry!" she accuses. "What man is away from his girlfriend for months on end and doesn\'t want to sleep with her when they finally get back together?"



"I\'m not having some sort of affair, Ginny! The only person I ever see is--" Harry breaks off, face burning.



"Fine!" Ginny snaps. "Then explain why you-- Harry! Where are you--"



"Going? Anywhere but here," he says, stepping around her to unlock the door and step into the hall.



"Harry!"



"Oh, put some clothes on, Ginny," he snaps. "You\'re an embarrassment!"



Kreacher is thrilled to see him. Even though it\'s well past midnight he fixes Harry his delicious onion soup, lays out clean pyjamas, and even offers to towel Harry dry after his bath. His large eyes blink up hopefully at this last suggestion.



"Er, not just now, Kreacher. Maybe… some other time," Harry tells him, repressing a shudder. Is it just him, or does everyone seem to want to get him naked lately?



Well, everyone except Snape, of course, who wants nothing to do with him, naked, clothed, or otherwise.



In the end just before holiday, frustrated and perturbed, Harry told him he\'d rather tend Blast-End Skrewts all week than spend the holiday holed up in whatever awful sort of place Snape might call home. Snape was not disagreeable to this.



"Your presence at Spinner\'s End would be like unto a small toddler in a china shop," he said, looking grim. "If I see your face before next Sunday and the situation is not a matter of life and death, it shall soon become one."



Lying back in the claw-footed bathtub, steam fogging his glasses, Harry sighs and wonders when everything got this exhausting. Has he always been this tired? It\'s not a normal sort of weariness though, something deeper pulling at his bones, and he feels at that moment as old as Dumbledore the day he died.



He misses Dumbledore, and everything that he stood for, all things old and familiar and comforting that Harry can\'t have anymore. All he wants is one last dinner in the Great Hall, one last trip to Diagon Alley for books, one last Quidditch match, one last walk around the lake at night with a pink-cheeked Ginny finished up with a friendly roll under the hedges.



Though, he considers, sighing as he tips his head back and the hot water washes over his scalp, he could still go to Diagon Alley…







TBC