The Producers

Harry was curled up on the sofa, poring diligently over a rather heavy textbook when Snape returned from his office the following evening.

“Hi,” he murmured without looking up, feeling the rush of cold air on his neck as Snape swept past.

“Good evening, Potter,” Snape sounded suspiciously jovial, “I have an engagement tonight, so I hope you will be able to entertain yourself in my absence.”

“Oh.” Attention caught, Harry broke his gaze from the book and looked up. “Going anywhere nice?”

“London.”

Harry blinked. “Oh,” he repeated.

Why did the boy look so crestfallen all of a sudden? Surely he could amuse himself for one evening? Snape told him so.

“Yeah, of course I can,” Harry said, making a nonchalant face before returning to his book, drawing his knees up tighter into his chest.

“Excellent.” Snape turned and disappeared into his bedroom. Harry continued to read, but for some reason his concentration had dwindled to naught. He put the book down and listened to the running shower that was preparing Snape for who knew what kind of pleasurable events later.

Crushing our mouths together. His eyes betray his desire. Pushing him down on the bed. Grasping his cock in my hand. Silky shaft.... tiny veins.... pumping blood....

Snape’s reappearance brought Harry back to consciousness and momentary confusion.

If he had noticed the boy’s faraway look, Snape did not acknowledge it.

“Behave yourself,” he warned, snatching up a handful of floo powder.

Harry watched the new black robes and the tall man wearing them disappear into green flames.

Great. Now what was he supposed to do? Harry had lost all appetite for studying; if Snape was out having a bloody good time, why wasn’t he?

‘Yes, why aren’t you?’ Mocked his psyche, ‘What’s stopping you?’

Nothing at all, he resolved, and extricated himself from the sofa before taking the floo powder and throwing it determinedly into the recently occupied grate.

“Three Broomsticks!” he shouted.

***


Harry stood at the bar, rummaging his jeans pockets for the fourth or fifth time, knowing dejectedly that in his haste, he had forgotten to bring his wallet with him. An appetising Butterbeer stood on the bar in front of him, and an irate barmaid behind it.

The irate barmaid sighed loudly and Harry apologised, explaining that he had no money on him and that he would have to retrieve his wallet before he could pay for his drink. Just as he was about to return to the Floo, a slim, tanned hand reached around him and put coins into the still outstretched one of the barmaid.

A grateful smile rounded Harry’s lips and he turned to find out who his benefactor was.

A mass of blonde curls was the first thing he saw; in fact for a few moments it was the only thing he could see.

“Thanks,” he said emphatically. “That was starting to get really embarrassing.”

“So I noticed,” she answered, smiling. Ah, there were cherry lips nestled beneath all that hair too. And almond shaped eyes, huge sapphire eyes, one of which was obstructed by a fallen ringlet.

“Would you er... like to join me?” Harry asked uncertainly, not really sure of the proper social etiquette required after a girl had brought a penniless wizard a drink.

“Love to.” Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief at having made the right offer.

He soon found out that the girl was also studying at Hogwarts, a different course to Harry, and was lodging in Hogsmead for the duration. He was convinced they hadn’t met before because he was sure he would have remembered her.

She continued to buy Harry’s drinks in tandem with her own until well into the evening, when he insisted she return with him so that he could reimburse her.

She waved the offer away. “It’s not a problem, you can pay next time.”

Next time... Harry wasn’t sure he had quite finished enjoying this time.

“Well at least come back and let me make you something to eat,” he argued, finishing the last dregs of his pint.

“If you’re sure, that would be lovely,” she enthused, gathering her cloak around her shoulders. Harry held out his arm and led the way to the Floo.

***

“Wow. I’ve never been in a dungeon before.” Her huge eyes travelled over the furnishings of Harry’s sitting room.

“I like it down here, it’s nice and quiet.”

“Why aren’t you staying in Hogsmead with the rest of us?”

Harry shrugged. “Just wasn’t really me,” he replied, unwilling to explain his notoriety to the seemingly unaware girl. “Would you like a drink? Except, we’ve only got whisky.” Harry retrieved the bottle and two glasses from Snape’s desk.

“Thanks.” She moved to the sofa and sat down, fidgeting slightly as the uncomfortable cold leather remained unforgiving. “Who is we?”

Harry sat down next to her and handed her a glass. “I share with one of the Professors.”

The fire crackled, the only sound in the room for a long minute, as they both sipped at their drinks and Harry tried to think of something else to say. Which turned out to be unnecessary when she moved closer to him, retrieving the barely touched drink from his hand.

Harry suddenly thought he might be in a bit too deep, but urged his nerves to calm as she took his hand in hers, and gently pulled him towards her. She stared at him intently, piercing him with those eyes, enveloping him, before allowing them to flutter closed. Harry felt his own eyes leaden, as a silky brush of lips swept his. Letting go of his hand, she slipped her own around his waist, and leant further forward to deepen the kiss.

Pushing him down on the bed... His eyes betray his desire...


Harry started; the girl sat back a little and looked at him apprehensively. Harry felt a flame of discomfit spread up his throat but pulled her again. He snaked his arms around her waist, toying with the bottom of her top and the top of her bottoms alternatively.

“Oh,” she moaned, seeming very keen on the teasing fingers that were trailing first up her stomach and then switched to dip below her waistline. She mimicked Harry’s movements, first finding easy access into the loose t-shirt he was wearing, running her hands over his chest, before dropping her slender fingers down to the waistband of his jeans.

Falling on top of him... Grasping his cock in my hand...cock...cock...

“Fuck!” Harry exclaimed and sat back, eyes snapped open. The girl smiled coyly.

“Not yet,” she smiled, reaching forward to pull Harry’s t-shirt over his head, unruly hair falling messily across his forehead before re-attaching her lips to his.

***

Snape sat in a darkened corner of the Leaky Cauldron. Most of the pub was murky, but he had managed to procure himself a particularly gloomy table in an effort to distance himself from the quiet hum of whispering witches and wizards, no doubt discussing some dark deeds over their drinks.

His much anticipated evening of fun had descended into a blazing row before he’d so much as dusted the ash off his robes.

Charles firstly scolded him for being late, gesturing to the candlelit table laid for two, plates accommodating now long cold food. He had argued that he wasn’t aware he was under a curfew, and had Charles owled him to let him know he was making a special effort, he would not have stuffed himself silly in his offices prior to leaving.

Charles disputed that had he told Snape he was cooking them an evening meal (by hand, no less!) it would hardly have constituted a surprise, now would it?

Snape venomously stated that he did not care for romantically cooked dinners, that Charles should know him well enough by now not to have wasted his time.

Charles began to shout that Snape was a selfish bastard, and did he ever stop to think that he himself might enjoy sitting down and holding a conversation, sharing a bottle of Dragon Wine and enjoying the ambiance of the candlelight together?

At that point, Snape lost it.

He was aware that his temper had recently been far shorter than normal, and now was as good a time as any to vent his indefinable frustration.

He told Charles he couldn’t care less what Charles wanted. That he wasn’t interested in sharing candlelit meals, or making small talk, like people in love did. Because, he said evenly, he was not in love and he wished Charles would stop trying to encourage something that was never going to happen.

He called Charles a convenient fuck, words that sent electrifying waves through the room as it fell silent.

The two men stood across from each other, faces contorted, each with a burning rage, each for very different reasons.

Snape had broken the silence first, but only to draw his wand and extinguish the candle, a fitting sentiment, he thought wearily, before throwing floo powder into the grate and chanting the first pub name that came to mind.

And so it was that he found himself in the Leaky Cauldron (or the Squeaky Cauldron, as most punters referred to it, due to a rather overwhelming rodent infestation), anger mildly dissipated by the alcohol, feeling a little regretful.

He watched the fire for signs of Charles, who might appear at any moment and beg him to return, and they could revert to the activities Snape most enjoyed, hopefully without having to make reference to the earlier altercation.

But the likelihood of that happening was fast decreasing with each emptying of the glass and Snape wondered why he was bothering to sit here, when there was a perfectly willing slip of a boy at home who would doubtless be riveted if he chose to share with him the failure of his evening.

He drained the last of his drink and flooed into darkness.

***
Harry had perfected the art of removing a bra.

He and Ron would rather die than admit to anyone that they had spent a good few evenings practising on each other, taking it in turns to don one of Hermione’s hastily stolen items of underwear while the other attempted to remove it in one fell swoop.

He knew that skill was going to be invaluable now. Nothing said inexperienced virgin like a fumbling idiot. He mentally made a note to thank Ron next time he saw him.

Harry ran his hands up and down the supple back, preparing to attempt the shedding of her final layer of top-half modesty. His lips compacted against the smooth, youthful skin of her neck as she lay back onto the rug, panting slightly, curls billowing out as her head impacted the floor. At some point, Harry wasn’t sure when, they had given up the rough comfort of the couch and slid, limbs entangled, onto the rug next to the fire. It had seemed a very grown up and romantic thing to do.

A loud pop made Harry glance up at her, as though his ministrations might have caused her to make such a noise. A split second later, he felt the hard kick of a boot against his ribs, and pain spliced his side. His first thought was that she must have some hefty Quidditch playing boyfriend, who had perhaps arrived at the pub, only to be told by the snide barmaid that she had flooed off with The Boy Who Lived To Steal Girlfriends.

Snape had materialised in the floo, vision still obscured by the swirling black of nothingness, and had stepped out onto what he would have every right to assume was the rug, but turned out to be Harry, causing him to trip and crash monumentally over the pair of bodies entwined beneath him.

The girl screamed in obvious confusion and pushed herself upright, the force making Harry roll away, clutching his aching ribs and groaning.

“Mr Potter!” came a muffled shriek from above, Snape’s mouth still wedged against the cool leather of the sofa.

Harry jumped to his feet, torn between helping the girl cover her modesty and aiding Snape’s precariously contorted form.

Matters were taken out of his hands though, when she quickly retrieved her t-shirt and pulled it on, stifling a giggle and looking at Harry in exaggerated pretend horror.

Harry, rooted to the spot by a dazed combination of pain and fear, looked on as Snape carefully pushed himself off the sofa and drew up to full stature. He glared first at Harry and then at the girl.

“Is there a reason why two hormonally overactive teenagers are blocking my floo exit? Do you not have private quarters in which to conduct your... business, Potter?” Snape noticed for the first time the state of undress they were in and busied himself with the smoothing of his robes to avoid appearing bothered by it.

“Sorry, we got carried away, I’m really sorry.” The girl looked at Harry, nodding her head in the direction of his bedroom, a silent suggestion they should make use of it.

Harry shook his head, “I think you’d better go. Umm, perhaps I can buy you those drinks sometime.”

Her face fell. “Soon,” he added quickly. She brightened perceptibly and stepped closer to him. Placing her hands on either side of his face, she appeared undisturbed by the glowering Snape watching them.

“See that you do,” she smiled, giving him a lingering kiss before turning to the fire and disappearing.

“Well. I see you found something to occupy your time with, whilst I was gone.”

“I didn’t think you’d be back this early, we weren’t planning on spending the night on the rug.” A strange pang of guilt caught Harry in the gut and he smarted at it; what the hell did he have to feel guilty about?

“Really. And who is ‘we’ anyway?” Harry stalled at the question. It suddenly dawned on him that not once during the course of the evening, had they exchanged names.

“Shit! I didn’t find out her name!”

Snape frowned. “You mean to say that you were well and truly on your way to being exceptionally intimate with this girl and yet you didn’t even bother to ask her?”

“No! Oh god, what must she think of me?”

“I shouldn’t be too concerned, Potter, she seemed to regard you highly enough to allow you into her knickers.”

How did Snape do that? Make a word sound so sordid and dirty just by affecting the pronunciation of it? Harry defended himself and the nameless girl.

“Yeah, lucky aren’t I?” he said arrogantly, taking a step backwards.

“Lucky or stupid,” Snape shot back cruelly. “But ten points to Gryffindor, Mr Potter, for finding a novel way to demonstrate your sexuality to me. Though I must say I would have preferred not to have experienced it for myself first hand.”

Potter baiting. Second nature.

Harry wasn’t playing. “Whatever,” he mumbled, snatching up his discarded t-shirt from the floor as he retreated to his bedroom, slamming the door a fraction harder than he had intended.
***
Snape sat back down on the sofa and appraised the situation. Sadly, nothing had gone his way this evening. Very possibly his long standing acquaintance with Charles was now consigned to the history books. And he had managed not only to physically injure Potter, but alienate him into the bargain. Well fuck Charles. And fuck Potter too.

He roughly massaged his temples. The girl though... Snape had actually been impressed that Potter had had the balls to invite her back and get as far as removing some of her clothes. No doubt had he not literally stumbled across them, he might well have got a lot further.

The soft rhythmic thumping of harmony drifted from behind the closed bedroom door. He imagined the boy lying on his bed, letting the melody wash over him as he lamented the lost opportunity of vanquishing his final vestige of innocence.

What was that awful music anyway? Muggle, most likely. And almost certainly being played on a... what was that electronic device called again? Ah, yes, a CD player.

The track came to an end, enabling him to make out the faint muffled sounds of Potter snivelling into his pillow.

Fuck. Shit. Bollocks.

Now what to do? Quietly escape to his own bedroom and pretend he hadn’t heard, or attempt some humility and endeavour to make Potter feel better? The former was mightily appealing, but Harry’s sorrow mirrored his, and if he could go some way to appeasing that, then perhaps his own wouldn’t seem like such a burden tonight.

***

Snape took a new bottle of scotch from the bookcase; he would have to acquire some more soon; and balanced it in the crook of his arm, leaving his hands free to pick up two recently scourgified tumblers.

He knocked softly but knowing that no invitation would be forthcoming, shouldered the door open anyway.

Harry appeared not to have heard either the knock or the intrusion. He was laying on his bed, still shirtless, head buried under the pillow. His glasses lay on the bedside table next to the CD player. A soft, instrumental introduction embraced the room.

Snape silently set the bottle and glasses down next to the CD player and debated his next move. Potter still seemed to be unaware of his presence.

Simultaneously, he sat on the edge of the bed and lightly rested a hand in the small of Harry’s back. Gods, the boy felt warm.

Harry jerked at the unexpected touch and pulled himself upright.

“What are you doing?” His eyes were red and blotchy but for all his current vulnerability he still managed to inject a surprising amount of venom into the question. It didn’t faze Snape though. He bit back the temptation to remark that he thought it was glaringly obvious what he was doing; resting a hand on Harry’s back and attempting to be supportive. Instead, he removed it and employed it more usefully in the procuring of a scotch for them both.

Harry was still glaring but Snape ignored him until he had taken a slug of the fiery liquid and cajoled Potter wordlessly to do the same.

“I apologise if I upset you. I did not mean to be quite so... insensitive. I suffered a rather unenjoyable evening myself. Still, that is no excuse for me to have taken it out on you,” he finished. That was as much of an apology as Potter was ever likely to get.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Harry sat up a bit straighter before leaning back against the pillows and shifting his legs so that Snape could shuffle over a bit. Snape was grateful for the gesture; his arse had been half hanging off since he’d sat down and it wasn’t particularly comfortable.

“Well how could you have known? I returned early in the hope that we could discuss it together. Obviously I didn’t account for the fact that you had company of your own.”

“I didn’t plan to. When you said you were going out I was a bit miffed at being left home alone again.”

“Honestly Potter, you make it sound as though I am forever gallivanting.” Snape chided gently, testing the water.

Harry smiled. “I know that, it’s just, before I moved in, I saw you twice a week and had your full, undivided attention. Well, apart from when you were marking. But since I’ve been living here I feel, I don’t know, like I never get any quality time with you. Anyway, I just went into Hogsmead for a quiet pint and then,” Harry hesitated, embarrassed by his own stupidity of not asking her name, “that girl paid for my drink and we just got chatting. It all moved a bit fast I guess.” Snape was listening intently.

“So, the tears...are they over the girl? She seemed perfectly willing to carry on where you left off sometime soon.”

“No, it’s not about her. Not really. I was starting to feel a bit out of my depth anyway. Though of course, it was just typical that you would have to come back and fall over us.”

The image of how the scene must have looked to any spectators made Harry smile. “And then you were mean to me,” he added, more seriously.

“I’ve apologised once, Potter, you’re not going to hear it again.”

“I didn’t expect to,” Harry grinned. “So why was your evening shit?”

Snape inhaled deeply. “I was verbally assaulted, accused of being late for a special dinner that I wasn’t aware was either being prepared or special, and once again Charles denounced my apparent inability to accept or give love. Needless to say I succumbed to my temper and told him some home truths that I suspect have probably done far too much damage between us to ever be properly healed.” Snape drank deeply from his glass.

“Wow. That really is shit.” Harry rested a consoling hand on Snape’s leg.

“Yes, Potter. It really is shit,” he sighed, warmed by the contact.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the CD still emitting some angsty ballad sung by a despondent sounding female.

“I’m still owed two questions,” said a low voice.

“Indeed you are. Speak them.” replied an even deeper one. There was a long pause as Harry tried to find his nerve.

“Would you kiss me?” he whispered, closing his eyes, fearful of a possible explosion of indignation from Snape.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Snape snapped, looking up sharply.

“No, no it isn’t. How can I say I don’t like something until I’ve tried it?”

“Potter, look at me.” Snape waited until the dark eyelashes fluttered open. “This is not some teenage girl you are propositioning. Nor is it a scene from one of those badly written fictions you’ve been filling your head with. I don’t believe for one minute that you actually want me to kiss you.” Snape shook his head in disbelief.

“I do.” Harry stated simply. “Please.” Emerald eyes locked onto black ones as he leaned forward.

Snape could not believe it. He wasn’t prepared to deal with the situation and it’s far reaching consequences, not to mention the unpredictable impact it could have on their friendship.

“No, Harry,” he said firmly, with more resolve than he truly felt.

Removing the boy’s hand from his leg, he said, “It would not do, it would not do at all.”