The Producers

Harry winced slightly as his Professor dismissed the class.

Gods, what should he do now? Could he possibly face Snape and pretend as though nothing had happened last night? Perhaps Snape had drunk as much as he had and wouldn’t remember. He emitted a small bitter chuckle at that; when had Snape ever forgotten anything? Not least a brazen attempt at seduction by his supposedly straight, immature living companion.

Harry dragged his feet and reluctantly left the temporary sanctuary of the classroom.

He was still deeply immersed in thought when a familiar voice called out. He paused in his step and turned around to see a mass of blonde ringlets bouncing towards him. Oh god, could today get any worse?

“Hi there! I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble last night, I didn’t realise it was Snarky Snape you lived with! I might have thought twice before coming back with you!” she giggled, and the sound warmed Harry a little. Obviously Snape’s reputation preceded him.

“Hi, I’m really sorry about that, I thought he was going to be out all evening. He, umm, had some problems and came back early.” Harry eyed her guardedly; no obvious signs of lingering irritation about last night.

“It’s okay, it was quite funny really,” she smiled. “So, umm, God, this is a bit embarrassing, but I didn’t actually get your name.”
He genuinely laughed then; partly at the pleasant surprise that she really didn’t know who he was, and partly because he felt relieved that he wouldn’t sound like a bastard for confessing the same thing.

“Yeah, me either, I’m Harry, Harry Potter,” he said, extending his hand in a comically formal way. She took the hand gently, the touch comforting after his recent rejection at Snape’s mercy.

“And I’m Flora, Flora Farmer.” She took a step closer to Harry and lightly swept her lips over his cheek.

“Are you, I mean, do you want to get some dinner together?” he stammered, cheeks reddening under the loss of composure.

“Thought you’d never ask!” Flora beamed, hooking her arm through Harry’s and leading him towards the staircase.



Upstairs in the Great Hall, Snape was congratulating himself for having whipped the fifth years into such frenzied fear that they had tidied and packed away in record time, leaving him free to partake of a communal dinner with the other teachers and students. Being a somewhat antisocial man, he preferred to take dinner in his quarters with Potter, house elves more than adept at catering for their diverse culinary tastes.

But this evening, Snape had felt a curious need to be around other people. It was not altogether unexplainable; he wasn’t ready to run into the brat just yet.

Merlin, he felt famished! His appetite was usually quite modest (he didn’t maintain a lean figure by overindulging) but tonight, he was ravenous.

The plate of food in front of him was piled high and steaming hot, just the short-term tonic he needed. A scotch wouldn’t go amiss either, he thought wryly, but settled for a sip of the pumpkin juice instead, pre-empting his planned attack of the mouth watering provisions.

Over the rim of his goblet, he eyed the hall and the students it contained and watched as the last few latecomers flowed through the doors. A recognizable tousled head entered, ostensibly attached to a not so unfamiliar crown of lively blonde tresses. Snape felt a small curve in the pit of his stomach.

Potter was having dinner in the hall.

Potter never ate in the hall.

In actual fact, the only time since living together Snape could recall the pair of them having attended dinner here was when the house elves had led a rousing but short-lived strike, no doubt encouraged by that indomitable Granger girl from the HERMIONE (House Elves Remonstrate Magical Inhibitors Of Natural Elfmagic) headquarters she had set up.

And Potter had company. How... charming.

Envious are we Severus?

What of Potter? Even in his head the words were tinged with disdain.

No, idiot. Of the girl.

Snape stabbed his fork into the mountain of food, ignoring both his nagging conscience and the manifestation of Potter.


Harry felt a rush of familial awe that transported him back to the first time he had ever laid eyes on the Great Hall. Had it really been seven years ago?

Flora had threaded her arm through his and he allowed himself to be lead to a recently vacated table.

Once seated and supplied with copious amounts of food and drink, Harry found her as easy to talk to as she had been the night before. There were no serious discussions on wizarding politics or the strength of the Knut against the Muggle pound; rather it was everyday chit-chat that happened to transverse smoothly from one subject to another, no awkward pauses or silences, neither of them becoming lost for words.

“So what are you studying?” Harry asked before shovelling a forkful of food into his mouth.

His eyes drew haltingly on a figure swathed in dark robes, hunched over the teacher’s table. Harry couldn’t draw his eyes away as he watched Snape savagely stabbing a fork at his dinner.

Gods, he looked furious. Harry hoped it had nothing to do with what had occurred last night. Probably just the lingering affectations of having a class full of incompetent and rowdy students. He hoped.

What was Snape doing eating in here anyway? He couldn’t recall the last time either of them had taken dinner here with the rest of the school. Apart from the house elves incident. Which had been all Hermione’s fault. Harry thought fondly of her then, and Ron too, wishing they could be here with him. Growing up had its benefits, but it also sucked sometimes.

The three of them would never again walk arm in arm through the corridors of Hogwarts. They would not find themselves sat by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, or sneaking off to visit Hagrid and Fang. Hermione and Ron still bickered with each other like an old married couple, which as naturally as sun follows moon, they were now. But they were no longer doing it here, at Hogwarts, in front of him. Harry sighed nostalgically.

Flora laid a hand on his arm that broke his reverie.

“Harry? Are you okay?” she said, somewhat alarmed at the distant gaze and his lack of response.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, a little too enthusiastically. He looked at Flora and noted the genuine concern in her eyes.

“Actually, I was just thinking about how different things are now. I mean, the Hall is the same and most of the teachers are the same, but my friends aren’t here and it feels a bit weird, us all being grown up and gone our separate ways.”

“You feel sad,” Flora stated plainly.

“Yeah, I suppose I do,” Harry replied honestly, because right now, he really did.

“Well I may not have been around the last seven years, but I’m here now, and I’d like to be your friend, if you think I’m a good enough replacement,” she teased.

“You can’t be a replacement,” he said seriously, “You’re in a league of your own,”

Flora beamed widely. “Well, that’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me!”

“Blimey!” Harry chuckled, “Your childhood must have been as bad as mine!”



Snape’s single-mindedness was fading fast. One could only find one’s dinner interesting for so long before the eyes yearned to roam away from the juxtaposing colours of baby carrots and sweet corn.

And roam they did, automatically in Potter’s direction.

Snape violently wished they hadn’t. The girl had sidled so close to Harry that Snape half expected they would need surgically separating.

Well don’t ask me for a healing Potion, he thought maliciously.

The little minx had one hand covering Potter’s on the table, and the other was hypnotically trailing up and down his lower spine. Her appetite, for food at least, had clearly dissipated.

Snape felt his own hunger Disapparate into thin air and he pushed the plate away.

Why should he care that Potter had finally managed to entrap himself a girlfriend? He should be jumping for joy at the prospect of the brat having his own love life to attend to, rather than living vicariously through his.

Why aren’t you happy for the boy?

‘It’s just bloody rude, that’s all,’ Snape griped to himself. Not twenty four hours ago, Potter was sprawled across his bed, semi-naked, begging to be kissed. Obviously, rejection agreed with him. He certainly didn’t look very distressed by it.

Having had enough of watching the infuriating girl territorially circling Potter’s back with her hand, he took a last swig of juice and rose to his feet.

Student hair was windswept with the force of stride as he passed them, stalking directly down the centre of the Hall.

As he approached the offending teenagers he slowed his step. A long shadow fell across the table.

“Good evening, Mr Potter,” he said acidly, “And Miss... oh, do forgive me, I don’t believe Potter furnished me, or indeed himself, with your name last night.”

Flora had to tilt her head back a long way just to make eye contact. Completely unfazed, she replied, “Flora Farmer. Nice to meet you again, Professor Snape. I myself was rather swept away in the heat of the moment, as you unfortunately had to witness, so Harry and I can both be forgiven for a temporary lapse in sanity.” She dazzled Snape with a full set of perfect white teeth.

Potter was glaring at him.

Bugger. That had seriously backfired.

“Yes. Well,” think of a scathing put down, man! “enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

Snape stalked out of the hall, disgusted that his usually razor sharp wit had deserted him in his hour of need.

Flora whistled and widened her eyes at Harry. “Wow, what’s his problem?!” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “I guess he just doesn’t like many people.”



When Harry got back, Snape was sat at his desk, glass in one hand, quill in the other, fiercely distributing blood red ink across parchment after parchment.

Snape glanced up briefly to see if the girl was with him, but it appeared they had managed to disentangle themselves, for the time being at least.

Harry felt sorry for the students who were now unwittingly on the receiving end of Snape’s wrath; their studious efforts reduced to a fine mesh of red.

He crossed the room and sat down on the chair opposite.

“I’m sorry if my actions upset you last night. Really, I am. I don’t want to lose your friendship over this.” Snape ceased dragging the quill over the papers but his eyes never left them.

“You think too highly of yourself, Potter. I had not given it a second thought, to be perfectly honest.”

Liar. You’ve thought about nothing else.

“Oh.” Harry was thrown. “Well what’s wrong with you then?” Snape wanted to dash his head against the desk.

“There is nothing wrong with me. I am perfectly fine and would be infinitely better if people stopped harassing me,” he snapped.

“Oh well sorry,” Harry frowned, “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to confuse a concerned friend with being harassed.”

“I am not stupid. Nor am I feeling very tolerant this evening. So if you don’t mind, I have to...”

A loud pop from the region of the fireplace cut Snape off mid sentence and made them both jump.

A well dressed man, fractionally shorter than Snape and far better looking by conventional standards, had Flooed into their living room.

Harry instinctively drew his wand and took aim.

The man threw his hands up in a grotesque parody of surrender, and Snape snorted.

“Potter, put your wand away before you do any one of us irreparable harm.” Harry looked bewildered and shifted his gaze from the man to Snape, and back again, lowering his wand fractionally but not obeying the command to dispense with it completely.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Snape revelled a little in the admirable defensiveness Potter was displaying.

“Charles, may I introduce you to my former student, and current thorn in my side, Mr Harry Potter.” Harry wasn’t entirely sure that it was proper for Snape not to have introduced the man to him, rather than the other way round, given that the bloke had materialised uninvited into their home. It grated him. As did the description that he was a thorn in Snape’s side.

“Right, well, hello there. Usually it’s polite to warn someone when you’re about to Floo into their lounge.” Harry tucked his wand away but stayed where he was.

“Actually, I invited Charles over. I had assumed you would be otherwise engaged this evening. Not that I was certain you would come,” Snape directed the last bit towards the figure still lurking in the fireplace.

“You know I can’t stay angry with you for long,” the man fawned. Harry felt a surge of nausea in his stomach.

Snape smiled ingratiatingly and gestured for Charles to sit down.

“Right, well, good then,” Harry grimaced. The room felt as though it had shrunk considerably in size. And increased significantly in temperature.

Snape appeared to forget all about Harry as he moved to the sofa and sat down next to Charles, murmuring inaudibly, his tone far softer than it had been mere minutes ago when directed at Harry. Charles was gently shaking his head in obvious contrition and Harry resisted the urge to stick his fingers down his throat and make exaggerated retching noises.

“Right,” Harry repeated, “Nice to meet you, Charles, I’ll... err... be off then.”

The sofa creaked and both men turned their heads to look at him.

Charles smiled insipidly at Harry, “Nice to meet you too, lad.”

Lad?? He wasn’t a lad!! Before he had time to object, another voice cut in.

“Going anywhere nice Potter?” The tone was pure crushed ice on black velvet. Harry hadn’t experienced it before; shockwaves coursed through his navel. Charles obviously had though, as he snaked a hand on to Snape’s thigh as though drawn there by a magnet.

“Uh, yeah, actually. Meeting Flora at the pub. Might not be back tonight, or might be back with ah, company.” He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Snape, searching his face for any signs that the statement might have made him uneasy. But Snape was a true master of hiding emotion and simply cocked his head.

“How delightful. Have a fine evening then. And do endeavour not to sully my rug this time,” he quipped spitefully.

Charles chuckled, “What’s that?” he asked Snape, who was still watching Harry, who was glaring back fiercely, daring him to embellish.

“Oh nothing,” Snape said casually, “I believe you and I,” he turned back to Charles, “have more pressing things to attend to than discuss the comedic seduction attempts of a teenager.” Harry’s jaw clenched unconsciously and his hands balled into fists.

He marched to the fireplace and scooped up a handful of Floo powder, forcefully throwing it down and stepping in without looking back or bidding the two men farewell.



When Harry returned a few hours later, it was with panicky apprehension at what he might find.

It had been a ridiculous lie to pretend he and Flora were meeting that evening; after dinner she had sighed wistfully and informed Harry that she had already arranged to meet friends that night. Harry had done a good job of pretending to look disappointed, when really he felt absurdly relieved. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy her company, but right now there were other pressing matters to attend to. Like Snape and the seemingly ever increasing problems associated with him.

Harry had planned to spend the evening calmly and rationally discussing the peculiar events of the past few days; he did not like the thought that he may have inadvertently upset his friend with his uncharacteristic behaviour of late. But evidently, Snape had made other plans, clearly not feeling that he and Harry actually had anything of importance to discuss.

Charles. What sort of a name was that?

Indeed, and what sort of things might a man named Charles be doing with the object of your true desire right now?

Harry winced at the thought. It had been blindingly obvious why Snape was with him. Harry couldn’t understand his reluctance to become more emotionally attached. The man was smartly dressed, tall and commanding, though not nearly as much as Snape himself was, and had a defined, angular face. His short blonde hair had been neatly combed, a stark contrast to the jet black tendrils that hung loosely past Snape’s jaw. Harry winced at the subtle similarities between Charles and his own former nemesis, Draco Malfoy, although Charles definitely appeared more mature, both in age and mentality.

Harry had spent the evening in the pub, grateful for having remembered his wallet this time. He made no attempt to socialise, not really feeling in the mood for endless questions about his recently victorious battle with He Whose Name Was Now Mud.

How was it possible that Flora did not know who he was? Her voice was affected with an accent he couldn’t quite place, and she had definitely not attended Hogwarts which suggested that she must have been educated abroad, and therefore it was possible that she truly wasn’t aware of Harry’s notoriety. He snorted mirthlessly. Only bloody likely if she’d been raised by wolves. Every witch and wizard on the planet had heard of him. Still, he was grateful for her discretion, regardless of its motivation.

He had chosen to walk back from Hogsmead, enjoying the breezy autumnal evening and the opportunity to inhale some fresh air. He also hadn’t wanted to Floo, since this would announce his arrival with a loud crack.

Harry quietly let himself in, noting the deserted living room. He listened intently for any strange sounds that might be emanating from the bedroom that was not his, although it was hard to hear when he was stood at the far end of the room, away from Snape’s private domain, with a thick wooden door between them.

Cautiously, he tiptoed across the rug, and stood akin to the doorway, heart pounding his chest.

Deep low moans were barely audible but Harry knew he had heard them by the sudden rush of blood from his head to his groin.

Dear Gods, they were having sex!

Harry stumbled back a little. Intrigue, jealousy and outrage assailed him unexpectedly.

He swiftly turned tail and crept back to his own bedroom.

Harry sat on the bed and quickly removed his shoes, followed by his t-shirt and jeans. Laying back against the pillow, he closed his eyes and let his hand brush over his tented boxers.

“Mmm,” he murmured to himself. God, that really did feel wonderful. A ghost of an idea crept into his head.

“Oh yes,” he exhaled, a little louder. “Oh Gods, yes that’s.. that’s just so... Oh!” he pitched his voice higher, increasing the volume. “Yes, yes, oh YES!” he practically shouted, shocked by his own audacity but spurred on by the reaction it might provoke in the other bedroom. He worked his hand deftly over his cock, grasping it tightly and adding more pressure as his vocal chords reacted correspondingly.


The high point of Snape’s evening had been seeing Potter’s face when Charles had Flooed in. The boy, upon introduction had looked crushed and Snape had been torn between feeling absurdly gleeful and morosely dejected.

He couldn’t figure it out. Potter had wanted Snape to kiss him. Potter had been cavorting in a state of undress with the girl. Potter had seemed stricken by the sudden arrival of Charles, his face an anguished patchwork of emotion too difficult to untangle. Potter had spent all of dinner time letting himself be mauled by that annoyingly enigmatic girl, a spectacle that he had been unwillingly forced to observe.

Potter had made plans to meet the girl. Which would surely suggest he had no intention of repeating his offer to Snape. What in Merlin’s name did it all mean?

After Harry had left, Snape had felt deflated and had been irrationally annoyed by Charles’ presence. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that their relationship had finally arrived at an unpleasant stalemate. All that was left, was to leave Charles in no uncertainty.

It had not been a pleasant experience. Charles was a dab hand at summoning dewy eyes, his voice breaking with emotion as he repeatedly asked Snape why.

Snape did his best to be comforting, but it didn’t come naturally. The more reasons Charles gave for why they should be together, Snape found another ten why they shouldn’t.

Eventually Charles’ tears turned to temper and he dramatically announced that he never wanted to see Snape again, including any after-life, before disappearing into the fireplace with a resounding bang.

Good riddance. Bloody queen.

Feeling bone-achingly weary and a little shaky at the drawn out confrontation, Snape had headed straight for his bedroom, grabbing the whisky bottle on his way.

Now, as he lay in bed, his thoughts turned back to Potter. He wondered what carnal pleasures he might be enjoying right at this moment with the exasperatingly pretty blonde.

Snape slipped a hand under the duvet and gently teased his cock with a few well practised strokes. A moan escaped his lips as he blanked his mind, concentrating on nothing but the increasing pleasure he felt.

Potters face.

Potters hand.

No. Go away.

Potters arse.

Potters prick.

Fuck. Off.

Snape, unable to bite it back, cried out as his cock pulsated with frightening speed, releasing his stress and worry, desire and longing in one long liquid eruption. His heart hammered against his chest as he desperately tried to drive out the collage of debauched images of Potter that were invading his mind.

A cold shower might help, he thought, picking up the glass of whisky from the bedside table and taking a sip.

A distant sound reached his ears, a sound that wasn’t familiar nor entirely alien either. All thoughts of ablution forgotten, Snape got out of bed and padded to his door. He took the black towelling robe off its hook and pulled it tightly around himself, straining to hear.

He didn’t have to strain very hard. Merlin in the after-life couldn’t have failed to hear the fervent cries of someone evidently very close to an orgasm.

“Yes, yes, oh YES!”

Snape felt the blood congeal in his veins. It was Potter’s voice, highly pitched and panting in between babbled nonsense.

“Oh god that’s good, oh god don’t stop, don’t stop! Oh yes, there, right there.”

Clearly, Potter’s date had concluded more than satisfactorily. Snape reluctantly dragged himself away from the door and got back into bed, scowling and vowing to reprimand the boy in the morning for not having the decency to cast a silencing charm on his room.
***