The Producers

The following morning found Harry sat on the sofa, eating toast and reading the reply Hermione and Ron had sent him.

Naturally, Hermione had penned most of it, but Ron had tacked a few lines on the end, something about Harry being the only single bloke left and how he should get one in for the boys. He could almost hear Hermione in his head, remonstrating Ron for that. They had also reiterated their previous offer of ‘our home is your home,’ and Harry felt a small lump of gratitude rising in his throat.

He had slept soundly last night, after his impromptu Oscar winning performance, and was still smirking to himself this morning, revelling in the interruption it must have caused Snape and Charles. It also made him feel better that they would now know for certain they weren’t the only ones who could get some action.

A door creaked behind him and Harry was taken aback to see Snape emerge.

“You’re behind schedule today,” he mused, “had a late night did we?” Snicker.

Snape fixed him with a look of pure loathing. “In case you were unaware, it is Saturday today. A day of rest for hardworking, student weary Professors. A day that does not require me to be up at the crack of first light preparing lessons and Potion antidotes.”

Harry blinked. “So where’s Charles?” he said, craning his neck in an attempt to look past Snape into the bedroom beyond.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Snape shot back, not bothering to try and spy her in Harry’s own boudoir since the door was closed.

Harry shrugged. He hadn’t thought as far as this conversation, having been caught off guard by the unexpected appearance.

“She, uh, left earlier,” he bullshitted. Snape quirked an eyebrow.

“Probably just as well Potter, because I fear she may have been mortified by what I am about to say. I am deeply thrilled that you have finally managed to divest yourself of your virginity,” Harry felt a sneaking suspicion that Snape wasn’t deeply thrilled at all. “However, the next time you indulge in carnal pleasure, would you do us all the small courtesy of casting a simple silencing spell on your room. The last thing I relish hearing is you begging God for more.”

Snape moved around the sofa and gestured at Harry to move his legs so he could sit down.

“Well you and Charles weren’t exactly quiet. Perhaps you also forgot the silencing charm in the heat of the moment.” Harry said sulkily.

Snape looked mortified; Charles hadn’t stayed last night. Potter must have heard him indulging himself and mistakenly thought they were... well, fucking.

He hadn’t heard the boy returning either. Oh gods, if Potter had heard him, it was a bloody certainty that the Farmer girl had too.

He could imagine her, probably still flushed from some early morning shagging with Potter, now returned to her lodgings and telling any snotty nosed delinquent that would listen how absolutely uproarious it had been to hear Professor Snape in the throes of an orgasm. The thought tipped his precariously balanced temper over the edge.

“How DARE you!” he exploded, eyes projecting barely contained rage. “Bringing that girl back here! No doubt she is furnishing all her friends with details of my private life as we speak!”

“What? Are you saying I’m not allowed to bring my girlfriend back to stay the night? First you confiscate my stuff and now you’re telling me who I can have over! You’re not my fucking father!”

Thank God for that, Snape thought, because otherwise his newly caught attentions of the boy would be even more grotesquely inappropriate than they already were.

“That is not what I said. I do not expect to be eavesdropped on. And I do not care to hear your...your...” Fuck, what point was he trying to make? “exaggerated pantomime sex!”

Harry snorted contemptuously.

“No-one was eavesdropping on you,” he lied, “I could hear the pair of you from the moment I walked in the door.” Ah, so the brat hadn’t Flooed back, which would explain Snape not having heard him return. And what was this ‘I’? Surely Potter had meant to say ‘we’?

Snape, against his better judgement decided to win a point at the expense of losing some face.

“You could not possibly have heard ‘the pair of us’ last night, since Charles left shortly after you did.”

Yes! Snape mentally punched the air. The look on the boy’s face was definitely worth it. Dawning realisation and utter disbelief.

“But..What? I heard you...” Harry desperately tried to make sense of what he had just been told.

“What you heard, Potter, was the sad, lonely ministrations of a recently single man, fruitlessly attempting to ease some of the frustration borne out of the stress of recent events.” Snape felt a little of his hot anger leech away to be replaced with cool smugness.

“Oh,” said Harry, ridiculously pleased that Charles had not been the one eliciting those moans of satisfaction. Snape, for once, couldn’t bring himself to admonish the boy for his lack of articulation.

“Does that mean there won’t be any more surprise visitors?” he feebly joked.

“Not in the form of Charles, at any rate,” Snape sighed, “However, now you’ve proved your prowess in the bedroom, I’m sure we will have an abundance of calls from young Miss Farmer.”

Harry wrung his hands. Should he come clean? He wanted to, but how the hell was he going to explain his little show last night?

“Actually... I... um...,” Deep breath, Harry, deep breath. “I didn’t meet up with Flora last night. I just said that because I was trying to give you and Charles some privacy. You know, making an effort to be considerate.” Snape was touched by the revelation. Perhaps the boy wasn’t so immature after all. But if it hadn’t been Miss Farmer... Gods, the boy was turning into a gigolo!

“Well out with it! Who did you bring back here last night? If it wasn’t Miss Farmer in there with you... does she know you’ve been sharing yourself around?”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” he protested, knowing he sounded like a petulant child, “and I wasn’t sharing myself around. I was, umm, alone.” He hardly dared look up, but obstinate curiosity got the better of him.

It was Snape’s turn to be struck mute by the eye-popping disclosure. His mouth fell open for the briefest of moments before he snapped it shut again and regained his composure far quicker than Potter could ever hope to do.

“But I heard you.. people don’t shout those things when they’re alone,” he muttered, searching Harry’s face for enlightenment.

“I know you did, I wanted you to. I was doing it on purpose.” Shame spread thickly across Harry’s cheeks. “I heard you and.. well, what I thought I heard, and I felt...” God, could he really admit to this? “... jealous.” There. It was done.

Oh Merlin! For the first time since his triumphant defeat, Harry wished the Dark Lord were still alive, fate of the wizarding world be damned. At least that way he could die a dignified death and not one of humiliation.

A yawning chasm of silence descended over the room.

Snape loathed himself for the exhilaration welling inside him.

How on earth could this beautiful, stubborn, gifted, infuriating boy possibly harbour romantic inclinations towards him?

How in hell could he ignore his own rapidly developing feelings towards Potter? He knew it had been a catalyst in the demise of his acquaintance with Charles. He could now acknowledge the bitter pang of jealousy he felt towards the Farmer girl for what it was.

But that didn’t make it acceptable or right. It didn’t stop the terror of how spectacularly he could fuck this up, would fuck this up most likely. Years of trust had steadily built, years of relishing this odd companionship that he had come to value about all others bar one; Dumbledore. All which might be destroyed if he acted upon his animal instinct. The fact that he was also incapable of loving someone was but a mere wave in a tide of festering filth.

Harry misread the silence as rejection.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, “I didn’t expect you to feel the same way. I’m not even entirely sure I know what I’m feeling. But I do know that when you’re around me, I feel happy, and when you’re not with me I think about you and when I might see you again. When you sit close to me, I want to touch you, and when I hear your voice I feel my insides go soft. I can’t ignore these things any longer and I won’t pretend for your comfort that it’s not happening. I can’t keep denying it to myself.” Harry sat back and covered his mouth with his hand in case any other insightful gems slipped out.

“I do not believe you really know what you are saying, nor the consequences that it might invoke. You cannot honestly expect me to believe that in the short space of a week you have suddenly found yourself attracted to men? And even if that were the case, what in Merlin’s name would you find compelling about me? I’m old enough to be your father!”

Harry cut him off. “But you’re not my father. And there are plenty of things I find compelling about you. I know you think you’re risking our friendship, but I’m willing to risk it too, because I know the benefits would be greater. I know you just about as well as I’ve ever gotten to know anyone. I think you’re fantastic.”

‘I think you’re fantastic’ his brain taunted. Way to go Harry.

‘He thinks you’re fantastic’ Snape heard his brain parrot back at him.

It took all of Snape’s tremendous willpower not to pull the boy into a crushing embrace and suck the very air out of his lungs. The words had struck at his heart, a dark and solitary place that had not dared to hope for a very long time.

He knew that whatever words he spoke next, things would likely change forever.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said quietly, defying the screaming protestations of his eternally damned heart, “I don’t feel the same way.”

The significance of his given name being used was not lost on the boy, and it caught him fairly in the chest. Harry tried to blink away the stinging tears that came all too easily. He had felt so sure that Snape would want him, could love him, that the friendship they had so carefully nurtured would act as a foundation for the newly evolving relationship he had foolishly thought they both wanted. Harry rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I think I’d better go,” he forced out through clenched teeth and hiccupped sobs. Snape felt lumps of wretchedness forming in his own throat. He was still having to forcibly stop himself from taking the unbearably dejected boy in his arms.

“There is no need for you to go anywhere. This is your home.” Gods this is excruciating.

“No,” said Harry quietly, “I don’t think it is anymore.”

Ouch.

What did you expect, you fool? You just shattered his fragile ego and his belief that he might possibly find.. what? Love? With you! Why not rip his heart out and grind it into the cold flagstones with your boots? Perhaps jump up and down on it for good measure? It would probably have hurt him less.

“Potter, don’t be ridiculous. Where will you go?”

“Ron and Hermione have been asking me to visit for a while now. I think it would be for the best, until I can move out properly.”


Back in his room, he remembered to cast a quick silencing spell before falling onto the bed and letting the misery envelop his body as fast hot tears plastered his face, his attempts to brush them away utterly futile.

How could he have been so short sighted? Again!

His mortally wounded pride strengthened his resolve to escape to the Snape-free sanctuary of his friends’ house, but emotions were overwhelming him with the need to stay close by, no matter how unwanted his attentions were.

How had he fallen so quickly? How had these insane, intense feelings developed so rapidly when he had thought all along he was just waiting for the right girl? And all along, the right man had been encouraging him, supporting him, living with him for Merlin’s sake!

Except Snape obviously didn’t see himself as the right man. Harry had felt elated when the realisation dawned on him that Charles was no longer a permanent fixture.

He had mistakenly believed it to be a sign that Snape shared his sentiments, that it was one more step closer to him admitting his developing feelings for Harry, one step closer for Harry to finally embrace the disturbing reality that he was falling for his ex Potions Professor and friend.

That the haughty display in the Great Hall did nothing to convince him otherwise; Snape had clearly been royally hacked off. It had been woefully embarrassing, having the man stalk up to their table and announce loudly enough for the rest of the hall to hear that Harry had been remiss in procuring Flora’s name before engaging in intimate acts.

Harry had scorched him with a force ten glare of his own but internally his stomach had somersaulted with unbridled joy. Snape had let his cool facade slip, and Harry had seen right through, glimpsing something that looked suspiciously like jealousy. Or at least, he thought he had.

And then a bittersweet realisation slapped him on the back of the head. Perhaps Snape did want him. But perhaps he only wanted to enjoy the sinful pleasure of flesh alone. Flesh without sustenance, without meaning or feeling or affection.

After all, he had made it plainly obvious there was only one good reason why he was with Charles. He certainly scoffed at entertaining the idea that he might be willingly coerced into something deep and meaningful with the man. Damning evidence, that was.

Harry felt an insistent echo in his head.

He grabbed his rucksack from the floor and emptied the textbooks, filling it unconsciously as his mind raced over the possibilities.

Maybe it was just another notion he was pathetically entertaining to put off acknowledging the cold hard fact that Snape wasn’t interested in him that way. But possible that he might actually be right. He wasn’t sure how he might feel if he was vindicated.

Sitting down on the bed, he fiddled a while with the CD player, replacing one disc with another before drawing his wand and incanting a spell.


Snape sat on the sofa, helplessly watching the boy retreat, his quickened painful steps corresponding sympathetically with the hammering of his own heart.

For the umpteenth time, he could not stop himself marvelling bitterly at how the whole thing had gone spectacularly sour in such a short space of time.

Years, he reinforced to himself. Years they had spent together in peaceful solitude, quietly ascertaining and reinforcing their importance to one another when neither had ever felt such an unexplainable connection with another person. Not like this, the feeling that their souls might well be inextricably bound for all eternity. It was a sobering realisation that the culmination of those years had indeed brought them to that very point.

Three and a half months. Just shy of fifteen weeks since the brat had appeared at his door, dragging a trunk that looked like it would have given Hagrid a slipped disc should he try to heft it along, Potter grinning as widely as his impertinent mouth would allow.

Twelve weeks of serene companionship. Twelve weeks in which, on several occasions, he had congratulated himself on throwing caution to the wind for once, and approached the boy with the suggestion that he might like to share his quarters on a more permanent basis. Snape had of course, added condescendingly that Potter may as well move in, since he had practically done so anyway over the past few years.

He had tried to convince himself he was doing it purely for Potter’s benefit, after all the boy clearly found the idea of continuing to share quarters with other students distasteful if there were other options to be considered. Not that he had bothered to consider them for long.

He brought to mind the image of Potter’s face when he had realised the sincerity of the offer, even though it had been heavily cloaked in mock indignation.

The green eyes had lit up with exhilaration, giving Snape his answer before any verbal agreement had slipped past his lips. Those lips. That mouth.

There had been no evidence then of the living nightmare it might threaten to transform into.

Twelve weeks of harmonic cohabitation. Twelve weeks before the stupid boy had sat giggling on his sofa, eyes darting across the room, just begging to be asked what exactly he was finding so humorous.

Snape wished fervently now that he hadn’t bothered to ask. He really hadn’t wanted to. But ask he had, and in the blinding reality of hindsight, he realised that it had set in motion a chain of events that had concluded with him sitting here now, gripped with fear that the pitiful child may leave and never come back to him. Because of him. He had caused all this.

Righteous indignation struck at his chest.

This is all Potter’s fault. He was foolish enough to confuse fanciful musings with stark reality. He had been the one to innocently proposition a kiss. A kiss that would have opened a huge can of rotten, stinking, decaying worms. A kiss that held all the promise of unravelling two hearts, one naively willing, one resignedly wary, damning them both back to solitary, miserable, misunderstood existences.

No, it’s your fault. You told him you were gay. You set a niggling thread of doubt in his mind.

How do you know you don’t like something unless you’ve tried it?

Indeed. And how those words had come back to bite him squarely on the arse. The little brat transfiguring his own drunken prattle into a bloody hand grenade that would surely have blown them both to smithereens. Had he only taken that kiss.

But you didn’t.

For both our sakes, for the sake of maintaining some bloody sanity.

And how sane exactly are you feeling now? What you planned to avoid by resisting temptation is coming to pass, regardless.

Snape really couldn’t fault the impeccable logic that his mind was furnishing him with. But it wasn’t helpful.

A door slamming loudly pulled him back to his surroundings, and the appearance of a red eyed Potter stood before him, clutching a rucksack to his chest.

“I’ll be off then,” Harry said, though making no obvious move to do so.

“Really, Potter, there is no need to leave.” Snape could not bring himself to add ‘Nor do I want you to.’

“Oh I’m not going for your benefit,” he glared back, “I want to see my friends. I’d like to spend time in the company of people who actually appreciate me.”

A vivid memory of semi-naked Potter on the exact spot beneath his feet caused Snape to inwardly repel the accusation, appreciation ranking very high in his mind.

But the last few weeks had slowly burdened him with a terrible fatigue that he now felt in all its entirety.

“As you wish.” He carefully settled his face into a neutral expression and waved his hand dismissively, rather than use it to wrench the boy towards him and violently eradicate the infuriating insolence from his mouth.

Harry bit his lip so hard he fancied he could taste the metallic hint of blood there. No flicker of anything remotely resembling emotion. God, Snape was a hard bastard. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before.

“You know,” Harry said carefully, “If this is about your, inability to...” he dodged the word love in favour of something a little less offensive, “Care...” he faltered again. This was not coming out right. Snape wasted no time in seizing the opportunity his hesitation provided.

“My inability to care?” Malicious contempt played across his recently impartial face.

“Have I not cared for you the past seven years? Do you think I have suffered your presence here out of some darkly twisted detachedness? Of course I bloody care, you fool! Which is precisely the reason why I cannot, why I will not entertain the idea of...”

Fuck, where were the words? What was he trying to say? That he didn’t want to entertain the idea of falling in love? With anyone, never mind the brat standing obstinately in front of him? That the intensity might just be too much for even him to bear?

“Love is overrated, Potter.”

And you should know, Severus.

“I know you think that, I can’t pretend to understand why you feel that way but that doesn’t matter. What I was trying to say is that if you just wanted to fuck me, well, that would be okay.” Harry’s voice cracked over the last few words. He couldn’t actually believe he’d said it, and in such an undignified way, but it felt good. Bad, good. The possibilities that might ensue from those words felt even better, never mind how bloody scary it might be.

Snape heard the words echo around the room.

Fuck me. It’s okay.

Fuck him! He said it’s okay!

Oh Merlin, if he hadn’t consciously wanted to before, he very much wanted to now.

How easy it would be to give into the last shred of moral conscientiousness, any remaining panic that lingered about losing the boy’s companionship. About all manner of bloody complications it would undoubtedly invoke.

How... unbelievably erotic those words sounded falling from those lips. How painfully innocently they had been spoken. Like the true virgin Snape knew him to be.

“Have you been fucked before, Mr Potter?” A dangerous glint passed through his eyes and he snorted, knowing full well from their little game of questions that he already knew the answer. Harry’s eyes looked as though they might very well fall out of their sockets as the deafening realisation of what he had offered roared through his ears.

“Well? Have you ever offered your tight little arse up for utilization? Have you ever been stretched and prepared and thoroughly exposed? Have you, I wonder, felt the searing pleasurable pain of a long, rigid cock penetrating the protesting ring of muscle? Felt the fullness of sheathing another man’s pulsating prick inside you?”

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, a smattering of fear and disgust assimilated by greater excitement and enthusiasm, all swirling together before plummeting to his groin.

“As I suspected. I am not prepared to play games with you that would complicate both our lives. Now, go and join your friends. I am growing weary of your adolescent folly.” Snape knew he had been unjustly harsh, not to mention the proverbial cutting off of his nose from his face, but the boy had to face the reality of the ridiculous nonsense he was entertaining.

However appealing the ridiculous nonsense might be.

Harry wondered where all his saliva had gone to and swallowed thickly before turning away to face the fireplace to hide his shame.



Snape mentally noted that the usually chill dungeons had rapidly expanded with hot, cloying air.

He had also made a mental note of something else.

Between the moment he had finished ridiculing the boy and the moment the boy had turned to face the fireplace, there had been another moment. In that moment, Snape had inadvertently dropped his gaze, quite unwittingly, to Potter’s trousers.

Far from his lewd descriptive tirade having dampened the boy’s spirits, it appeared it had rallied them considerably. At least, something had rallied.

He had meant to shock Potter so intensively that he could be assured the topic would never be mentioned again.

But it would seem that his not very well thought out plan had boomeranged.

Still, one thing was for sure: Even if Potter did decide to start experimenting with his new found interest in the same sex, he most certainly would not be approaching Snape again to help him with his initiation.

It wasn’t particularly pleasant though, to think that he had left so abruptly and very obviously angry. But he would be back soon enough, he only had the weekend to dwell on things.

Didn’t he?

No, you fool. Whilst the rest of the school continue on into the final week of term before breaking to celebrate the tiresome seasonal festivities, the Wizarding degree students have finished a week early. Yesterday in fact.

Which means...

...That the boy has the entire Christmas period to seek out another dwelling, should he feel the need.

Snape groaned and sagged into the obstinate sofa; how it reminded him of Potter!
He promised himself that he would replace the hideously uncomfortable thing before the New Year rolled around. With an ironic grimace, he made one last mental note that the thing in question to be replaced should be the settee and probably not the boy.


A week.

A whole bloody week and not so much as a single bird dropping from the wretched Hedwig, never mind the delivery of a letter.

No doubt he was having the time of his life, living it up with his nauseating little friends, wherever they were. He realised he didn’t actually know where they lived, and quashed the desire to find out.

The last thing he needed to do was actually instigate contact with a Weasley. Or a Granger, come to that.

Or a Potter. A fit, lithe, willing, youthful Potter.

Yes, fuck them all.

He had spent an enjoyable day in Hogsmeade, allowing himself to be indulgent and stocking up on various seasonal treats.

Tinsel had not been one of them. Scotch had featured heavily.

And by Gods he deserved a large glass of it now. A reward for making it through the final week without handing out a record number of detentions, despite his more foul than usual demeanour. A reward for making a good show of waving off the little brats with a fond farewell and a Merry Christmas.

He was about to release a loud chuckle at his own humorously distorted version of events when there was a loud knock at the door.

Who the hell could that be? No doubt some simpering colleague come to wish him a Happy bloody Christmas. Or the dreaded student carol singers. Nasty acne ridden children with no homes to go to for the holidays, rounded up like stray sheep by McGonagall and sent to plague long suffering Professors into handing over a plate of mince bloody pies and good wishes.

Not bleeding likely.

He stomped over to the door and wrenched it open with all the force and intimidation he could muster.

Flora bloody Farmer.

Snape looked her up and down disdainfully, slightly taken aback by her skimpy attire despite the fact that it was the middle of winter and icicles had actually formed along the dungeon corridors.

The girl was wearing some hideous scrap of material and parading it under the guise of being a t-shirt. The fabric barely reached the top of her belly button. Obscene.

Potters hands have been there. His brain chided. Oh fuck off.

“Sorry Professor, have I come at a bad time?” she said, her blinding smile faltering somewhat.

Had he said fuck off out loud? He wasn’t sure. Forcing his hands to remain by his side, he tried not to physically shield his eyes from the dazzling whiteness of her teeth.

“What can I do for you Miss Farmer?” he replied, ignoring her question.

“I was just wondering if Harry was around, sir? I haven’t seen him for a while.” Her face lost a degree of its sparkle and she began to look serious.

Oh, the predicament. Snape turned an idea over in his head. He quite enjoyed distressing children, and in his classroom, he could exercise this small pleasure quite acceptably. But meddling here was a whole other Quidditch game. But to hell with it. This was going to be a lonely enough Christmas as it was, best he have something to fondly reminisce over.

“Yes Miss Farmer, I’ll just get him for you.” Snape warned her with a glare in case she tried to cross the threshold. Finally satisfied she would not, he re-entered the living area and went to Harry’s bedroom door.

“Potter!” he called loudly to the stagnant air, “Miss Farmer is here to see you.” He waited a good ten seconds before continuing in a stage whispered voice.

“Oh, alright, but do you think that’s really... no no, it’s your life, who am I to offer advice. Very well.” Snape made his way back to the door.

He put on his most apologetic look, unpractised as it was, and met her eyes with as much contrition as he could bring himself to muster.

“I’m terribly sorry Miss Farmer, I was labouring under the misapprehension that Potter was here. He is not.” Snape waited for the fun to begin.

“But... I heard you!... talking to him! I know he’s in there!” she said indignantly, and not without a good dose of disgust either. Snape could feel the sudden swell of mirth expanding in his chest. He choked it back and continued.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I really must insist that he is not available to you at the moment.” He tried for a look that placed him as a victim caught in the unfortunate crossfire.

“Fine,” she glared, crossing her arms, “whatever Harry, you loser.”

Snape closed the door and went to his desk, catching up the bottle of scotch and unscrewing the lid. He poured a controlled slosh into the glass and toasted the ceiling.

Now you’ve done it. If he does bother to come back, he’ll leave again just as soon as he finds out what you did.


Three days until Christmas. Fifteen days since the ungrateful little bugger packed a bag barely big enough to contain a pair of boxers.

His boxers. Containing...

No, it would not do to start worrying about the nauseating child. Since he really wasn’t a child any longer. He was an eighteen year old man, quite capable of looking after himself, especially so since he had defeated one of the most powerful Dark Wizards in all of bloody history and lived to tell the tale. Again.

“Merry Bloody Christmas, Potter, you insufferable brat,” Snape muttered under his breath.

He had been repeatedly ignoring the requests of his colleagues to join in the festivities, disregarding the steady stream of letters from Charles all but begging him to spend the rest of his holiday in London.

The dungeon was quiet and cool and a perfect place to brood peacefully over the irritating lack of Potter.

Snape took a long sip of scotch and wondered just how much more abuse his liver could take in such a narrow timeframe.

He became vaguely aware of music, music that didn’t sound very far away at all.

His hand held still the tumbler as he listened intently. Definitely music. And it was coming from Potter’s bedroom. His heart leapt into his throat before he remembered he couldn’t give a rat’s bum about the boy. Nevertheless, he should at least investigate such a strange occurrence.

He raised himself off the settee and warily padded to the closed bedroom door, wondering how Potter had managed to get in unnoticed. Apparition was not permitted on school grounds and he certainly hadn’t Flooed in, not while Snape had been sat staring at the fire, which had admittedly been most of the day.

He pushed the door open and stuck his head round it. Nothing. No Potter. The smell of teenage pheromones assaulted his nostrils, striking a resonant chord in his lower body and he silently lamented his delicate sense of smell.

And the state of the room! No wonder the house elves had gone on strike if they were expected to clean up this kind of mess. Snape almost sympathised.

The music. The Muggle contraption had started playing music of its own accord. Snape wasn’t certain that was possible. Perhaps some kind of alarm had been set on it? But surely if that were the case it would have gone off every day since Potter had left. Snape would have known about it if it had, because every day since Potter had left, he had spent pacing and brooding his, their, quarters.

And it was stuck. Whatever was trying to play was jammed, the same two seconds repeatedly jarring.

Irritated by the intrusion into his serenity, Snape marched over to the bed and bent over the player, puzzling over how it might be silenced.

He immediately recognized the tangible presence of magic around it, and recoiled slightly. Old habits die hard, and it was not impossible that once upon a time, this may have been some kind of trap. But that seemed a lifetime ago now and the metal box appeared harmless enough. Snape leaned forward again and began jabbing a multitude of buttons in the hope of hitting the correct one.

Nothing happened and he sat down on the bed exasperated. He drew his wand, with a mind to blow the thing up and noticed a piece of paper beside it. Probably some bloody love letter from Miss Farmer.

Berating himself for his curiosity, he picked it up and unfolded it.

Snape,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve probably been nosing around my bedroom.

Cheeky little brat! Nosing indeed! Trying to regain my tranquillity more like. Disturbed, yet again, by you, Potter.

Calm down, I was only joking, I know the music was playing and that lured you in. Unless of course you really have been snooping.

Snape fought down the temptation to rip up the rest of the letter on the spot.

Anyway, I don’t really know what’s happened between us lately. It all feels so weird and so sudden, and well, just weird. Yeah, I know. Eloquent. The thing is, even though I’m really angry with you right now and everything, I still feel the same. I really think our friendship is strong enough to at least try, you know? I don’t know if it’s just men or if it’s just you or if it’s neither but I know if anyone can help me figure it out, it’s you. That’s what you do best.

Snape exhaled a grunt. Half the letter was practically bloody illegible and the other half nonsensical. What on earth was he twittering on about?

Also, could I have my stuff back please? I mean when I get home. I don’t want to leave but I would like my stuff back.

He’s coming home. Home. And the infuriating child wants his ego boosting fiction back.

Right, I’d better go. I don’t want to, because you’re sitting out there right now, I can feel you brooding and I know I’ve done that and I wish I made you feel the opposite of that but I guess I don’t. Oh fuck it, listen, there’s a CD in the player, just humour me and press play and LISTEN ok?

I’ll be back on Christmas Eve.

Take Care,
Harry x

Unbelievable. He even had the temerity to put a kiss on the end. After all the trouble a kiss had caused.

Or rather, what the lack of a kiss had caused.

Snape looked suspiciously at the CD player and wondered what button might set the thing off.

He carried on jabbing at each one in turn, until he heard the slow whine of something mechanical.

A softly played short introduction carried into the room before words were sung. Snape braced himself to listen carefully before feeling a pang of ludicrousness for doing Potter’s bidding.

Need I say I love you
Need I say I care
Need I say that emotion is
Something we don’t share

I don’t want to be sitting here
Trying to deceive you
Cos you know I know baby
That I don’t want to go

We cannot live together
We cannot live apart
That’s the situation
We’ve known it from the start

Every time that I look at you
I can see the future
Cos you know I know baby
That I don’t want to go

Snape took a deep drag of dizzying air and tried to make the music stop. The words rushed at him with frightening intensity, cloying his brain and drying his mouth. He frantically stabbed at the buttons but they gave no reaction. He drew his wand and tried to lift whatever spell Harry had placed on it but to no avail.

Defeated, he opted to retreat to the sitting room, pulling the door shut behind him, the music still insistently prodding at the edge of his conscious mind.

The words ran over and over in his head, as though the stuck CD had lodged itself in his brain.

Stupid boy. Stupid boy.

I don’t want to go.

Stupid boy. Stupid boy.

Throwing it all away.