What Might Be Done

Chapter 6: The Sweet Cheat Gone
In which our hero admits, more or less, his feelings.

We do not succeed in changing things according to our desire, but gradually our desire changes.
–- Marcel Proust: The Sweet Cheat Gone ch. 1, Remembrance of Things Past, v.2

*****

Snape awoke in the darkness. Vivid as it had seemed on waking, his conscious mind now snatched fruitlessly at the disappearing wisps of a singular dream, and he was left feeling vaguely disoriented. He sat up in bed, and immediately sank back down as his hangover made its presence known. If he didn’t sway Potter soon, he was destined to become a dipsomaniac.

His room was frigid. Although it was rather late in the season, the temperature made him sure that it had snowed during the night. Hogwarts would now lay under a white mantel. He rather hoped it had stopped snowing; if it continued to come down, all the students would be confined indoors, and the noise would be unbearable.

Groping for his wand under his pillow, Snape gave a careless flick and parted the curtains. First light was just breaking, providing enough illumination to know snow was still falling -- damn it. Still, as much as he missed his dungeon quarters, the windows in his new rooms made the move aboveground worthwhile; he had never had Dumbledore’s skill with enchantments and had been unable to conjure a window in the dungeon with a view of the outside world.

He had moved because of Potter. And Dumbledore.

“No matter how nice, a dungeon is never the best choice for a romantic encounter. If you’re seriously going to court Harry Potter–“ Dumbledore was cut off by Snape’s violent splutter.

“Court, Albus? Court Harry Potter? COURT? ME?”

Dumbledore smiled and his blue eyes - paler than they had once been - still glittered as they always had. “What other word would I use, Severus? What word do you use when you think about it?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“You don’t think about it?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Severus, this is marvellous! You must tell me how you do it.”

Snape’s eyes twitched and the vein in his forehead popped out. He could feel it. “Albus, you’re pushing a little too far.”

Dumbledore’s face immediately became solemn, but his eyes still twinkled. “You must think of it occasionally. How do you think of it in that rare event? This is important, Severus.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I think of it as . . . as getting him. Getting Harry Potter.”

“Ah yes, that’s quite romantic.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Albus. You’re no good at it.”

Albus merely looked at him and said nothing. And said nothing. And said nothing.

“Fine! I’ll move aboveground! We wouldn’t want dear Mr Potter to get a chill.”

So, Snape had moved upstairs. To a room on the third floor. A room with windows. Far away from his lovely dungeon. All because of Potter.

Potter.

Looking out the window Snape knew the move had been a good thing. And therefore not to be trusted. But, it wouldn’t hurt to just think about it, about the reason for it. Now, on this snowy winter’s morning, warm in his bed.

Snape’s nightshirt had, as usual, rucked up around his waist while he slept. It was a nuisance, particularly when he found himself laying on a large wad of it, but he was damned if he was ever going to resort to Muggle pyjamas. No matter how much sense they made.

He groaned aloud at the ridiculous, convoluted paths his brain was taking. He fisted the hem of his nightshirt and yanked it over his head, quickly diving back under the covers. Fumbling for his wand again, Snape cast Incendio and the fireplace blazed to life.

His nipples had instantly stiffened in the brief moments his chest had been uncovered, and tried to rub warmth in them before he folded his hands under his armpits. Almost immediately his hands came back out, returned to the two still-stiff nipples and took them gently between thumbs and forefingers.

He had been awake for less than two minutes and already he had thought of Potter three times. He might as well just give in. Where was the harm?

There would be worse things than bedding Harry Potter. The boy was not entirely graceless. He had a brain, even if he usually chose not to use it. And he had those long fingered, nicely tapered hands, and a lot of manual dexterity; although you couldn’t tell that from the way he diced and chopped potions ingredients.

A few more backhanded compliments on the subject of Potter, and Snape’s left hand slid down his rib-cage, tugged lightly at the beginning of the trail under his navel. He stilled his hand there, not moving down any further, trying desperately not to feel desperate. His right hand continued to rub and pull at his nipples. He bared his teeth and pinched harder, and harder, anything not to think about

Potter.

Potter with his untamed hair and Quidditch reflexes. Potter with his insolence and insouciance. Potter. The greatest wizard since Albus Dumbledore, and likely to surpass that great man before very much longer. Potter, with the innate magic unlike anything Snape had ever experienced. Yes, there would be worse things than bedding Harry Potter.

Such as Hermione Granger or Ron Weasley.

Snape shuddered violently and thrust his hand down to his groin, grabbing his cock and roughly stroking it, trying to stroke out the thought of Potter’s parasitic twins. He tugged his foreskin over the head of his cock and then slid it back, digging a thumbnail into the tiny eye on the way down. With his hand on his cock he could completely forget his hangover-caused headache, and think only of Potter.

He might have to gag the whelp when he fucked him; he wasn’t sure he could tolerate the boy’s mindless drivel in bed. He wondered suddenly what Potter’s cock looked like and conjured up a surprisingly chaste vision of Harry standing in front of him, in Muggle trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. Snape’s hand moved faster on his cock, fingernails deliberately digging into the swollen flesh. His right hand moved down to cup his balls and his mind was on Potter, on taking Potter, on fucking Potter, on

“FUCK! WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

The sound of knocking -- that Snape just then realized had been going on in counterpoint to his hand on his cock -- penetrated the room, although it was by no means loud. He dropped his cock and made sure his entire body was covered by the duvet as a house-elf, attired in a disturbing combination of hats, socks and a maroon sweater, goggled at him with its immense green eyes. Snape’s headache returned with a vengeance. He hated house-elves. Particularly at this precise moment.

“Dobby is sorry for disturbing Professor Snape, sir. Dobby is very sorry. But Professor McGonagall is sending you this, saying it must be delivered immediately and right into Professor Snape’s own hands, sir.”

Snape blinked. The elf had clearly said something, but Snape had no idea what that something was. In wonder, his eyes travelled the short distance from the elf’s head to its feet.

“You’re wearing clothes.”

“Yes, Professor Snape, sir.”

“Why are you wearing clothes?”

“Dobby is a free elf, sir.”

“You are? Wait, aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s house-elf? You are!”

“Not anymore, sir. Dobby is a free elf and working at Hogwarts for wages.”

“Don’t be absurd, elves don’t get paid.”

“Dobby is being paid, sir, a galleon a week.”

“Why? How?”

“Professor Dumbledore hired Dobby, after Harry Potter is freeing him.”

Dumbledore and Potter. Of course. Who else? Snape’s erection had utterly dwindled during this conversation, and he resignedly swung his legs out of bed.

“Give me that bottle. Fetch me some tea. I suppose it’s time to be getting up.”

Snape had not even finished tying the belt on his dressing gown when Dobby was back with the tea. The elf laid the table and was gone before Snape had taken two steps. Snape blinked, shook his head, and sat down at the table. He picked up the little blue bottle that McGonagall had sent, and tossed the contents back. He rolled his eyes in annoyance as smoke billowed out his ears. Someday, he was going to have to do something about that aspect of Pepper-Up; especially now that he was using so much of it.

Snape picked up his mail from the table. He hadn’t even been aware of an owl’s arrival. Perhaps Dobby had brought it for some reason. Potions Quarterly. Potions Monthly. Advance Journal of Advanced Potions. The usual, but with a handwritten note underneath them all.

Severus,

Please come see me at your convenience.
We need to discuss Mr Potter.

Albus

Of course, Snape thought, I get interrupted while wanking over Harry Potter by a house-elf in clothes, with a summons from the Headmaster to talk about Harry Potter. Snape’s lip curled. This is going to be a good day.

Fifteen minutes later, Snape had finished his tea, shaved, showered, dressed, and was on his way to the Headmaster’s quarters. His erection had thankfully not returned but he grimaced at the unaccustomed ache in his balls.

Turning the corner he almost bumped into a student who was clutching his forehead with one hand while beating his other fist against the guardian gargoyle. Snape struggled to keep his groan inaudible.

“Potter,” he said sharply, “what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at breakfast?”

Harry turned around, glaring as usual. From the way the boy had been clutching his head, Snape was not surprised to see the famous scar was quite swollen and angry-looking. Snape felt a pang of what, in another person, would be identified as sympathy. His cock, twitched, apparently sympathetic as well.

With typical insolence, Potter rolled his eyes. “Breakfast isn’t for another hour at least. I need to see the Headmaster, but he’s changed his password again,” Harry said.

“He’s changed his password to keep out cretins such as you.”

“I need to see him,” Harry repeated through clenched teeth.

“Why? You know he’s ill.”

“I know. I wouldn’t bother him if it wasn’t important.”

“Is it your scar? The Dark Lord?”

“It’s none of your business, is what it is. Look, Snape, be a nice guy for once and let me in.”

Snape resisted the urge to throttle the boy. No matter how good it would feel, throttling was not nice, and he was supposed to be trying to be nice to the arrogant little shit. No matter how nice it would feel to wrap his fingers around that pretty little neck, Potter would no doubt think otherwise.

“Well, you’re just going to have to wait your turn. I’ve an appointment.”

Harry looked sceptical. “If you have an appointment, what time’s it at?”

Snape had no idea what time it was. The impudent wretch had said breakfast was in an hour. “Seven o’clock.”

Exultation flashed across Potter’s face. “Well, it’s only about half past, now. So let me in and I’ll be done before your appointment time.”

Nice. Be nice. Snape bared his teeth. Judging from Potter’s new expression, it hadn’t come across as a reassuring smile. Stupid, overbearing, judgmental little shit. “The password is ‘Earwax’.”

Harry did a comic double-take. “Yeah, right. If you don’t want to help me then don’t help me, but it doesn’t do any good to yank my chain.”

“I’m quite in earnest, Mr Potter. As it is well known that the Headmaster does not care for Bertie Bott’s Beans, he thought it would be a good safeguard if he adopted them as his passwords. He’s going through them alphabetically.” Snape smiled again. “I can hardly wait until he gets to ‘Vomit’.”

Harry laughed and then looked at Snape suspiciously. “Why’re you telling me then, if it’s such a state secret?”

“Oh, well, the great Harry Potter. If we can’t trust our illustrious celebrity, if we can’t trust the Hero of the Wizarding World, if we can’t trust a Gryffindor...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said rudely. Under his breath he added, “Bite me.”

“Are you propositioning a teacher, Potter? I could have you expelled for that.”

“You’re disgusting and I don’t have time for this. Earwax. Earwax. Open up you stupid thing.”

“Patience, Mister Potter. If you would only learn it, it would serve you well.”

When the gargoyle stepped aside, Snape followed Harry onto the moving spiral staircase.

“What’re you following me for. You’re appointment isn’t for another half hour. Why don’t you go skin some kneazles or something.”

“Very amusing, Potter. Three points from Gryffindor for being impertinent.”

“Ooh. Three points. This is a serious infraction. You usually just take two.”

“Very well, two more points from Gryffindor. Keep mouthing off, you little guttersnipe. You’ll be back at your previous depths shortly.”

“Please, sir,” Harry said sarcastically, “I need to speak with the Headmaster in private. Would you be so kind as to wait outside?”

The door to Dumbledore’s office swung open. “Harry, what’s happened? Your scar! Severus, please excuse us. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Harry flipped Snape a smug look as he followed Dumbledore’s shuffling carpet slippers into the office, shutting the door behind himself.

“Certainly, Headmaster. I’ll just come back in half an hour; you’ll be done with the golden boy by then,” Snape said to the closed door.

Rather than walking all the way down to the dungeons to begin work, Severus decided to cool his heels outside Dumbledore’s office. There was, after all, a slight chance that he could hear what was being said. He leaned his shoulders and head against the wall, straining to hear and wishing he had a pair of the Weasley twins’ extendable ears.

***

Twenty minutes later Snape had almost fallen asleep standing up. He started when the office door opened.

“I’m sure everything will be fine, Harry. Thank you for coming to me with this. Not just because it’s important, but it means quite a bit that you’re willing to try trusting me again. I’ll try to make sure you don’t regret it.”

“Thank you, Professor Dumbledore.” Harry turned and looked at Snape. “You still here? Hear anything good, Snape?”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore said mildly, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Severus, so good of you to wait. Please come in. No, no, lead the way, my friend. My gait is a little slow these days. Good day, Harry.”

Snape scowled at Potter’s retreating back before the office door swung closed.

“What can I offer you, Severus?”

“Nothing, Headmaster. Thank you. I’ve had my tea.”

“So, what did you want to see me about?”

Snape looked momentarily perplexed. “Ah, you requested my presence, Albus.”

“So I did. So I did. This illness has really taken something out of me. I feel at least a hundred and fifty-five years old.”

Snape successfully kept from rolling his eyes at the supposed witticism.

“What did Potter want?”

“How’s it going with you two?”

Snape nearly snarled. How like Dumbledore to refuse to answer a question and then pose one of his own. But Dumbledore was ill, and his employer; it behove Snape to be polite.

“I suppose you can judge for yourself. I’m sure you somehow sucked the marrow of our most recent little contretemps out of Potter.”

“I’m afraid I did hear you call him a guttersnipe.”

“That’s not half so harsh as what was on my tongue to say.”

Dumbledore laughed. “I’ve no doubt. It appears things are not progressing well.”

“Could be worse. I could be pursuing Weasley Number Six.”

“Yes, I suspect that would be more difficult. You and Ron have much less in common than you and Harry.”

Snape glared. “I have nothing in common with that . . .”

“What exactly is a guttersnipe? Never mind. The day’s only just begun and already I grow tired. I’d advise you not to grow old, Severus, if it weren’t my most fervent wish that you are able to.”

“Why am I here, Albus?”

“I suppose I should get to the point. I want you to resume Occlumency lessons with Harry.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

“After what that whelp did the last time? No, Albus. No. I refuse. Absolutely not.”

“Did you happen to notice Harry’s scar this morning.”

“It was hard to miss,” Snape admitted.

“I find the physical manifestations of redness and swelling very worrisome. Harry informs me that Voldemort appears to be in an almost constant state of rage. Harry’s experiences are no longer occurring solely when he’s asleep. He tells me the last two days, the pain has been almost constant.”

“Amazing how he still manages to mouth off.”

“My second most fervent wish for you,” Dumbledore said pointedly, “is that you learn patience.”

“I am my father’s son, the Dark Lord’s personal whipping boy, Potter’s keeper, and your spy. I think I have tremendous patience.”

“I have neither time nor energy to spar with you. Will you resume Occlumency lessons or not? I think it’s vital, and it may give you an additional opportunity to become friendly with the boy; if only you’ll hold your temper. Remember, Severus, he’s only sixteen, and you, at least nominally, are the adult.”

“He said the last two days the pain has been persistent?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine the Dark Lord will summon me soon, then. There’s a good chance this means his headaches are getting worse.”

“Are you making progress on a potion?”

“I’ve been experimenting with Muggle pharmaceuticals. If I can just find the right ingredients and proportions, I may be able to give him something that will ease the headaches, while providing side effects that are not easily apparent.”

“Is there anything I can do to assist?”

“Find me a reliable source for morphine, or other opium derivatives. They’re illegal in our world and my man in Knockturn is not being very accommodating.”

“Will you resume the Occlumency lessons?”

“Yes. Damn it.”

“Then I’ll find you a source for your opium.”

Dumbledore stood and swayed slightly. Snape jumped to his feet and took hold of a thin arm.

“Back to bed with you, I think. Should I call Poppy?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I’m just tired. I don’t have the strength of a newborn kitten these days. Help me to my room, will you, there’s a dear boy.”

“Albus . . .”

“Not now, Severus. I’ll be fine. I see my end and it is not today. Today, we have things to do.”

Dumbledore sat heavily on the edge of his bed and Snape helped him lift his legs up. When the old man was comfortably arranged under the covers, Snape turned to go.

“Severus,” Dumbledore called weakly, “keep your pensieve out of temptation’s way. And you might consider giving the boy one of his own. I know you believe he’d work harder if he had things to hide, but he’s of an age now . . . well, just consider giving him one of his own.”

“I’ll think on it. Good day, Albus. Sleep well.”

Snape pondered Albus’s telling statement, “he’s of an age now,” all the way back down to the Dungeons.


TBC