Centre of Twilight

“Severus?” Harry called from the sitting room, “Severus, are there any tree lights?”

When there was no response, he stepped through into the Potion master’s bedroom where the man was knelt, rummaging industriously through a large, old trunk.

“Severus?”

“What?” Snape sat up, looking dusty and dishevelled. He pushed his hair out of his face and looked at Harry.

“I said, are there any lights? For the tree?”

After the majority of the students had gone home for the Christmas holiday, Snape and Harry had begun decorating their shared quarters. A small tree had been coaxed from a reluctant Hagrid (“Well, I dunno, ‘Arry. It’s awful small. Wouldn’ yeh rather I found yeh a bigger one?”). And it was now planted, somewhat lopsidedly, in a pot near the corner of the sitting room.

Harry was in charge of actually decorating the Christmas tree and Snape’s job was just to find decorations.

“What, those tacky little plastic lights that you have to plug in?” Snape curled his lip in distaste. It always amazed Harry how much the man knew about muggles. “I’m sure I can do better than that. Put these on first, though.” And he handed Harry a wire basket of large, glittering, glass baubles.

“Okay.” Harry nodded and then peered closer at the trunk, “Is that tinsel?”

“Hmm. Only the muggle variety, though.” Snape nodded thoughtfully, “I think I can probably charm it to hang itself, though.”

“There’s no need.” Harry insisted, “I’ve put up decorations without magic before, you know.”

“I know. But unlike your ghastly relatives, I don’t want you to break your neck, falling off a chair.” Snape growled and then realised that he’d spoken ill of the dead and gave a shrug by way of half-hearted apology. “So,” he said, moving on, “put those baubles on the tree and I’ll use a charm to hang this tinsel.”

They worked in a kind of happy, companionable silence for a while and neither of them said anything aside from comments or questions concerning the task at hand. They definitely didn’t mention Draco or Draco’s request of Snape (which Harry, of course, had overheard).

The Prince of Slytherin was around, however. Staying in the Slytherin common room with Goyle, who had chosen at the last minute to stay at Hogwarts, Draco was hopefully having a good time too – although Harry really didn’t want to think about that. The break up was still too new and too raw.

“So, what about the lights?” Harry asked, a while later.

“Hm? Oh, yes, just a second.” And Snape disappeared into his office for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a covered metal cage and Harry had a dreadful memory of Lockhart and the incident in his second year with the pixies.

“Fairies.” Snape said by way of explanation and pulled away the covering cloth. Inside the cage, were twenty to thirty brightly coloured fairies with iridescent wings and tiny, glowing lanterns. At a signal from Snape, they began singing in tiny, squeaky, high-pitched voices and, when he opened the cage door, they flew straight to the tree and perched amid the deep green branches.

Snape and Harry stood, looking at the tree and listening to the singing for perhaps a minute before, at a shared glance, the Potions master halted the singing and sighed.

“It was quite good,” Harry tried to sound convincing, “and I expect children would like them.”

“Well, don’t think it was my idea.” Snape retorted defensively, “Professor Fraser said everyone was buying singing fairies this year.”

Harry smirked and said nothing. A moment later and Snape smirked too and then the moment was passed.

“So, are we done, do you think?” Harry asked, looking around the room at the tree, the tinsel and the holly garland over the fireplace.

“I think so.” The Potions master nodded. “I don’t normally bother with decorations in here – I have quite enough of them in the Great Hall, to be honest.”

Harry made a small noise of surprise and then smiled. “Well, in that case, thank you.”

Snape sneered self-deprecatingly and shrugged, “It’s just another example of the way in which you’ve corrupted me.” He sighed.

“Because you were so pure before hand,” Harry sniggered.

“Quite.” Snape remarked. He then turned to look directly at Harry. “So, speaking of the Great Hall, can I persuade you to come with me for dinner, this evening?”

Harry chewed thoughtfully on his lip and looked uncomfortable. “Um…”

“Harry, you can’t hide from him forever,” Snape pointed out, his tone firm. “The sooner you go out there and face him, the better. And after all,” he added, “Draco doesn’t hate you.”

“But he doesn’t want me either.” Harry retorted. “He wants Goyle.” His mood suddenly soured by mention of his former lover, he glowered at the festively decorated room for a moment and then turned on his heel to retreat once more to his bedroom.

Before he could reach the door, however, Snape caught his arm and held him firmly in check. “Don’t run away again,” he said with just a bite of impatience.

“I’m not.” Harry growled, grudgingly allowing the other man to turn him around. “I’m…”

“What?” Snape raised an eyebrow, “Making a tactical retreat? Waiting for back-up?”

“Sarcastic git.” Harry muttered, regarding Snape darkly. “And it’s not as if I’d get much back-up from you.”

“Harry,” Snape reproved, “I’ve given you all the back-up you could wish for. I could have simply sent you back to Gryffindor tower, you know.”

“So why didn’t you?” Harry demanded, his tone sulky and irritable. “Then you could have had a nice, quiet Christmas with no tree, no decorations and no stupid, singing fairies!”

The fairies, having settled quite happily on the tree to watch the discussion between the two men, suddenly burst into a storm of squeaky indignation. But Harry really couldn’t care less right then. He pulled his arm roughly away from the Potion master’s grasp and took a step towards his room.

“You forgot to mention the absence of a stroppy teenager in your list of things that would make a nice Christmas.” Snape snarled, halting him in his tracks.

In a flash of temper, Harry turned; about to deliver another volley of abuse – ready to tell Snape exactly what he could do with his nice Christmas – when he stopped, very abruptly. For something, some instinct perhaps, told Harry that this was not a wise course of action. Snape was not the sort of person to have a stand-up row and then forgive and forget in the next moment. Nor was he the sort to pander to a lovelorn, moody teenager in the throes of a temper tantrum; if Harry weren’t careful, he’d find himself out on his ear.

So, with a sigh and a little shrug, he immediately let the subject go and lowered his eyes in a gesture of humility; waiting with bated breath for Snape’s next words.

“I’m going to dinner,” the Potions master growled, turning towards the door. “Do as you please.”

Harry winced; evidently he’d already gone too far! Swallowing any last vestiges of his pride, he hurried after the man and caught hold of his wrist; only letting go when Snape stopped and turned to face him with surprise in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Harry mumbled, looking at the floor.

“Harry,” Snape sighed, seeming to calm down too, “you should know by now that I like having you here. I liked having Draco here too, for that matter, but it was always his choice to either stay or go – just as it is for you. But please don’t be under the impression that I’m in any way suffering. And now,” he concluded, “you can either come with me for dinner or you can go and hide in your bedroom again. If you choose the latter, I suppose I can be persuaded to bring you something back.”

“Okay,” Harry replied softly and moved to stand beside Snape once more. “I’m sorry.” He said again and then, feeling the need for physical comfort, he rested his head against the older man’s shoulder. “My head hurts.”

It was true. Ever since Draco’s departure, the night before last, both Snape and Harry had suffered with persistent, nagging headaches, which of course, without Draco, wouldn’t ever go away. This, thought Harry, was just another reason to silently resent his former lover’s absence.

Snape drew a deep breath and exhaled, sounding weary. “I know. Mine does too, if that’s any consolation.” He allowed the younger man to lean on him for a second and then lifted his right hand to stroke Harry’s cheek.

After just a moment, his hand halted and both men blinked in unison. The pain, the headache, even the niggling sense of irritation, was all gone. Thinking back, Harry recalled that, yesterday morning, when Snape had massaged his scalp, the headache had gone too – although he’d attributed it to the massage and not the physical contact itself.

Sharing his thoughts and deciding to test the theory, Snape started to withdraw his hand but Harry moved, pressing his face into the man’s palm before looking up into Snape’s eyes.

Mere inches apart, their gazes locked and, very slowly, Harry inched nearer as he moved to stand in front of Snape. And suddenly, it seemed to Snape that things had altered yet again. And, yet again, he’d lost his footing.

“Harry,” Snape murmured, his voice husky. He attempted to clear his throat and began again, “Harry, this is a bad idea. Come on; come and have some dinner with me.” Anything, he thought, but linger here or…

Before he could finish the thought, though, Harry made another move; sliding his hands around the professor’s body and taking a last, tiny step nearer; thus bringing him as close to the other man as he could get. Then, before Snape could speak or move away, Harry lifted his face and planted a kiss upon the Potion master’s lips.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. I wasn’t tentative, either. Instead, it was soft, pliant and insisting. Amongst other things, it was insisting that Snape respond in kind; that he open his mouth and let Harry explore with his tongue. And for just a moment, Snape did just that but then common sense cut in and he pushed Harry away whilst taking another step back.

“That,” he breathed a little shakily, “is a monumentally bad idea.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes confused. “Why’s it so wrong?” he demanded. “I want you. You,” his gaze dropped momentarily, “want me.”

“And you think it’s that simple?” Snape stared at him incredulously. A little tendril of anger drew him forward a step. “You think that everything will be just fine if only we give in to our baser instincts? And I suppose you thought I’d just fall on my knees and thank the gods for sending me Harry Potter, just so I can take him to bed?” Never mind, murmured a little voice in the back of his head, that in another time and another place, he would do just that. Firmly, Snape squashed that particular voice.

Harry was shaking his head once again, “I don’t think that. I don’t expect anything. I was sure I read the signs…I thought…”

Irritated at the younger man and at himself, Snape growled and took another, slightly menacing step forward. “That would be the problem.” He snarled. “You didn’t think. You simply saw what you wanted and took it.”

“You kissed me back!” Harry stormed, suddenly incensed. “And you’ve been sending me all these signals and just what the hell was I supposed to think?”

“That I’m your teacher! That you’re my student!” Snape retorted, “Anything else is highly inappropriate, whatever you or Draco might think otherwise.”

“Leave Draco out of this.” Harry requested coldly, “This is about you and me and no one else. Right now, I don’t want anyone else. Right now -”

“You want me?” Snape snarled again. He another step forward, bringing him close to Harry, and then he took another and another until, finally, Harry found himself with his back to Snape’s sitting room wall. “Is this what you want?” Snape growled low in his throat.

“I…”

“You want me to kiss you? You want me to screw you? Here? Up against this wall?” And suddenly the Potions master pulled Harry about, turning him to face the wall and pressing in close and hard against the younger man’s backside. “Is this what you want, Harry? Is this how you imagined it?”

‘Severus, that’s enough!’

Draco’s silent but furious shout would have drawn Snape up short and he would have realised just what, in his temper, he’d done. However, before Draco’s message sank in, Harry responded with an instinctive pulse of magic. Pushed into a frighteningly familiar position, almost able to hear Voldemort’s mocking laughter in his ears, he defended himself without thinking about it.

Fortunately, the magic only pushed Snape backwards, causing him to sprawl inelegantly across the floor. And in that instant, all of the man’s anger and indignation evaporated.

“Harry,” he whispered, suddenly appalled at what he’d done; of the memories he’d invoked. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

Harry drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes tight. Then, slowly, he turned and looked down at Snape, his eyes round with alarm.

“Did I hurt you?” he demanded shakily.

Snape shook his head, still staring at the younger man, and then pushed one hand through his hair. “I’m all right.” He said quietly and then got up. “I deserved that, I think. I’m sorry. I just…”

“You don’t want a kiss then.” Harry surmised, forcing a wry little smile. He moved then, taking an armchair by the fire. A moment later and Snape sat opposite him and they very carefully spent two or three minutes saying nothing and not making eye contact.

“The trouble is,” Snape began finally, rubbing thoughtfully at the back of his head and wincing when his fingers found the spot that had hit the floor, “I want a kiss entirely too much.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Harry frowned. He looked at Snape’s ashen face, at his own shaking hands, and then summoned a bottle and two glasses.

“I am many things,” Snape replied, accepting his drink without comment, “but I am not a monster. And the fact of the matter is this – you’re too young and I’m too old.”

“You’re not that old.”

“But you are that young.” The man insisted. “You’re only sixteen, Harry. Too young, if truth be told, for making decisions about your sexuality and too young to be involved in a sexual relationship – of any sort!”

“And I suppose kids of sixteen didn’t have sex when you were my age?” Harry sneered.

“They did.” Snape nodded, “Of course, they did. But that doesn’t make it right.”

“Seems to me that, if kids of a certain age have always had these inclinations, then it’s entirely natural,” Harry countered calmly.

“It isn’t natural for a sixteen year old to sleep with a man who’s old enough to be his father, though.”

Again, Harry shook his head. “But what if it’s the sixteen year old’s choice?”

“You can’t make that choice.” Snape shook his head resolutely, “You have no basis for comparison. You have no experience.”

“Experience?” Harry repeated coldly, “I have plenty, Severus, and you know it.” He took a hefty slug of whisky and savoured the burn as it slid over his tongue. “Thanks to Voldemort, thanks to Lucius-fucking-Malfoy and darling Bellatrix, I have entirely too much experience – all of the wrong sort!”

“All the more reason to return to being a child. Return to whatever innocence of childhood you can salvage.” Snape implored earnestly.

Harry, however, just regarded him with a cold, frozen gaze. “I had no real childhood, in the first place. And innocence? Once it’s gone, once it’s been ripped away, there is no going back. You saw Draco’s memories of it; saw things from his perspective,” Harry swallowed and tears filled his eyes, all of a sudden, “try seeing things from my point of view.”

And without any further warning, he sent Snape random snap-shots of his memories. There were scenes of terror, of pain, of sordid, gratuitous, shameful moments when, bound by the Sanguinarius spell, Harry writhed and thrashed in orgasmic torment; begging for an end and yet begging for more at the same time.

‘It didn’t matter what I begged for,’ Harry’s voice echoed in Snape’s head, ‘Voldemort never granted any of my wishes. I was his to torture and torment and he gained pleasure from simply denying me.’

In another wave, he sent Snape images of himself, high on Sanguinarius Control, taking a masked Death Eater from behind.

“Stop,” Snape whispered, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “Please, Harry,”

But this was real, he thought; these were memories of real events and they lived inside Harry. And where they had lain dormant, they now circled and prowled, demanding attention…and all because Snape had awakened them with one thoughtless move.

“My boy,” he murmured brokenly. “My Harry.” Without much thought, Snape dropped his glass onto the floor and edged across the intervening gap, finally reaching Harry. Then, with angry tears marking his sallow cheeks, the man reached out with shaking hands and pulled the youth down onto the floor beside him. And there, sitting on the hearthrug before the fire, he cradled Harry in his arms and rocked him.

“My Harry,” he whispered again, “my Harry.”

But Harry didn’t want comfort or gentle, fatherly affection; he didn’t want to be lulled or hushed like a child. Instead, he wanted new memories, new sensations and new experiences – and this he silently requested of Snape.

“Please,” he gazed up into Snape’s jet-black eyes, speaking aloud, “make me forget.”

Snape sighed, “I can’t, Harry. I understand what you want – what you need – but that doesn’t remove the fact that I’m still more than twice your age. And, like I said, I’m not a paedophilic monster.”

“You’re still thinking of me as a child,” Harry accused.

“All right.” Snape nodded, “But I could still lose my job and-”

He was silenced though, as Harry reached up and drew the man’s face down for a kiss. Unhurried, it lingered on for long moments and forced both of them to pant for breath when they finally parted. At some point, Snape’s right hand had moved to cradle Harry’s head, while his left held the younger man’s hipbone – as if to anchor him in place.

He drew back then and regarded the young man in his arms. How easy it would be, he thought, to surrender; to give in to all that his heart and this boy were demanding. But his mind was made up and he pushed Harry away once more – gently – before pushing himself to his feet and looking down at him.

Harry sat up, moving into a sort of half-kneeling position; first staring down at the carpet and then lifting his eyes – such vibrant green and, perhaps a little overbright. He stared at Snape but said nothing.

“I can’t, Harry,” Snape murmured. “I just can’t.”

And without any further words or actions, he turned and walked away. At the door, he paused with one hand on the doorknob; but he didn’t look back; couldn’t bear to see the yearning or risk his heart taking him back to the young man on the floor.

*~*~*

After dinner – spent in an almost empty Great Hall with a ridiculously jovial Dumbledore on one side and the cool, watchful gaze of Malfoy on the other – Snape was more than ready for his usual place by the fire, glass of whisky in one hand and book in the other.

Harry wasn’t in the living room, nor did he respond to Snape’s knock on his bedroom door. In fact, it was much later, when Snape was considering that maybe he should go to bed that Harry finally made an appearance.

He stepped, slow and cautious, from his room and approached the Potion master without a word.

“Are you hungry?” Snape asked in an attempt to ease them past the awkwardness of before.

Harry shook his head, eyes never straying from the man’s face.

“Would you…” Snape began, “Would you like a drink?”

Again, Harry shook his head and then, before Snape could say another word, he took the last few steps to the man’s armchair, then took his book from nerveless fingers and sank, slowly, into the man’s lap.

“Harry -” Snape began to object then, his heart beating a rapid staccato that he told himself was agitation at being cornered yet again. But Harry placed three fingers over the man’s mouth and shook his head, finally speaking.

‘Don’t tell me no,’ he implored softly, the words filling Snape’s mind and drawing a shudder down his spine. ‘Please, Severus; we both need this. And no one need know but you and I.’

‘And Draco.’ Snape responded, his eyes large and dark over Harry’s hand.

The boy’s fingers were warm and soft on his lips; encouraging him to pucker them; to press a kiss against them. As he did so, almost unbidden, so a smile curved across Harry’s sweet mouth and a look of honest, open delight sparked in his eyes.

‘I just need…’ he started to explain but Snape interrupted.

‘I know what you need,’ he whispered, pushing aside the part of himself that was yelling and yammering that this wrong, insane, immoral.

“This isn’t wrong,” Harry stated, his voice low and gravelly. What had happened to the boy of the sweet, soprano voice or the youth with breaking, cracking tones, Snape wondered? When had he turned into this man?

Slowly, the young man that was Harry pulled his fingers away and, just as slowly, he pressed his lips against Snape’s and no more was said in the way of refusals, denials or rejections.

*~*~*

Thomas hadn’t emerged from his room until late afternoon. Just as Sirius and Remus were preparing a kind of late lunch/early dinner, he shuffled pale and trembling into the kitchen.

“I know that feeling,” Remus murmured gently and pushed a tall glass of apple juice across to the other werewolf.

“What the hell do they put into that Wolfsbane potion?” Thomas demanded, taking a swig of juice. “My mouth tastes like a gorilla’s armpit.”

“Very descriptive.” Remus remarked as Sirius sniggered appreciatively. “And, yes, it is revolting isn’t it?”

“It works, though.” Sirius pointed out, serving scrambled eggs and then topping them with mushrooms fried in herbs and butter. “My night would have been even more chaotic if you two hadn’t retained at least some of your own knowledge and intelligence.”

As Thomas buttered slices of warm toast, he paused and looked from Remus to Sirius. “Last night was chaotic? Why, what happened?”

Remus looked at Sirius and then smirked. “It seems that both of us, in our wolf shapes, wanted to spend time alone with Sirius.”

“Ah.” Thomas flushed, “That would explain the state of my bedroom door.”

“And why I couldn’t come up to check on you.” Sirius responded. “Moony wouldn’t let me.”

“You wouldn’t attack him?” Thomas stared wide-eyed at Remus.

“Not when I’ve taken the potion, no.” Remus shook his head. He looked then at his lover. “Presumably I just kept herding you away from the stairs?”

Sirius nodded, looking put-upon. “And away from the back door when I wanted to fetch more wood...away from the kitchen when I wanted some coffee…”

“Sorry, Siri.” Remus smiled apologetically.

“I think I remember joining a howl.” Thomas frowned uncertainly. He took a bite of his eggs and mushrooms and made soft, appreciative noises.

“Hm…yes, that would be when I shut myself in the kitchen and Moony in the lounge,” Sirius explained, “and Moony protested very loudly.”

“Well,” Thomas began, blushing slightly, “you should know, Remus, that I wouldn’t really take Sirius off you.”

“You wouldn’t get the chance.” Remus countered as Sirius mouthed between them.

“Excuse me, but I am not some mere possession to be fought over.” Sirius pointed out huffily. He stabbed moodily at his eggs and then bit savagely at a piece of toast.

“We know, Siri. Don’t worry about it – it’s just a wolf thing. Me Alpha, etc.” Remus assured him.

“Sorry, who’s Alpha?” Thomas smirked and then, to head off an argument, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t funny. Moving on to more serious matters, though,” he looked from one man to the other, “I need to talk to you about Oscar.”

“Your son?” Sirius looked at him with interest, “What’s up?”

“I…er…” Thomas dropped his gaze upon his half finished meal. “Can I bring him here? For Christmas?”

Strangely enough it was Sirius that answered. Without even a momentary glance at Remus, he shook his head. “Thomas, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I know you want to see your son but Death Eaters don’t give up that easily and muggle police aren’t stupid, you know. If they suspect you – and disappearing like that will make you look pretty guilty – they’ll be watching your sister’s house and waiting for you to come back for him.”

“But he’s only two.” Thomas protested, “And he’s just lost his mother. What kind of Christmas will he have if I’m not with him?”

“What kind of Christmas will he have if Death Eaters catch up with his father?” Sirius asked bluntly. Then, to placate the younger man when he looked about ready to fly off the handle, he said, “Look: it’s your choice and no one’s going to stop you going to see your son – but just think about it first, okay?”

“He’s probably settled down with your sister now, in any case.” Remus added. “Though they’d probably appreciate a letter to say that you’re okay.”

Thomas nodded, not looking very happy but at least calm enough to think logically.

Later, however, after Sirius and Remus had gone to bed, Thomas changed his mind. Scribbling a hasty note, he left it on the kitchen table, filled a rucksack with some bread, biscuits and a flask of tea and then slipped silently out the back door. He then moved with cat-like stealth to avoid disturbing Remus who slept notoriously lightly.

Once he was several hundred yards from the cottage, he drew his wand and Disapparated.

*~*~*

Snape moved about him at an exquisitely slow pace: progressing with exceptionally relaxed and gentle movements - never just taking and never doing anything without being certain of Harry’s acquiescence.

At first, after his initial decision to give in to the younger man’s request, Snape concentrated on kissing Harry, moving off the armchair and stretching him out on the rug to give him his full, undivided attention.

There was no hurry to the kisses; indeed, no inclination at all that Snape intended to do any more than slide lips and tongue over Harry’s mouth. He kissed extremely well, Harry thought; lost in the sensation of tongue over tongue…caressing, exploring…

At some point, Snape trailed a line of kisses down, over his chin and then along his jawline, before licking, nibbling and …breathing…over his left ear lobe. With an involuntary groan, the Potions master then sucked in delicious pauses all the way down Harry’s throat.

‘May I?’ he asked silently, his fingers fiddling with Harry’s top most shirt button.

“Please,” Harry whispered, his eyes on the man’s face.

As each button was slipped slowly though its buttonhole, so Snape pressed heated kisses and languorously prolonged licks of his tongue to the gradually revealed flesh. Then, when he had finally pushed the unbuttoned shirt open, he stroked with a flat hand from clavicle to navel and went back to kissing the almost insensate youth.

“This floor,” Harry murmured against the other man’s lips, “is ridiculously hard.”

“You never complained before,” Snape replied in between kisses, “when lying here, doing your homework. Perhaps,” his eyes glittered mischievously, “you’re simply making excuses. Are you asking to move to somewhere softer?” he raised an eyebrow, “Or do you want me to stop?”

“No, don’t stop.” Harry shook his head, “Let’s take this to bed.” And he emphasised his point by stroking and squeezing the Potion master’s arse. “I want to focus on you – just you – and I can’t when I’m lying here, being reminded of DADA assignments and Potions homework.”

Snape gave a short grunt in response before pulling him swiftly to his feet. Once standing, their bodies very close with Snape’s shirt brushing tantalisingly against Harry’s bare chest, they kissed yet again and the bedroom seemed suddenly forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Only when Snape pulled back to ask huskily, “Are you sure?” did Harry remember their original intent.

“I’m positive.” He replied sincerely and then began to undo the man’s shirt with almost as much grace and deliberation as Snape had shown.

So they moved and although it seemed to Harry that the journey was miles long, they actually reached Snape’s room and Snape’s bed in less than ten impossibly slow paces.

“Come here,” Snape growled very softly and Harry wondered, not for the first time, whether the man practised that voice, altering the timbre for greater or lesser effect.

‘You’re thinking too much,’ Snape’s words filled his head as he smiled and ran a hand over Harry’s back, caressing through the cotton shirt. ‘Let me break up those thought processes for you.’

‘Gladly.’ Harry grinned and arched into the caress.

Snape stepped out of his shoes and sat down on the bed, drawing Harry back with him until the younger man sat half on his lap and half on the bed. With busy hands exploring lightly over Harry’s torso, Snape then reclined back against the pillows, pulling Harry down to rest against his chest.

“I’m going to go slowly,” he whispered then, “so if you want to stop me, you can.”

“Thank you. And I won’t.” Harry whispered back.

That, thought Snape, sounded just perfect – but he would still stop if Harry requested it.

With a kind of reverential awe, he mapped out Harry’s chest with his fingertips; moving once again from his collarbones to the waistband of his jeans and from one smooth, slender side to the other.

“Beautiful,” he whispered into the tousled dark hair, closing his eyes as he breathed in the young man’s own scent of sunshine and fresh air – a scent maintained, despite spending most of his time in a windowless dungeon.

Certainly, he thought absently, Harry was no child, in a physical sense. His build had developed well with a combination of care and good diet – as well as regular exercise in their training room - and he was a long way from the half-starved wretch that Severus had rescued, all those months ago, from Malfoy Manor.

‘Hey,’ Harry interjected silently, his tone reproachful, ‘for one thing, you’d look like a scrawny wretch if you’d been kept in those conditions and, for another, I haven’t seen anything of your physique yet.’

‘Save for what you ogled in the bath last night.’ Snape retorted with a smile.

“You’re forgetting all those very thick bubbles.” Harry grinned. He wriggled then, trying to roll over so that he could finish removing the man’s shirt, but Snape refused to let him.

Of a larger, rangier build, Snape was easily able to pin the younger man back against his chest.

“Just who’s seducing whom?” he demanded good-naturedly and halted Harry’s quick response with a breath-stealing kiss. After that, Harry resigned himself silently to this exquisite fate and sprawled bonelessly in his new lover’s arms.

After another long period of caresses, strokes and slow, unhurried French kisses, Snape raked the fingers of one hand through Harry’s unkempt hair and angled his head back so as to rain a series of kisses over his throat.

‘Tell me you want this.’ He said telepathically. ‘Tell me like this, with your thoughts, so I know you’re telling the absolute truth.’

Harry groaned aloud, stretched his head back to encourage that wonderful mouth to continue.

‘I want this, I want you, I want…I want more.’ He moaned, sending the thought up and wallowing in the range of sensations. Imprisoned within his jeans, his cock throbbed almost painfully and Harry gasped as the Potions master skimmed one hand downwards; coming to rest on his firm stomach, just millimetres from his button and fly.

Snape then brought his other hand around, releasing Harry’s hair and cupping his chin to angle his face for another deep kiss, even as the hand on his stomach slid that last remaining distance to undo his jeans.

“This is all for you,” he growled low in his throat. “I’m going to make you come – just for me. And then…”

“And then?” Harry muttered, trying to concentrate on too much at the same time - the feel of the man’s fingers as they delved for him, as well as the delicious sound of that whisky-over-ice-cubes voice.

But there was no reply. Snape’s attention was centred entirely on Harry; removing his shirt and pushing his jeans and boxer shorts down long, pale legs, before taking his cock in one long-fingered hand and squeezing just hard enough to draw a gasp.

Harry groaned once again, opening his mouth and angling his head for yet another kiss as his hands came up to the back of Snape’s head, tangling in his hair. It was soft, he found: sleek and fine and not greasy at all.

“Please,” he whispered, “please, Sev.” He wriggled one more time, aching – desperate – to have more. But the Potions master refused to get up or let Harry take over. Instead, he kept him in place and continued to play.

With one hand idly caressing the side of Harry’s neck, his other hand abandoned the cock to slide agonisingly slowly over the planes of Harry’s naked chest; skating from one nipple to the other, stroking with the flat pads of his fingers and then pinching just firmly enough to draw a low groan of intense pleasure. From there, the clever hand slid down and caressed the sides of his body, as well as the smooth, flat stomach.

Harry’s muscles twitched as Snape drew blunt fingernails over his abdomen and the naked cock flexed and bounced - stretching a cobweb-thin line of pre-come from the tip to his navel. It begged to be touched again, to be stroked and to be fisted.
And still moving at that maddening pace, Snape did just that.

“Oh, fuck…” Harry whispered, closing his eyes and breathing in rapid, shallow puffs. “Please, Sev…”

“Patience…” the intense, guttural voice chided and then, finally, the hand sped up.

Pleasure raced along Harry’s nerves and everything – absolutely everything – hung on the man’s fist pumping his erection. In that moment, bright with sparkling desire, there was no past with haunting shadows and painful recollections and there really seemed to be no future, other than more of this; more blissful, singing delight, more thrusting, writhing…

With a hoarse cry, Harry arched his back, pressed his head into Snape’s shoulder and came with sudden force.

“Severus!”

And in that moment, in that simple, uncomplicated act, Snape took Harry beyond one of his personal fears and darkest memories. To be held down and brought to orgasm was, of course, something that had been visited on Harry regularly during the summer and had, indeed, a lot to do with Harry’s desire to always be on top - to instigate and control.

Now, however, having been taken through that and having survived it – even enjoyed it – set another little part of Harry free. So it was with little surprise that Snape found warm tears on the younger man’s cheeks as he gathered him into his arms and kissed him tenderly.

They lay, arms and legs entangled, for quite a while. And only when he was coming down from his incredible high to a state of mellow euphoria, did Harry realise that Snape was still dressed. But Snape was shifting, moving – drawing the duvet up and over Harry’s shoulders.

‘I thought…I wanted to…don’t you want to make love?” Harry finally managed to ask. He wished – although not very strongly (he barely had the strength to remain conscious) that there was some term that was nicer than ‘fucking’ or ‘screwing’ but nothing so sappy as ‘making love’.

“Actually,” Snape murmured, settling beside him, “I quite like the term ‘making love’. It speaks of care and attentiveness…of love…” he breathed and kissed the young man’s closed eyelids. “But we’ll get to that another time…maybe. Sleep, my Harry.”