The Producers

The Great Hall had been spectacularly decorated with twinkling lights and beautiful decorations, and above each place setting a small gift hovered in mid air.

Enthusiastic chattering increased in volume until Snape was sure his eardrums would burst. As if the little bastards weren’t noisy enough all year round. And yet even with a good proportion of the students absent, the remaining children more than made up for it, shrieks of laughter seeming to echo deafeningly off the walls.

Dumbledore would have been in his element. He dearly loved this time of year. Especially when the students left behind were treated to an extra special personal gift from the Headmaster himself.

Snape recalled a snippet of conversation between then from a few years back.

“It is better to give, than to receive, my dear boy,” he had said, twinkling.

Snape had snorted and wondered if it only applied to presents.

He raised his glass of wine and silently wished the old codger a Happy Christmas, wherever he was in the afterlife.

McGonagall cleared her throat and stood to address the hall. For the millionth time, Snape ran his eyes over the tables. Potter had not yet arrived. The Farmer girl was there though, stuffing her cherubic little mouth with enough fatty acids as to ensure her slim figure would not remain so for too many more years. No doubt she would go off and reproduce with some dunderhead and he’d be forced to teach her bloody offspring.

Snape couldn’t control it, he automatically sneered in her direction. He had hoped she would notice but her attention was firmly fixed on her plate.

“And so that brings me to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.”

Finally. Snape silently thanked Merlin that he had managed to tune out of McGonagall’s essay of an address. But it seemed she had not quite finished.

“One last thing, I have a request from Mr Harry Potter, that he be allowed to address the Hall directly.” She smiled in the direction of the far door and promptly sat down.

Snape’s eyes dragged painfully from the Headmistress to Harry, who had appeared in the doorway.

What on earth could the boy want to address the Hall for? Snape instantly felt ill at ease and took a large gulp of wine. He fervently hoped it had nothing to do with him.

Harry stood smiling for a moment, and without looking directly at the top table, managed to place the position of the black robes in his head.

The other students were looking expectantly at him, as were the teachers, and he began to walk forward, past rows of tables, training his eyes on Flora and not on Snape, whose hard gaze he could feel boring into his skull.

His determination wavered slightly, but he kept a firm hold of his anger as he came to stop by Flora’s table. He knew without looking that he was all of ten foot away from Snape.

“Flora,” he murmured, and she swivelled on the bench, turning to face him.

Harry fumbled in his pocket for a moment before extracting a small gift box, and dramatically fell to one knee. He held it out in his hand, and used the other to prise the lid up. Gasps echoed around the hall.

Snape felt his dinner retracing its journey back up his oesophagus. He narrowly avoided clamping a hand over his mouth and tried to tear his eyes away from the unmitigated horror that was unfolding before him.

“Flora Farmer, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?” Harry said, straining to see Snape’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh Harry!” Flora clapped her hands to her cheeks as liquid pooled around her tears ducts.

‘Bloody hell,’ Harry thought, ‘the girl definitely has a future in dramatics, not Divination.’

Flora leant forward and winked at him, with the eye that Snape couldn’t see.

“I’d be honoured,” she whispered, loud enough for only the top table to hear.

Harry grinned, and plucked the ring from the box, carefully easing it along her finger.

McGonagall jumped up and began clapping enthusiastically, which encouraged everyone else to do likewise. Snape couldn’t have physically clapped if he’d been under Imperius.

A gnawing, rushing feeling was threatening to relieve him of his senses and his dinner.

What. The Fuck. Was Potter. Doing?

His head was pounding, his heart joined it sympathetically. He could not stop looking at a crouched Potter and that emotionally charged bitch of a witch holding his hand, foreheads pressed together.

Your Potter.

As if someone had waved a hand in front of his face, the connection broke. Snape pushed his chair back noisily and wobbled to his feet, urging himself not to hold onto the backs of the chairs as he exited the Hall.

Harry glanced up and registered the empty place.

‘Gotcha,’ he thought, and turned back to Flora who was still leaking tears, though Harry knew they were mirthful ones.


“Quiet please!” McGonagall’s stern pitch piqued a little. “Settle down!” she cleared her throat and peered over the top of her spectacles.

“Before you all rush out to buy Mr Potter and Miss Farmer engagement presents, I must let you in on a little secret. What you have just witnessed is not, in fact, the romantic proposal of marriage you thought it to be. Mr Potter and Miss Farmer approached me earlier today, with the idea of setting up a drama club, which will be held on Tuesday evenings when term resumes. That little display was a fine example of acting and I hope it will inspire many of you to join the group. Thank you both.”

Harry made a comedy bow to the laughter and applause that filled the hall before sitting down.

“Did you see his face?” she whispered, tear tracks slowly drying up.

“I know, he looked like murderous!” Harry replied, marvelling at his own cunning.

“I’m glad you’re such a persistent prat,” she laughed, “And a brave one at that; I wouldn’t have come after me yesterday, the mood I was in! I’m glad you did though. It was so satisfying seeing him squirm like that. And, you know, the other stuff we talked about, it’s fine, really. I mean, I think you’re mad and definitely more blind than you’ve been diagnosed if you fancy Snape, but I like you Harry, and I wasn’t falling for you madly or anything. I’m glad you were honest with me, and I’m just as happy to be your friend as anything else.” .

“You don’t know how much that means to me,” he said, genuinely touched, “I couldn’t have told Ron and Hermione how I was feeling, even if they were here. All the stuff that’s been happening lately, well, they’re just too close to me to have been objective. I’m really glad we’re friends, I have a feeling I’m going to need a good one to talk me through all of this.”

Harry laughed, but it did not quite reach his eyes as he thought about what ‘all of this’ might entail, or worse, what it might not entail.

“Well I’m here for you. But don’t think I’m going to hang around waiting to see if you change your mind! You’re not that good looking!” she chuckled, playfully smacking him on the back of the head before continuing, “Besides, if it all comes to nothing, we can watch Quidditch training together and ogle all those muscular torsos!” Harry was assailed by a startling image of Snape in tight shorts, sitting astride a broom, attempting to catch a snitch.

The notion caused him to swallow his drink down the wrong way, inducing a fit of choked splutters. Flora slapped him on the back, but Harry couldn’t stop laughing, nor catch his breath long enough to prevent the choking. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he howled uncontrollably, and Flora could do nothing but be infected by his inexplicable mirth.


For someone so usually controlled in their emotions and reactions, however snide and disdainful they could be, it would have been highly disturbing for anybody who knew Snape to witness his barely restrained fury.

But there were no watchful eyes on him as he crashed through the door of his chambers, and straight into Harry’s bedroom, fists clenched by his sides as he scoured the room for Harry’s trunk.

Damn Potter. If he thought he was going to carry on living here and flaunting that girl in his face he could think again.

Not just a girl. His fiancée. No doubt soon to be Mrs Potter.

No one would make a fool out of him. The sheer audacity the boy had, attempting to seduce him like some siren. And he had almost drowned. Almost let himself be taken in by the innocently whispered ‘kiss me,’ that had dribbled from that sinfully arousing mouth. Those perfectly shaped red lips.

‘Fuck,’ Snape exhaled through gritted teeth, nervous energy cavorting down his spine. What the hell did Potter think he was doing? Throwing his life away on the first bit of skirt that batted her eyelashes at him. And so quickly! It seemed the boy fell in and out of lust with preposterous speed.

Shoulders sagging, Snape gingerly walked over to the bed and sat down, his whole body heavy with defeat. He couldn’t just throw the damn child out onto the street. He’d have to put up with him until he set up some sort of pre marital home. Merlin knew he could afford to. No doubt the wedding of the century would be covered inch by satin inch on the pages of the Daily Prophet.

He could imagine it now; week on week a new snippet of information pertaining to the forthcoming nuptials would be exulted over by the wizarding world. The colour of the fucking icing on the cake, what style of dress the blushing bitch would be wearing, what pattern Potter had on his wedding night pants.

Snape had to lay back against the cool pillows to fend off a rush of nausea, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the uninvited parade of images across his retinas.

All your own doing, you fool.

Fool, indeed. Fool enough to invite a young man twenty years his junior to share his home. Fool enough to not have put a stop more quickly to Potter’s playful flirting, the erotic suggestions sheathed in fiction that were so inherently wrong and yet felt so unnaturally right.

‘It’s just a passing attraction,’ he told himself. ‘Nothing more. How could it be? And the attraction will fade. It’s immoral and wrong and it will fade.’

But try as he might to rationalise the situation, Snape also knew that the one and only time he had come even close to feeling this wretched, he had ended up with a ruthlessly mutilated heart.



Harry kissed Flora goodnight, and wished her a Merry Christmas. Making his way back down to the dungeons, he wondered why Snape hadn’t returned to dinner.

Like you don’t already know.

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He knew he had been uncharacteristically cruel, but if they were to have any chance at this thing, however it was going to pan out, Snape definitely needed a push in the right direction, and he would be right there to show him the way.

Letting himself in to the living room, Harry couldn’t immediately see any sign of Snape and for a panicky moment, wondered if he had gone to console himself with Charles. He looked at the fireplace, as though expecting some kind of confirmation that Snape had indeed used the Floo facility in the recent past but it gave no answer either way.

A red stocking was magically suspended in the centre of the hearth, and Harry stepped closer, recognizing it as his own. Snape must have put it up for him, probably before he had attended dinner, and Harry felt a little guilty for having resorted to such deception.

The stocking was embroidered with his name, and it had first appeared five years ago. Harry remembered it so well; it had been the first time anyone had hung a stocking for him. He had been sat quietly working on his transfiguration theory when the appearance of red had caught his attention. Snape had suppressed a smirk at Harry’s overenthusiastic reaction and questioning brow, telling him quite sternly that he most certainly had not been responsible for its appearance.

Harry touched the fabric fondly before letting it slip through his fingers and turning away. His bedroom door was ajar; strange that, since he was sure he had closed it on the way out. Music registered in his conscious mind and he wasn’t sure if he had been aware of it before.

He edged closer to the door cautiously, and peeked inside.

The prone form of Snape lay stretched out on Harry’s bed, the source of the music on the nearby nightstand revealed. His face softened as he walked towards the slumbering man, recognising the ballad as the very same one he had left the man to listen to weeks before.

Harry had an uncontrollable urge to stroke the pale face that appeared so relaxed in sleep, so very different from the hard lines and frown creases that usually resided there.

He had been so angry when it had dawned on him what must have occurred the day Flora had stopped by. He had let his anger drive him, seeking a petty revenge, and hadn’t stopped to consider the reasons that had compelled the other man to behave in such a way. He considered them now, at length, and concluded that perhaps it had not been done so much out of malice, but out of jealousy. And hadn’t that been exactly what he’d wanted? For Snape to be jealous?

Sitting down on the bed, he stretched a finger towards dark, fallen hair and swept a lock of it back to better see the face hidden beneath.

Snape reacted to the intrusion with lightening intensity and had his back up against the headboard in one swift movement before Harry had time to blink.

“What the..”

“Gah!”

“Potter!”

“God are you trying to kill me off before my wedding night?” Harry joked, then bit his tongue viciously at the no longer funny faux pas.

Snape swung his legs off the bed and made to stand, but Harry was prepared and grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait, listen I need to tell you something.”

“I believe the time for you telling me something has long passed. How dear to you I must be that you would not even share with me your intentions before you announced them to the Great Hall,” Snape said venomously.

“It’s not like that,” Harry protested, desperate to be given the chance to have his say.

Snape’s eyes flickered dangerously as he struggled to pull his sleeve out of Harry’s strong grip.

“Let GO boy, or I swear...” Snape felt his head starting to pound as red mist descended on his brain.

“No! I need to explain,” Harry tried to keep his voice from rising in urgency.

“Allow me. You are marrying a girl you’ve known barely a month. You thought it was important to tell the entire school. You deemed it unnecessary to discuss it with me first. You may pack your bags in the morning.”

“I don’t want to move out!” Harry cried, “I want to be here with you!”

“Well in case you have not yet been informed, Potter, the world does not revolve around you, and quite frankly, I couldn’t care less what you want. I want you out. Tomorrow.”

With one final wrench, Snape freed himself from Harry’s vice like grip and thundered out of the bedroom.

Harry fell forcefully against the bed. “It’s Christmas Day tomorrow!” he screamed at Snape’s back.

The sound of wood splintering was his reply as a door was savagely slammed shut.



Snape was at his desk, a plate containing a single mince pie sat in front of him. He sneered at it before pushing it away. Why did he surrender to the inconvenience of trying to be festive? He didn’t even like mince pies.

He glanced up. Five minutes to twelve o’clock.

It was almost midday and not even so much as a creaking bedspring to suggest Potter might be awake.

He had been up since 6am, waiting for the boy to come bounding out of his bedroom and rifle through his stocking. He eyed it still hanging over the fireplace. It looked as bored as he did.

Not that it was likely Potter would spring out in a festive mood now, after the debacle of the previous evening.

Snape sighed. What an appalling mess. In hindsight, he really should have held his tongue and put a brave face on it, good manners ought to have prevailed long enough for him to offer his congratulations to the newly engaged couple.

And then there was the mortifying realisation that Potter had discovered him asleep on his bed. He couldn’t even bear to think about that.

Snape studied the room. If he were Potter, he wouldn’t get up either. The distinct lack of decoration would do nothing to distinguish this day from any other. He supposed the least he could do in atonement was to spruce the place up a bit.

Withdrawing his wand, Snape muttered a few words and instantly the room was transformed into a garish, glittering monstrosity of streamers and fairy lights. A Christmas tree buckling under the weight of baubles and tinsel stood by the fireplace, the topmost branches straining against the confinement of the ceiling.

Snape shuddered involuntarily. Gods, it looked horrific. He mentally shook his head to dispel the thought. After all, it wasn’t for his benefit.

He stole another look at the clock and contemplated eating the mince pie out of sheer ennui. Extending a finger, he tentatively poked at the top of the crumbling pastry, disappointed when it failed to rouse his appetite.

A deafening scraping sound caused him to jerk forward, his finger pushing through the pastry and coming to stop only when it hit the plate. Cursing, he withdrew it and glared at the mincemeat coating, before swivelling around in his chair to discover the cause of the disruption.

The green leather sofa had disappeared. In its place stood a far larger one, patterned with red and gold stripes and definitely not crafted in leather, but luxurious looking satin.

Footsteps sounded from Harry’s vicinity. Shocked, Snape’s attention was torn between the sudden arrival of new furniture and the goings on in the boy’s bedroom.

Harry lumbered out, and gestured at the sofa.

“Happy Christmas you miserable old bastard,” he scowled, “I’ll be in my room, packing.” He turned back towards the bedroom.

“Potter, wait, come and talk to me,” Snape stood up from his desk and circled the sofa, not quite willing to sit on it lest it be hexed; it certainly wouldn’t have surprised him.

“Why should I? You didn’t want to talk to me last night. Except to tell me to get the hell out of your home.” Harry hadn’t slept a wink. His mind had raced in the darkness and he had not been able to stop it long enough to find rest. He lingered uneasily by the bedroom door, finally leaning against the frame for support.

“It is your home too, I regret having suggested otherwise.”

“Suggested otherwise?” Harry laughed bitterly, “You may pack your bags in the morning, I want you out,” he recited, “I wouldn’t call that suggestive.”

Snape’s legs started to feel a bit wobbly and he sat down on the new sofa. Merlin, how soft and comforting it felt against his arse, the total opposite of its predecessor.

“Please.” He hated saying that word, but he knew the crucial effect it would likely have on the boy.

Harry managed to stop his eyes widening in disbelief; Snape had said please. He didn’t think he could recall that ever happening before. Reluctantly, he moved nearer to the sofa but still did not sit down.

He’d had such high hopes for this sofa. When he’d sat on it in the shop it had practically enveloped his whole body. As he’d relaxed into it, he had imagined them sitting together, kissing together, undressing each other on this sofa. Tears of bitter disappointment threatened to glaze his eyes.

Snape nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He was not much taken with the idea of preening oneself but he had to do something to occupy his hands lest the boy notice how hard he was shaking. This was one of the most gruelling things he had ever had to do.

“Harry,” he repeated, more tenderly now, “I am truly sorry for the way I reacted last night. It was none of my business and I should not have expected you to discuss it with me. I let my personal feelings confuse the situation. I do not expect you to move out, nor do I want you to. You and your...” he paused fleetingly as he summoned every ouch of strength not to hiss the next word, “...fiancée, are more than welcome here. Congratulations on your impending nuptials.” Snape mentally slapped himself heartily on the back. He had successfully said all he needed to say, and without sneering, mocking or...and it had been a close call...hissing.

Harry had intended all along to tell Snape that the perceived proposal was actually nothing more than a drama display, and he had planned to tell him straight afterwards. But he hadn’t got a word in edgeways, and by the time Snape had fled to his bedroom, Harry was seething. Now he briefly entertained the idea of keeping up the charade for as long as it took for one of the other teachers to fill Snape in, and as appealing as the thought was, he knew it would only make matters worse.

“There’s no need for congratulations,” he sighed, finally plonking himself down on the settee. Merlin! It was even better than he remembered. His arse wiggled gratefully as it sunk into the compliant cushions.

“Of course there is, you are my friend, perhaps I may even be included as one of your formal witnesses.” Snape was repulsed by the thought of having to watch Potter gaze lovingly as a big meringue floated down the aisle towards him.

Harry couldn’t imagine Snape as his best man, or an usher. In his mind, Snape was standing right up there next to him, his thin lips twisting into a smile as Harry held his hand tightly and spoke from the heart.

Snape was puzzled by the silence; surely the idea of him actively involved in the wedding celebrations wasn’t that abhorrent? Then again, his behaviour towards the bride hadn’t exactly been conducive to securing an invitation.

Harry screwed his eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath.

“There’s no need for congratulations, because I’m not getting married.” He had planned to say more, but was interrupted.

“WHAT? Don’t tell me that witch dumped you as soon as she had a great big sparkling diamond on her finger! I’ll hex her bloody ringlets off!” Harry was quite sure he had never been so frightened or aroused in his life. Snape was furious; his black eyes stabbing everything he looked at, including Harry. Harry felt the stabbing sensation in his stomach. It was rather pleasant.

“No, shut up a minute, that’s not it, can you just listen?” he implored. Snape sat back against the sofa and pursed his lips.

“Flora didn’t do anything. It was never on, the wedding I mean. It was all a...” Shit, what was it? A childish prank at Snape’s expense? Best not mention that bit right now. “It was all an act. Professor McGonagall’s been trying to arrange a drama club for a while, and Flora and I volunteered to help out. We were just showing the school what we could do. But you left before the Headmistress announced that bit.” Harry worried his bottom lip with his teeth. He had a strong urge to bite harder.

Snape’s eyebrows knitted together as his brain processed the information.

“You mean to tell me that you and Miss Farmer are not engaged? Or getting married?” One eyebrow resumed it’s normal position, the other scaled his forehead.

“No, we’re not.”

“But you are still courting each other?” If Harry’s stomach hadn’t been tied in knots he would have laughed at the old fashioned terminology.

“No, again. We’re just friends. I told her about, you know, all that stuff, and she was amazingly cool with it. Though she wasn’t so cool about what you did to her.” Harry played his trump card, anticipating that Snape wouldn’t be able to remonstrate with him if he knew he’d been found out.

Snape stayed silent, processing the enormity of what had been revealed.

Potter wasn’t getting married. He wasn’t engaged. And he wasn’t even dating the girl. He had told her about ... stuff. Stuff that possibly pertained to Potter’s sexuality. These were all good things. Exceptionally good things.

However...

The Farmer girl knew he had lied. Potter knew he had lied. He had no doubt been laughed about. Ridiculed. She couldn’t possibly be as ‘cool’ with the turn of events as Potter was making her out to be. There would be repercussions. And a drama club. These were not good things. Not good at all.

“What is going on in that great big brain of yours?”

Harry’s voice broke into Snape’s thoughts and he refocused his eyes.

“Your stocking. You haven’t opened your presents yet.” Snape nodded towards the fireplace. Harry’s face fell; it hadn’t been the declaration of mutual attraction he’d been hoping to hear.

You expected him to announce he is hopelessly infatuated with you? This is Snape!

Harry shrugged in accordance and retrieved the stocking.

“Thanks for this,” he smiled, trying to hold the obsidian eyes with his own.

“Merlin, Potter, do you think I have nothing better to do than play Father Christmas to you?” he scolded.

“Yeah right,” Harry grinned, “And I suppose the decorations magically appeared by themselves?”

“Well of course they did!” Snape rolled his eyes condescendingly, “Should it amuse you that I would take my life in my hands and balance atop a ladder just for your festive pleasure?”

Snape had heard all about Uncle Vernon’s unfortunate accident one year when he’d attempted to pin a star to the ceiling of the living room. Harry had been charged with holding the ladder steady, but the combination of gross obesity and a strange sensation Harry later came to recognise as magic had caused it to shake violently, and the tiny child could only have watched as the man plummeted to the floor, landing awkwardly on his arm. The resounding crack was all Harry needed to hear to know he’d be spending another New Year in the cupboard under the stairs.

Snape glanced at the boy and wondered if they were sharing the same memory. Harry had fallen very silent and his face had lost a little colour.

The words ‘your pleasure’, spoken from Snape’s lips, had sent Harry spiralling off into a scene from one of the fantasy fictions again.

“Potter!” Snape tried hard to be menacing, “If you think I’m enjoying sitting here watching you fondle that stocking, then you are seriously misguided. Get on with it.”

Harry continued to stroke the felt fabric before putting it down next to him. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll do it later. I want you to ask me again.” Snape crinkled his brow in confusion.

“Ask you what?” he enquired, though a rising panic was already threading its way through his body.

“The question you asked before, you know, that night. Ask me again, Snape.” Harry prompted.

Snape didn’t need to rack his brains, he already knew what was being asked of him.

“Very well. Potter, are you a virgin?”

Both men turned to look at each other and Harry’s peals of laughter instantly dissolved the tension.

“Not that question! You already know the answer!” he huffed out between giggles.

Snape thought that nothing could sound as beautiful as Harry’s laughter. It was a sound he wanted to hear again and again. Merlin knew the boy deserved happiness more than most after the dreadful start he’d had in life.

Snape took a deep, dizzying breath and tried again.

“Potter, are you trying to get into my robes?” he asked, giving his eyebrow permission to quirk.

Harry stopped laughing but the smile did not completely leave his lips. He fixed his eyes on Snape and willed himself not to break the connection.

“Yes,” he said firmly, “Is that okay?”
***