Tragic Pasts Collide

Alright, here is more fic of a slashy nature. (gotta love it!) In this fic, Harry is 16 which is illegal here, but legal most other places, so I gave the warning just to be on the safe-side. There is much angst here, but mostly, it is thinly disguised PWP. =D *shrugs* Sorry...
P.S. Also, there is mention of events in book 5 - so minor spoiler alert...*waves bye bye*
Disclaimer - I do not own these characters. No infringement intended. No profit made. No harm done. Yes?




Tragic Pasts Collide


Black eyes linger on green, catch the sunlight, and flutter closed. The shrieking shack is really no place for this but it is vacant. Not many people would venture here –except maybe the fiercest of wizards, or fools. Especially after last spring. They have finally decided to solve their differences, confront the monster that is their miserable relationship. Somehow, though, it isn’t working out that way.
The death of Sirius has left many empty places in loving hearts. The boy is here out of desperation, eyes the color of the edge of the forest but watery, rimmed with dark red, hollowed, somehow. This duel is over before it even begins as the wand slips from his weak grasp, with a clatter onto old, dead wood - (how this shack remains standing is a mystery), and Snape, with a sigh, pockets his own wand. He knew this wouldn’t pan out. Why should it? The boy wasn’t ready. More evidence of that is how he sinks to his knees and begins to sob. Snape does nothing.

The whisper of the wind calls the Potion’s Master to the window. He glances out onto the grounds at Hogwarts, quite far off into the distance, beyond the Whomping Willow, the Lake, the edge of the forest, sitting there amid the emerald grass like something regal from a fairy tail – and this is anything but. This life at Hogwarts – or even the life beyond the school…seems so far fetched. The sound of subsiding sobs, bring the raven-haired man back to his current reality, this drama starring he and this Godforsaken Potter legacy.
The boy raises his tear-stained face and his gaze begs the question, ‘Why do you hate me?’
Snape wishes he knew the answer. Sure, James Potter was a bastard. Sure, the Marauders were either cold or indifferent. Sure, he’d have liked to be able to catch a snitch or even catch a lover during his torturous years at Hogwarts, but it really has nothing to do with that. What bothers Snape are the similarities of their paralleled lives. The abusive home life, the isolation, the degradation, the repression. The relationship with a respected (or at least well-liked) wizard, Albus Dumbledore. The days spent longing for something better. He tries not to sneer when he regards this boy, but it is difficult. He really did hate James, and seeing Harry is like…well…looking at James. A better looking version with unbelievably beautiful eyes. Seemingly endless eyes. Lily’s eyes. Snape tries not to lose himself in dangerous thoughts, lest they become deviant.

But the boy is standing, coming closer, eyes defiant. He is sixteen now, rather tall, hair no more tame than when he first stepped foot onto the grounds, but he’s so much more a man overall. His body is lean, his voice has some bass in it, and he seems to have a better understanding of who he is. Snape finds that he is afraid of this kind of assurance. This is something he has never known, would never know, something he hides behind his icy glares and silkily delivered insults to frightened student who aren’t yet aware that its all an act. Harry knows, though. Oh God, does he know.

…And the boy is coming closer, still, nearly the same height, off maybe three or four inches, and these are the inches Snape clings to. He considers going for his wand, but Harry stops short and cocks his head a bit.
Snape takes this opportunity to reach inside his mind. If Occlumency has taught him nothing else, it has taught him to seize an opportunity – and he does so now.

The boy is mostly adept at hiding his thoughts. However, there is this standout, twisting around in his head like a nearly strangled dove, struggling to be let free – or to die. ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me!’ Snape backs out of his head so quickly, he sees white behind his eyes for an instant, and he furrows his brows at the boy as if to ask, ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Harry is weakened from the invasion, but continues to stand his ground. He comes closer, still, and lets one hand clutch the Potion Master’s robes. Snape tries to move from his grasp, but fails and finds himself backed against a wall.
“No.” He says into the silent shadowy room, and Harry hesitates, the sound of the professor’s voice startling them both.
Snape feels backed into a corner like a trapped rat. He is angry with himself for feeling this way, for feeling helpless, but then Harry’s cold callused hand comes up to rest against his face, and Snape turns away from it.

“You’ve always…” Harry pauses, fighting down a wave of nausea, caused by Snape’s previous invasion followed by the rough retreat. “…you’ve always been here…for me.”
Snape feels as if this has gone on long enough and pushes Harry away from him, causing the boy to stumble backward. He is not looking at Potter, but instead looking at the door, intending to go back to the castle and forget this whole bloody encounter ever happened, but Harry is quick with his wand when he wants to be and closes the door using a minor incantation. Snape stops with a hand poised above where the doorknob was, then turns to look at the boy. If he could somehow convey the desperation he feels without appearing weak, he would, but it is a virtual impossibility. Instead, he fastens his mask of irritation firmly in place.
“This meeting is over, Potter.” His voice is surprisingly sober, and he feels too exhausted to continue on this way. Something has to change, but not now. Now, right now, he has to get back to his dungeon, be near his many vials and cauldrons and beakers filled with congealed dead animals in order to meditate properly. The boy is slowly driving him mad. He knew this would happen before it was over. He’d just kind of hoped it wouldn’t be this soon.

“We need to finish this.” Harry’s voice is firm. In his hand, he still holds the wand at his side. Snape glances back at it carefully, knowing he could retrieve his own very quickly if need be, but something is telling him he won’t need it. With a grim expression, he turns to face the teen, eyes on his.

“Alright then, Potter. Let’s finish this, shall we?”

“What did you see when you read my mind? I know you did so don’t lie.”

Snape considers lying. He has seen so many of Potter thoughts, read so many of his emotions he could simply choose one, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says the words, in his deep sonorous voice. “I love you. Don’t. Leave me.”

Harry’s face seems to pale and blush all at once. Snape, normally glad for the pain and suffering of Harry Potter, suddenly couldn’t care less. After all, they are merely words. Words that mean virtually nothing to Snape, as he has never uttered them before this very moment. To anyone.

“The words were meant for you.” Harry says without preamble, brows heavy and dark over intense eyes. He seems to be waiting for a response, some kind of reply, something. Instead, Snape simply stares at him. How is he expected to respond to that? There is no response for it. The epiphany is harder to swallow once it gets past the first level of understanding. It amazes Snape how words can take on more power than any spell he could ever utter. ‘I love you?’ ‘I love you.’ It has a way of warming the inside of your stomach, and yet sending a chill up your spine so cold that it almost frightens you. Snape sneers, ignoring any physical response he might be having.

“That’s lovely, Potter.” The sarcasm is never very far away. “I must say, I am honoured, but, seeing as how I am rather against such random displays of emotional farce, I must…” He pauses, feeling his heart-rate finally begin to slow in lieu of his cold reply. “…Excuse myself.”

“Don’t leave me.” Potter says again as Snape begins to unlock the door with a muttered charm. His voice is weak when he repeats himself. “Professor Snape, don’t…leave. I’m…afraid…”

The Potion’s Master is about to walk out the door when he stops short and waits in the threshold. Something about the tone of voice, that quivering child-like pleading reminds him of someone he used to know. Another boy, lost and alone, afraid. A pleading voice, before a soundless reply. There was no one to answer the call then, to stay and protect him. There was only the sound of the wind, the howling of despair. Snape turns toward Harry, and the boy falls against him as the professor instinctively holds him up, holds him close. He is aghast with himself but unable to control his physical response.
Against the boy’s unruly hair, he whispers, “Insipid…little…”
Harry’s hand comes up to twine exquisitely in the black locks, and Snape feels himself begin to falter.
His voice is caught someplace in his chest and he swallows, time after time, almost convulsively. His arms are firm around the student, and he allows himself a little thought, ‘could it be love? Is it real?’

Now, someplace else in his mind, he is picturing the face of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, curious and hurt. Disapproving…without warning, he is pushing Harry away from him, startling the boy.
He is searching for words. “No…not you…not this…anything but this, Potter. I’d sooner die.”
Harry’s eyes are searching the floor for an answer or a plea. His words come out in a soft wispy breath. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Snape has never been so conflicted. What does this all mean? Could this be a boggart standing before him? Could this be a test? Harry Potter professing his feelings? Rita Skeeter would have a field day…

“There’s always Lupin.” Snape’s sarcastic yet feeble attempt at consolation seems weak at best.

“No.” Harry replies quietly. “He doesn’t…stir anything…within me…” Harry pauses, face darkening again. “…not like you.”

Snape exhales slowly, unsure what to say. He thinks it best if he not say anything at all. He still hates Harry Potter. He doesn’t wish to examine it and find that it isn’t what he thought it was. He’d hate for it to become something else. He adores hating Potter. Still, the whole business of ‘stirring something within’ is intriguing…

“How long?” He asks, not out of curiosity but to buy himself time to formulate a decent response.

Harry shrugs one shoulder, half-heartedly. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Snape isn’t sure. “Yes. Yes, I want to know.”

“Alright then. Since last year. During Occlumency. Seeing your thoughts…being so close to you…”

“Enough.” Snape waves a hand, irritable, angry, confused. “There’s nothing more to do here. Go back to Hogwarts.”

“Your hatred of me only makes it worse.”

The Potion’s Master snorts. “Oh? And why is that?”

Harry takes a pause, then shuts his eyes. “I can imagine you…hating me…having a wank at my expense…”

Snape is far too outraged to be embarrassed. “You, Potter, are an insolent prat who should have been expelled after the events during your first year. Had I been headmaster…”

“But you aren’t.”

“Had I been…”

“I want you to take advantage of me. Sir. Make me feel.”

Snape is successfully quieted. His onyx eyes are scrunched in confusion, then widened in understanding. Harry Potter wants sex. With him. A good fuck. Snape lets the idea tumble around in his head. He certainly can’t deny its appeal, but still…Albus…

“Charming. But no. Thanks. Back to Hogwarts. We can forget this exchange ever happened.”

Harry isn’t ready to accept defeat. Not yet. “You held me in your arms…”

Snape feels heat color his face. “You left me no choice…”

“You liked it.”

“I’m leaving. You may remain here, if you must. I won’t be held accountable.”

He starts to go, but Harry forces himself against his instructor and rests his head on his chest, clutching the heavy black robes in both fists. “You’re my last hope…”

Snape doesn’t respond this time, just feels the boy’s weight against him, pressing them both into the threshold. They are both breathing unevenly. Snape is incapable of relaxing. His eyes are staring at the farthest wall in the shack, then out the window. How far will this go? How far is he willing to let it go?
“Potter…” His voice is suddenly parched, raspy. If it goes too far, perhaps they will understand. As an agent of Dumbledore and an agent for Voldemort, only he can understand what it’s like to be pulled in two different directions at once. At times, it would seem easier to simply give up…or give in. At this point, Snape has no actual preference. Good or evil, each has its drawbacks.

Harry wraps his arms around the Potion’s Master, lets his body press closer still, and Snape can feel his body reacting. He brings his mouth down to where Harry’s neck meets shoulder and lets his lips brush the fabric of his shirt. The boy has an odd scent – parchment and fear. He is trembling, and Snape likes it, that fear.
“Snape…”
The wizard is hanging onto the doorframe, terrified of losing himself in this predicament. The boy is letting his hands come around to rest against the expanse of Snape’s chest, then travel upward, and Snape can feel that heat even through three layers of thick fabric. He can feel it all the way to his core.
Harry’s green orbs slide upward until they are lost in each other’s uncertain gazes and then lips touch lips, tentatively. Snape feels a shiver creep up his spine. The point of contact was so feather-light he wonders if he imagined it. And then it comes again, this time with more pressure. Harry sighs and lets a hand brush Snape’s face as his lips part to give him better access. Snape is standing as still as a board, arms out, bracing himself in the small space. He honestly can’t say what’s happening inside of him, but it feels like an epiphany. He almost wishes this had been his idea.

Finally, beginning with an inch or so to the left, Snape turns them both around until they are actually inside the room again. Harry is working Snape’s mouth over, and Snape is reciprocating, letting the tiny pink tongue dance over his before letting his own flow forward to taste the soft warm cavern of the boy’s mouth. Fireworks are shooting off at every nerve ending in his body, and he must focus on this one task – this kissing – in order to prevent sensory overload. Merlin, how long has it been?

Harry takes a step backward, and Snape stands where he is, breathing harshly and staring, unable to keep the furrow from his brow, causing Harry to smirk. The boy sheds his own sweater, then shirt, tossing them both carelessly to the filthy gray floor. Snape wonders what role he is to play in this ‘disrobing’ process, and vows not to remove even an ounce of his own clothing, lest he place himself in an awkward position should someone happen by. However, Harry has other plans.

Once naked to the waist, he gives Snape only a moment to silently appraise the milky white chest, narrow but strong and lightly muscled, before closing in, arms raised and honing in on the long row of buttons keeping Snape harnessed into his ‘wardrobe’.

Snape captures the thin wrists in one hand and shakes his head. Harry has a playful gleam in his eye that lets Snape know he doesn’t mind being manhandled, and his grip on the boy tightens to test his theory. A soft noise escapes that sweet post-adolescent mouth, and Snape feels his body is reawakening.

When Snape releases him, Harry drops to his knees and looks up to gauge a reaction from Snape. The thin mouth is parted slightly, the eyes are bottomless and quizzical. Harry grins and lets his cheek come forward to brush against the crotch, which sits heavily just beneath the robe, beneath the trousers, beneath undergarments. Snape is in agony but tugs the boy up to stand facing him. This would be too much. It would be his undoing, and he isn’t prepared to lose it like this. Certainly not giving the boy the upper hand.
“No.” Snape says simply. “Not like this.”
“Fine.” Harry breathes, his own discomfort visible through one denim layer. He isn’t wearing underpants, and he wishes he would have. “How do you want it?”

Snape snorts. “Oh, we’re letting the choice be mine alone?”

The glint is back in Harry’s eyes, and Snape feels a liquid warmth spread throughout his body, thinking Harry could be so easily affected by him. The boy doesn’t respond, but Snape gets the picture. With one hard shove, Harry is forced backward over a dusty, corroded table. He gasps in surprise and bends one knee as he watches with interest, his Potion’s Master’s slow, predatory approach.

When he bends over Harry, he places a large hand on either side of the pale torso and lets his eyes dance up and down along the tantalizing flesh. He is quite aware of the bulge at the apex of those slender thighs, seemingly too large for the body to which it belongs. Snape meets the eyes again and bends forward to lick the soft skin just beneath his ear. Harry shudders violently and pushes his fingers through the black hair again, surprised by how soft and silky and not at all greasy they feel.
He wants to tell Snape to do more, but he fears he might come to his senses and stop, leaving Harry a quivering frustrated puddle. Anyway, Snape seems to have his own strange style of lovemaking that is leaving Harry rather breathless and desperate, hips raising, cock aching….

“Merlin…” He whispers, tugging the hair twined around his fingers. “…Please…”
Snape’s tongue is dragging across the slender neck, down into the hollow space where the clavicle meets, down the hard sternum where fingers come up to dance along the prominent ribcage like they would over the black piano keys. His lips brush across the sensitive skin of his belly, causing him to suck in a breath and tremble, emitting a high-pitched squeal. Snape’s tongue continues, then, down into the belly button and down to where the soft hairy skin meets the waist of his jeans. Snape then reaches up to slide two fingers into Harry mouth, which the boy suckles gently, swirling his tongue around callused fingertips. Snape doesn’t stop his descent, instead kissing a denim covered cock and burying his face in the crotch. Harry gasps and raises his hips off the table, desperate to have Snape touch him there, desperate to feel more. But Snape stops, a smirk on his lips.

He is thinking of what a wanton Jezebel Harry has turned out to be, how needy, how desperate. Snape wonders why Harry has come to him instead of simply finding some errant boy in the Quidditch lockers or even Ron Weasley who may not be up for these deviant games, but who would most likely do anything for the legendary Harry Potter. Afterall, isn’t that what friends are for?

Currently, though, Harry isn’t thinking of such things. He’s wondering what he has to do to get Snape’s hands on him, in his pants, around his erection. Also, he is wondering what miracle it’ll take to get Snape at least partially naked. He has dreamt about that sallow skin, seeing the broad chest, teasing the dark nipples. Snape is insufferable!

“Touch me, damn you!” Harry blurts out, and Snape actually grins.

“Well, well…eager, are we, Potter? You seem to have forgotten your role. Dare I say, Ten points from Gryffindor?”

Instead of retorting, Harry sits up and latches onto the Slytherin’s mouth, sucking his tongue with ferocity and earning a nice moan from Snape. Nothing has ever made him hotter than this, having the upper hand.
When the kiss is broken, Harry smiles at the disheveled look of the man hovering over him, how his black locks are tangled in front of his face, making dark lines across his eyes. With an angry expression, he pushes the hair from his face and takes a step back.

“Perhaps I was wrong about this, Potter. Perhaps it isn’t worth the trouble.”

Harry, angry and resigned sits up and glares at the man. “I should have guessed. By the way, I have a first name in case you weren’t aware.”

“Yes,” Snape smoothes his robe down in front, “Yes, I am well aware. It simply doesn’t rate on my list of concerns.”

“I hate you.” Harry raises his knees to his chest.

“Oh. How fickle we become under duress, Mr. Potter.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Their eyes meet, and Snape feels a sort of pang in his chest. He’d never admit to it, of course, but he feels responsible for this whole sorted mess. The silence goes on and on, and then Snape looks away.

“Get dressed. I will escort you back to the castle.”

“I know the way, thanks.” Harry says in a biting tone.

Snape starts to reply, but he can’t think of a single thing to say outside of an apology and apologies are for the weak. Instead, he heads back towards the castle. Alone. Harry sits there several more hours, thinking about what a horrible fool he’s been.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Later, in the wee hours of night, Snape is in his dungeon, brewing a potion and getting it wrong, something he never does. Twice, there has been that tale-tell puff of orange smoke, followed by the foul smelling pink mist. Once, he managed to singe himself. Now, he would say, he is truly fed up. Angry with himself for his inability to focus, he tosses the ingredients aside, extinguishes the flame and sets off towards his private chambers.

It is well past midnight (nearly one) and he is removing his robes. He tries to ignore the fact that several hours earlier, Harry Potter had pressed himself against this very robe, clutched it in his fists, tugged Snape forward into what looked like bliss. But Snape knows, after so many years, Bliss isn’t always what it seems. Those saccharine kisses aren’t always made of honey. Sometimes, the worst poisons in the world can have the sweetest taste. Still, though, Snape had enjoyed them, can still taste them on his lips, still feel phantom traces of the boy’s fingers in his hair. He’d been idiotic to turn it away.

In only his black trousers, he is standing beside his bed preparing to remove his boots when he hears something in his office and turns to go towards the sound. His wand is in his hand, and he is seeing the cause of the noise, a turned-over cauldron, spilling out its contents onto the floor. At any rate, he knows he can pocket the wand because only one person would dare to enter into his private sanctuary at this time of night, knowing he would be here. Almost lazily, he speaks to the room.

“Show yourself.”

No reply but movement is undeniable. Someone is here.

“Reveal yourself to me, Harry Potter or suffer grave consequence.”

In another instant, his head is slowly exposed. Snape raises an eyebrow, matter-of-factly. The boy is wearing a grim expression, cheeks pink, eyes watery. Soon, he is letting slip the entire cloak to reveal his pale, naked body. Snape lets his eyes dance over each plane and curve, the strong chest, flat belly, mostly flaccid but large penis, long, lean legs, feeling undeserving of it. Harry exhales, slowly.

“I missed you.” Harry says, standing firm where he is, looking up only to gaze at Snape’s lovely torso, broad and flat, pale and unnaturally colored. With wine tinted nipples. Snape looks almost shy as he
releases a slow breath.
Tentatively, they approach one another until they are inches apart, and Harry, impatient and youthful, wraps one warm arm around Snape’ neck. The man lets himself be pulled into a kiss, and so it begins again.

Before long, they have moved, as one unit, to Snape’s bedside, and they are lying on it, Snape’s hands traveling up and down the boyish body, Harry’s hands fumbling with Snape’s zipper and buttons. Snape is over Harry, kissing away his involuntary tears and licking them, tasting the saltiness, licking the ear and down to the chin. Harry has his hands inside Snape’s trouser fronts, caressing a hardening cock, a thick and wonderfully heavy cock. Snape is mostly silent except for a few quiet breaths. Harry is moaning between kisses, into Snape’s mouth.

Soon, they are both naked, and Snape is on his back now, letting Harry lick and suck his tongue while sliding back and forth over his cock. When Harry breaks the kiss, he is smoothing black hair from his professor’s face and gazing dreamily into his eyes. Snape turns away, incapable of an intimacy this deep, but Harry turns his chin, forcing him to hold the gaze.

“I love you.” Harry says, simply like someone reporting on the weather. “I really do.”

Snape closes his eyes and touches the boy’s lips with his fingertips. Shifting his hips slightly, he feels himself at Harry’s entrance. Sliding backward a bit, Harry begins to accept him into his body, slowly, amazingly, (without much lubrication) they fit together and Harry is already out of breath, sliding forward and back as Snape’s hands caress his chest, up and down and across slightly distended nipples.
They are moving so slowly and one of Snape’s hands is on Harry’s thigh, squeezing it reassuringly. Soon, Snape slides in just a tiny bit more, reaching the sweet place inside Harry that causes him to cry out, his voice reverberating across the walls.

After several minutes of this, they are rolling over, and Snape is on top, still going agonizingly slow, lying between Harry’s spread legs, grinding their pelvises, his mouth on Harry’s neck, biting into the virgin flesh.
Harry moans again and reaches down to rest his hands on Snape’s ass as he feels his cock rubbing against Snape’s belly and he feels himself getting closer, the prostate kissing the head of Snape’s cock over and over until he explodes against it, and they are shuddering together.
Black hair is draped across Harry’s face in great long rivulets, and Harry feels an overwhelming sense of fondness for a man he thought he hated. So much so that when Snape moves to pull out, Harry clutches him close, wrapping his legs around him, glad for the warmth and closeness, loving the scent surrounding him. Ink and potions and dankness and sex. He never wants Snape to leave his body – doesn’t care how it looks or what someone might say. In fact, he fancies the thought of going right up to Draco Malfoy and blurting, “By the way, I fucked your head of house last night. Thought you should know.”

In another several moments, though, Snape whispers against Harry’s cheek. “I have to get up.”
Reluctantly, Harry loosens his hold on the man and watches as he pads naked into another room. When he returns, he’s wearing a long black robe, ill fitting so it exposes most of his chest and shoulders. He has his hands folded in front of him and he glances down at Harry.
“I cannot say what the ramifications will be, but…” He pauses, as if pained, certainly putout. “…we should define boundaries. You and I.”
Harry sits up a bit on his elbow, resting his chin in his palm. “You mean, no snogging in Potions?”

Snape blushes, a faint pink. “Certainly not. I mean, no more of this.” He gestures at the bed. “Our relationship, as it were, should resume as before.”

Harry feels hurt and angry. “You mean back when you would insult me in class, and I’d be humiliated for the rest of the day.”

Snape starts to apologize but catches himself. “Yes. No one should have the impression that anything has changed.”

“But things have changed.” Harry says softly. “I love you. We made love.”

Snape cringes. “You mustn’t be so forthright! If anyone should find out…”

“Yes. I know.” Harry murmurs. “You’d be sacked. I wouldn’t do that to you. At least not now…”

“Good…” Snape says, ignoring the implications. “…Then, we’re on the same page.”

Harry nods, then smiles wryly. “For now, though, can you come back to bed?”

Snape hesitates. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Perhaps we’ve don enough damage.”

Harry is shaking his head. “Not nearly enough damage has been done.”

The boy slides out of bed and goes to Snape, pressing his body to the professor’s. Snape can’t deny the arousal he feels at seeing the pale boy, naked, eager, and already erect. He reaches down to hold the firm cock in his palm, keeping his expression very serious.

“And just what am I supposed to do with this, Potter?”

The Gryffindor scowls through his excitement. “If you keep calling me ‘Potter’, I may have to flog you with it.”

Snape’s member springs up at the boy’s words and he chuckles, softly. “Well, well…that’s an intriguing though, ‘Potter’, if I must say so myself…”

With that, Harry is tackling Snape backward onto the bed and they are rolling together on through morning, redefining a tragic relationship and molding it into something more complicated – but undeniably more passionate and dare I say, fun.


FIN