Putting the Damage On

Disclaimer: HP universe belongs to JK Rowling. Not me.

The last time he stood in the middle of this kitchen, Sirius had been alive and the house belonged to him, not Harry. It feels odd being here, like he's trespassing or something. Technically the house is his; it said so in Sirius' will. Still, though, Harry feels as though he is somewhere he oughtn't be.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to split up. Sending Ron and Hermione off without him after Mundungus Fletcher might not have been the smartest idea. There was no telling what sort of dodgy place they would end up in, trailing after such a shady bloke. Maybe he doesn't even have the locket. After all, there is a fifty-fifty chance that he doesn't, which is precisely why Harry is standing where he is.

Kreacher hadn't taken too kindly to Sirius binning the lot of the family heirlooms. On more than one occasion people had caught him scavenging said heirlooms and storing them in the pantry cupboard, burrowing the bits and baubles in moldy blankets and dust and a tonne of other unpleasant things. Harry hopes like hell the heavy locket they'd found in one of the upstairs glass cabinets several summers ago was in Kreacher's den. The locket is the final Horcrux he has to collect and destroy, and Harry wants this to be over. He wants to move on. He wants to just be and he cannot until he finishes the job that he never wanted in the first place.

He never wanted the job in the first place but it's his so he does what he has to do. The anticipation is killing him; his heart thuds madly in his chest as he edges closer and closer to the pantry. It's been so long since he has seen the locket, but he can remember its shape and lustre in his mind clearly. Harry pictures it, dull and old and ordinary-looking, in his mind. He pictures it in his mind and he imagines himself tearing it apart with hex after hex. He imagines a weight being lifted off his shoulders. He imagines Voldemort himself feeling that little piece of his soul being snuffed out. Harry grins.

Harry grins and then he freezes. Even without turning around, Harry knows he is not alone. Anger and defiance curl in the pit of his stomach, winding round one another, entwining so that he cannot distinguish one from the other and so much so that he cares not to try to do so.

I'm going to kill him.

Fingers curl around wand hilt hard and Harry hisses when the strain in his knuckles becomes painful.

You're not a killer, Potter.

"I'm going to be," Harry grounds out through gritted teeth, slowly turning to face his unwelcome guest.

Snape nods, his eyes narrowing as his mouth broadens in a sneer. "Yes, you're going to save us all. Saint Potter." Harry scowls and his fingers tighten around the holly. He is fast, and it surprises him to see that Snape is equally fast. His fingers barely settle against the wood before Snape is reaching for his wand. A split-second and wands are at the ready. Wands at the ready and dual cries of "Expelliarmus!" and two wands then fly across the room. There is a clatter as wood hits wood, followed by the unmistakable sound of wands rolling across the floor. When Harry hears a soft 'thump', he knows the wands have stopped against a wall. There isn't any time to waste; he has to get to the wands before Snape.

He whirls around in the direction where the wands had gone: the dresser. Snape follows suit and Harry shoves him off-balance before making a dash for it. One, two, three strides and almost there. There and crouching and--

A hand grabs Harry by the scruff of his neck, hauling him up, spinning him about, and pushing him into the wall. Harry's face presses so hard against the wall that his glasses raise on his face and tilt. Try as he might, he cannot get away. The dresser blocks escape to the right and he can't move to the left, nor can he move back. He cannot do either of those things because Snape is crowding him, his chest flat against Harry's back.

It isn't until he can feel Snape's breath hot against his neck that Harry realises he is in trouble. He hasn't his wand and Snape has him pinned. He's so vulnerable right now, exactly where Snape wants him, and panic bubbles up from deep within. When he had cast the Killing Curse on Dumbledore, it had been so natural and cold, and Harry wonders if Snape will taunt him, compare him to his father, speak ill of his father, or perhaps do all three while torturing him before killing him.

"How," Snape whispers, his lips moving against the delicate shell of Harry's ear, "do you expect to save the world when you can't even save yourself?"

Harry's eyes close so tightly that stars bloom large and white and blinding in the dark and he feels dizzy. Shove off, a voice in his mind screams, but his mouth remains a thin line.

"Where is it?"

Fingers twist and savagely pull Harry's hair, forcing his head back. Harry yelps, but that is all he is willing to give him.

"I asked you a question, Potter." He can hear the impatience in Snape's voice and he is glad for it. Bastard.

"I don't have anything to say to the likes of you."

The words are barely out of Harry's mouth before he is moved to face forward. Snape's hands are large and strong and unforgiving; fingers dig so deeply into Harry's wrists that he will bear the mark fo Snape for weeks to come. He is trapped yet again, against the wall and the dresser and beneath Snape's body. Snape's hands are on either side of his head and his chest is against Harry's and his hips--

Harry doesn't want to think about Snape's hips. Certainly he doesn't want to think about they are pressed up against his and how -- Oh God.

He doesn't want to think about how he can feel something hard against his thigh. Something hard and long and identifiable as Snape's cock.

He doesn't want to think about it, but it's there and he can't ignore it, so he doesn't even try. Besides, it's hard to ignore something like that, especially when his own cock is twitching in... Sympathy? Interest?

Harry can't decide, nor does he want to even think on it. Snape's cock is there and--

Almost of their own volition, Harry's hips lift up and against Snape's to grind slow and hard. There is an audible hiss and Harry doesn't know who made the noise.

Snape's nostrils are flaring but he says and does nothing, just stares down at Harry in that condescending way he always has, and Harry loathes him even more just then. Harry loathes him and what he did and what - and who - he stands for, but that doesn't stop him from twisting his hips again and digging just a little more into him.

Yes.

It has been so long since that day at the lake with Ginny, a lifetime ago, really. He is a teenaged boy and he has needs and fuck.

He loathes Snape and is ashamed of himself and If Snape is here, Malfoy can't be far behind.... he can't--

"You won't stay silent for long," Snape finally says, leaning in so that his crooked, overly-large nose bumps against Harry's. The words send a shiver down his spine and he can feel his rationale, his sense of right and wrong, his everything slip away as greasy hair brushes against his cheek and propriety is lost.

Mirroring Snape's earlier actions, Harry's hand fists in his hair to pull the other man down to him. Not quite all the way, but close enough so that he can smell Snape's breath, warm and sour and stale, as it rolls off his lips. Snape is so close that Harry can see individual eyelashes, can see the impatience and disgust flashing in those dark eyes. Harry can see these things yet he doesn't make a move. If Snape is waiting for Harry to save him, he will find himself waiting forever. Harry refuses to be his savior, to be his enemy, to be his victim. Harry will not be anything but his equal, because that is what he is now. No longer are they professor and student or light and dark. They are equal, and Harry knows this is so when Snape's mouth, firm and demanding and intoxicating, meets his for the first time. Snape is dominant, but Harry will not submit. Harry will not submit, and so he breathes in and then opens his mouth wider to allow Snape's tongue entrance. It is only allowed entrance briefly because a false sense of security is a beautiful thing. If there was one thing that being essentially stalked by Voldemort all these years has taught Harry, it is that. Snape's tongue runs along the ridges on the roof of his mouth and then Harry's tongue pushes Snape's back into his own mouth before following it home. Sweeping, circling, tracing, flicking, commanding.

Snape's fingers are at his cheeks then, pushing him back so quickly and so harshly that his head slams against stone. Pain lights up within and he groans, seeing a mad crazyquilt of colours before his eyes. His groan turns into a soft cry when those same hands palm the tent in his trousers and he's undoing the zip before Snape even tells him to do it. He doesn't want this but he does and it's all one enormous mess, pear-shaped beyond all reason, and Harry can't be reasonable any longer.

Besides, it's hard to be reasonable when someone is--

Yes, the stone is cold against his face again and, yes, that is a--

"Tell me what this is," Snape says against his hair.

Harry's eyes dart to the right and he can see a small crystal bottle containing a strange silvery-white substance.

"Memory," he gasps, whimpering as a well-placed knee in the arse drives him against the wall cock-first.

"Very astute," Snape sneers, unstoppering it. He lets up the pressure on Harry, who turns enough so that he can see what his old Potions Master is doing.

"Last summer," he says conversationally, tipping the bottle this-way and that, "Narcissa Malfoy came to see me about her son. It seemed the boy was ordered to kill Albus Dumbledore or...I'm fairly certain even an imbecile such as yourself could assume what the consequences for failure would be, Potter." Harry's jaw set and his eyes watched as the substance swirled inside the bottle. "An agreement was reached and I, as friend to Lucius Malfoy, took part in an Unbreakable Vow to protect the boy. Naturally I spoke with Dumbledore about the matter during the first opportunity I had, and..."

While he had been speaking and fiddling with the bottle in one hand, Snape worked on unfastinging his fly with the other. Harry could see that his cock was straining against his y-fronts and he wasn't entirely sure what the bottle had to do with anything before it was too late.

"...and I am quite sure you would appreciate knowing what Dumbledore had to say on the matter of young master Malfoy setting out to kill him," Snape continues. "Pity, you won't ever get the chance."

Harry's eyes round and he stutters, trying to get some sort of protest out but it's too late; Snape tips the bottle over his hand, over the cock he's lead out of the y-fronts, all over himself until his is coated in memory and Harry--

Harry explodes.

I hate you, he thinks, lunging forward, hands wrapping round Snape's neck and squeezing. Harry squeezes and digs his nails in while Snape rears back and bucks. Snape bucks hard and brings his hands up in the space between Harry's arms and pushes, forcing Harry's hands to leave off. Harry doesn't have time to move back in; Snape is lightning-quick. Snape is lightning-quick and Harry is practically eating stone and it hurts.

Stone is rough and digs into his skin but it isn't nearly as painful as the invading, stretching sensation in his arse. It takes Harry a moment to realise that what is in his arse is Snape's finger. No, fingers. It's full and tight and too too but he can't help but to push against it, to take the fingers in deeper. Snape scissors them and then twists, pushing against a spot that makes Harry's eyes water and cock ache from the strain. He must have let out a noise, too, because Snape is chuckling and the fingers leave.

The fingers leave and Harry cannot believe that he misses them, but he does. His arse clenches and he whimpers and then there is something blunt pressing against his opening. Something is pressing and Harry is pushing back and then. And then.

And then breath is laboured and hitching against his ear and push push push and give give give and oh.

He isn't Ginny and Ginny made him feel good but this is maybe just as good in a different and odd way. Yes.

Snape is inside him now. Snape and a memory and Harry wants to remember this, this cock this memory this thing, so he thinks. He moves. He bucks. They fuck.

Snape whispers words into his ear as his fingers dig into Harry's hips, but Harry cannot hear the words. They don't matter, not when there is so much to feel. He feels as though he is stretching. He feels as though he is flying. He feels as though he is breaking. He feels he feels he feels he remembers, and stone and fingers biting into skin cannot change that.

The whispers subside and the pace increases. Harry doesn't know how Snape isn't fucking him right through the wall; he is sure that, at least, any minute now Snape will fuck a hole right through the front of him. He doesn't think he would mind it though, being damaged. Not like this.

When he comes, he comes all over the wall and himself. When Snape comes, Harry contracts his muscles and does his damnedest to take it all, to feel that warm seed filling him up, and now he is not simply an equal. He is a whole.

"You must trust me," Snape murmurs against the curve where Harry's neck and shoulder meet.

Dumbledore did. The stoppered memory could have revealed otherwise, Harry knows, but there was no way of ever seeing that memory. Maybe he ought to just go ahead and trust Snape for Dumbledore's sake.

He would put the damage on.