Well In Hand

Disclaimer: the characters are Rowlings, what they're up to is all my fault.

wordcount: approximately 5,500

A/N: there is a teensy, tiny homage to Cassie Claire's 'Very Secret Diaries'. Otherwise, this is all for [bethbethbeth] because it was *so* nice to find someone else on LJ who thinks constantly about Snape's hard cock... *ehem*! ;)

**********


"There you go. Comfy?"

"Stop hovering, Potter. I can manage."

Snape's grumpy reply assured Harry more than anything that the answer to his query was probably close enough to yes it made no difference.

"Shall I get you some dinner?"

"I don't need a house elf. I can manage," Snape made a dismissive hand gesture, clearly wanting him to leave.

Oddly, Harry felt a bit reluctant. He had been by Snape's bedside practically three months, only missing the first fortnight.

The first ten days had been due to recovering from his own injury after finally destroying Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters. The following day had been due to the ceremony awarding Auror Harry James Potter a premiere order of Merlin, and inducting him into the Ministry Hall of Glory, and the subsequent party. The next day was taken up by a hangover and a more subdued sort of party at the Burrow.

If not for the fact that Charlie and Ginny were not there, victims of Voldemort's machinations in the months before the final confrontation, the party might have been more exuberant, but all present still felt their losses keenly. The only bright spots that had eventually cheered everyone up were Bill and Fleur's two year old twins, who had charmed all adults present with their mischief, guile and early manifestations of magic as they conjured themselves kittens and made people's cake float off plates and to their extended chubby fingers.

The following two rather bleary days, Harry spent helping Ron and Hermione move their belongings in the rain to their new cottage, his won't-take-no-for-an-answer wedding gift to them. It was on a corner of his own property in Godric's Hollow. They had not been able to actually move until now. The elder Weasleys had decried their haste, but Harry had assured them since he was going to very busy for an unforeseen amount of time, there was no time like the present. Since Ginny's death, no one could gainsay the Boy Who'd Survived. His already energetic figure had dedicated itself to project after project.

Ron and Hermione had jumped at the chance, understanding Harry's need to keep busy, but also not having had time for privacy in many a long month, grasping at brief moments here and there to satisfy their need to be with each other. They'd been married for nearly a year, but that day he'd helped them move in, Harry knew, was the first time they'd been truly alone as a young couple ought. It had made him glad, even as he had thought of Ginny and what would never be.

The next day he'd taken position at the still unconscious Snape's bedside and begun talking to him.

First, he'd apologized for taking so long. Then he filled him in on events, as well as the fact that a pardon and an Order of Merlin awaited him. His name had been cleared by Pensieve memories that Dumbledore had left behind which the Wizengamot viewed in chambers. He had not bothered to mention his own testimony under veritaserum to the Wizengamot. The testimony had not really been necessary to pardon Snape, but had been the deciding factor in his receiving the Order of Merlin.

The next two months had been spent with Harry reading aloud, pausing only occasionally to cast a Refrescare spell to refresh his throat. The healers did not think Snape could hear him, but Harry remembered various television shows he'd seen whilst living with the Dursleys that had made it clear that people in comas could sometimes hear and that having a voice to focus on could bring them out of it.

Snape was not in a coma per se, or perhaps it was called something else in the magical world, but Harry knew he owed this much if not more to the man lying unmoving on the hospital bed.

Snape had fed the Order vital information via cryptic messages left for McGonagall at her cottage in the highlands. Later an unlikely series of chess manoeuvres had been owled to Ron that Hermione finally realized were encrypted warnings and clues. Finally, one still warm day when Hogwarts next term *should* have started, but didn't due to having been shut down by order of the Ministry, an intricately folded floo-mail message arrived, reminiscent of Durmstrang's imposing ship, its parchment sails catching ghost wind and landed at Harry's knee, telling him what he needed to know in order to accomplish his mission and the time he would need to know it.

When his still most hated at the time, Potions Master, writhed under Crucio by his enraged former Master, Harry had been shocked to find Snape broadcasting his thoughts to him via Legilimency. He'd merely thought, "The ship has sailed, Potter. Unload its cargo."

Without pause to consider, Harry had, and so Voldemort was no more. Lucius Malfoy was, though, and it had been his only partially blocked Avada Kedavra that had just grazed Severus, the mere nimbus of green light caressing his shoulders as one last convulsive spasm, the aftereffects of Crucio, had caused him to turn. It had been *just* enough. Crucio, had, in effect, saved him. If he'd been prone on the ground he'd be dead.

Some said he might as well have been. He was still breathing, Harry could tell, but he had not woken. Many of the healers, he knew, had privately felt he might never wake, but Harry knew better. This man was too *stubborn* to die at the hands of Lucius Malfoy. He might have accepted he would die at Voldemort's hands, but never at the hands of a quisling and despised fellow Death Eater.

So he felt thorougly vindicated the day he looked up from his reading of A Midsummer Night's Dream to find weary black eyes staring at him from a too-pale face. Harry had smiled and said, "Brilliant!"

Snape had grunted almost soundlessly and murmured, "I hate bloody Shakespeare."

Now he considered his odd reluctance to leave Snape's house and shrugged. "I feel odd leaving you," he admitted.

Snape scowled. "Potter, I appreciate the time you spent assisting with my recovery, but I assure you Healer Paracelsus would not have allowed me to leave if I was not fit enough to manage the basic necessities on my own."

Harry nodded, still uneasy and Snape sighed.

"You are welcome tomorrow, Potter, for breakfast. For now, I just want to rest."

Harry smiled at this offer and nodded happily. "All right. I'll see you for breakfast!"

He briefly clasped Snape's forearm, stepped out the bedroom, down the stairs and out the door.

Since Snape's house was in a Muggle neighbourhood and it was broad daylight, Harry found himself three blocks away trying to find a private place to apparate from, cursing himself for not thinking to ask Snape if he could use his floo. He jammed his hands into his pockets, started, then cursed again, this time out loud.

"Bloody hell..."

He pulled one hand out along with the small vial in it -- Severus' digestive potion. He would need this if he ate anything and Harry had no idea of Snape had any in his personal stores or if he could brew it with whatever ingredients he had at hand.

"Damn."

Harry began to trot back to the house.

Once there he knocked, but heard no answer. Had he fallen asleep already? Harry tried the door, which opened, to his surprise.

He called out, not too loudly, since he didn't want to wake and/or startle the man. "Severus?"

There was no answer. Harry sighed and decided to go on up to the bedroom and leave the vial by Snape's bedside. He may or may not find it if he simply left it in the living room or the kitchen.

He heard an odd sound coming from the bedroom as he neared the top of the stairs and paused. Was that a moan?

He finished climbing the stairs, listening intently. Another sound came from behind Snape's bedroom door. It definitely sounded like a moan. Harry frowned. Either Snape was in pain or he was having a nightmare.

He had spent enough time with him at the hospital to have learned Snape often had nightmares. Concerned now, he hastened down the hall and opened the door... and stopped, shocked.

Snape was laying back atop his covers, eyes closed, robes askew, long, lean fingers stroking an equally long, lean cock. Over and over his bright red glans appeared and disappeared as his foreskin slid over it and back down. His other hand was rubbing his bollocks, stroking his perineum. As Harry stood in stunned dismay, Snape suddenly moaned very loudly, pressed those fingers against his perineum and began to ejaculate.

Harry gasped, flushed, and closed the door as quietly as he could in a fury of embarrassed and unexpected arousal. What to do? He didn't dare go back and he had to leave!

Finally, he put the vial down on the hall stand and moved swiftly and silently down the stairs. He rushed out the door, taking care to close it quietly, as well, then leaned against the front door, feeling as if his heart was beating in his throat. He was sure he must be ten shades of pink and purple.

When he'd caught his breath, he looked around and noticed that no one was in the vicinity. Heaving a sigh of relief, he apparated to his own cottage, four acres from Ron and Hermione's.

* * * *

It was just surprise, he told himself the next morning as he paced before his fireplace.

Naturally, anyone would be surprised if they walked in to find one of their friends wanking. Anyone!

_So why did I get hard?_

Harry stopped pacing, both hands on the mantelpiece and hung his head down, coming to terms with this shameful knowledge.

_Watching Snape wank made me... hard._

Okay, so not just hard; heart-pounding, trembly kneed, oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-spunk-in-my-pants-if-I-don't-do-something-soon *hard*.

Fuck if he wasn't hard again, just thinking about it.

Harry sighed and headed to the lavoratory. It was the second time that morning.

How could a man think when all his blood insisted on being below his waist?

* * * *

For his part, Severus Snape lay back groaning with relief to be home again, in his own bed, unconcerned that an orderly or a healer or a mediwitch or mediwizard or that blasted boy wonder himself would walk in and find him hard and needing a wank.

Well, this morning he was hard and he was going to wank himself silly. He deserved it. Two bloody months unconscious, and three weeks of recovery with no relief and the last few days had been murder. His balls would have turned to bloody stones if he'd stayed in the hospital any longer.

The wank session he'd managed last night before his exhaustion overtook him had been more requirement than satiation. His climax had been almost painful, semen thick, almost gummy with the telltale clumps that spoke of a too-long unused prostate. His testes were tender. There was a backlog; he could definitely feel the pressure. It would take a while before his glands were optimally functioning.

Until then, Severus planned to treat himself *very* well, indeed.

Now his hand drifted down to his sleep-warm, slightly sweaty tackle and he barely bit back a whimper of expectation.

He ran his fingers through his pubes and cupped his bollocks, hefting them up, enjoying the feel of the hot crepey skin and fine hairs. His nails gently scratched and he jerked at the sharp and lovely sensation, then relaxed and began to lightly scratch in earnest, enjoying the feeling of unfettered hedonism. He finally let his balls go and brought his hand to his nose, inhaling his scent. It was warm and musky and slightly sweet. Gods, but he'd missed this.

He let his hand drift back down and grasped his half-hard cock, pulling and bunching the skin around the glans, then stroking his hand back to reveal the tender pink head, letting the sheets brush against it, an achingly good sensation. Snape groaned.

Gods, but he'd missed masturbating! Even at his age, he still masturbated twice a day, sometimes more. He didn't know about Muggles, but he swore wizards must have accelerated physical systems, because the information he'd read in a Muggle book once had seemed faulty. It had stated a young Muggle boy going through puberty needed to masturbate regularly to release pressure from his maturing prostate which had begun it's lifelong job of constantly producing semen. It stated that a Muggle boy might masturbate three or four times a day during those years and that this was normal and nothing for a parent to worry about. Well, that had certainly not been normal for Severus Snape!

If he had only masturbated three or four times a day when he was 14 he would have exploded. As it was, he remembered the end of his third year and all of fourth being a contest to get to the boy's lavoratory after almost every class in order to gain a few minutes to 'release the pressure.' He typically had done that six times a day during the day, not counting his nightly or early morning wank sessions. He knew his fellow classmates matched his frequency once puberty had struck them, Muggleborn, half-blood and Pureblood alike.

The same book had said the frequency would drop off after a boy's early 20's and by the time he was a man of 40, frequency would drop off to a few times a week. Snape snorted now as he frigged his cock with joyous abandon.

He was bloody well over 40 and before his hospital stay he tossed off every day, rain or shine, at least twice if not more. And now, he felt almost as randy as he had as a teenager. Snape wondered if he could justify staying in bed all day and just stroking his cock.

Then he remembered Potter would be arriving and groaned again, speeding up his hand. After breakfast, he'd get rid of the brat and then... maybe he'd wank in a nice warm bath. It would help ease the tenderness of his bollocks.

Just the thought of sitting in warm, oil-scented water made his strokes quicken and soon he was anointing his stomach and chest with thick bursts of come.

He sighed his appreciation to the ceiling.

Then he reached for his wand and spelling away the evidence of his indiscretions, he got up with a mostly contented sigh to get dressed.

* * * *

Harry clutched at his bollocks, a strangling grip on his cock as he wrung the last drops of needy release from himself, covered in a fine sheen of sweat and come spatters.

He caught his breath and looked at himself in the mirror he'd been standing in front of. Then he scowled. Pearly globs clung to his shirt, his neck... his hair.

Great. Now he'd have to shower and dress again.

* * * *

The knock on the door came just as Snape had thought Potter had forgotten.

He opened it, found himself bemused at the boy's appearance, seemingly hastily-dressed, his hair the usual riotous tangle, if a trifle damp. He was holding a small paper sack. He missed the look Potter was giving him, which was frankly appraising.

Severus did not know just how good he looked in jeans and a navy jumper over a starched white, button-down shirt. Harry's gaze looked down, ostensibly a slight apology, but really to admire those long lean legs that ended up in some really comfortable looking, black and charcoal hiking boots.

He looked back up again swiftly and gave Snape an uncertain smile.

"I'm sorry. I missed the apparition point. Wound up in a field and thought I was lost until I saw that stack." Harry pointed at the large mill stack.

Snape said nothing, merely moved back to allow him in. "I'm afraid all I have in the cupboard is some tinned kippers and some porridge. I also appear to be out of tea."

"No problem." Harry held up the sack and pulled out a small box of tea, two apples and two small loaves of nutbread. Snape's mouth began to water.

"I thought we might have continental breakfast."

Severus led the way to his small kitchen.

* * * *

Harry concentrated hard on the apples, using the small paring knife Snape had offered and peeling the skins off as fine as he could manage.

Unbeknownst to him, his face was a study in concentration, tongue sticking out as he worked. Equally unbeknownst to him, Severus Snape was watching that tongue and wondering how it would feel... just *there*.

Leaning against the table, Severus gently rubbed the tips of his fingers along his erection. He'd been hard since watching Potter bent over his small icebox hoping to find butter or marge to spread on the nutbread. The boy apparently liked to wear skin-hugging jeans. They accentuated every curve of his muscular thighs, every flex of his gluteus maximus.

That snug Muggle sweatshirt hugged that slim, taut torso, too. He could see the play of his obliques, his erector spinae...

Harry looked back up then, a small tub of marge in hand and made him realize he'd best sit down, which he did. That was one prerogative of being just home from hospital -- people assumed you needed to rest a lot.

Harry had dug up a butter knife and two small plates and put them on the table, exhorting him to go ahead and start buttering his bread. Snape blinked, wondering if he realized how close that was a euphemism for what he really would prefer to be doing.

Now he watched as those distractingly soft, black strands fell forward, covering that famous scar and that fine forehead he hid behind that messy hair. Severus shifted and pressed his fingers rather more firmly along his erection, which throbbed in response. Breakfast had never been so stimulating.

A tiny voice in the back of his head asked him what the ruddy hell did he think he was doing, but a much larger voice in the front of his pants told the smaller voice to go fold it firmly until it was all sharp-cornered and shove it. His fingers kept playing with himself and he decided after a moment or two he could excuse himself. A man *could* have to use his lavoratory, after all.

It had been rather hard -- to cut the bread in half, that is -- to scrape a bit of marge onto it. The tea was still steeping so he opted to wait and had turned to watch Potter peel the apples instead, which was both a mistake and deeply satisfying at once.

The boy, he had to admit, was gorgeous. Really, he was no longer a boy, but at the ripe old age of forty Severus felt anyone 10 years his junior or more was a boy or a girl, much as dear Albus had thought *him* a boy, even...

He stopped, stung, as memories filled him, then to his chagrin, tears filled his eyes. Grief, he discovered, was a rapid libido inhibitor. He put his elbow to the table, hand over his eyes and leaned forward to hide his face until the moment passed. What folly...

"Are you all right, Severus?"

A warm hand insinuated itself into his consciousness, as it squeezed his shoulder. Snape's confused libido sparked, settled, then began to burn again as Harry came closer to him, concerned.

"Severus? Do you need pain medication?"

"I'm fine. I... I'll be back." He quickly got up and exited.

* * * *


_What the devil is wrong with you?_

His penis, it turned out, had no answer, but it was wagging it's fool head at him as he stroked it steadily, hoping to wank out his strangeness of mood, his odd lust for the Boy Who Wore His Jeans Too Tight, and his apparently too-long ignored libido into the cracked white porcelein of his ground floor toilet.

The pearly spatters reflexively wrung from him held no answers.

Time for plan B -aka- ire and bluster.

* * * *

Harry was glad for Snape's departure as it gave him the opportunity to adjust his rather prominent erection.

Damn, but seeing the man hadn't made his cock start tingling, and then having him there in the kitchen, watching... he'd had to turn away to clear his mind. When he turned back, there were those liquid black eyes in that stern, but oh-so-familiar face... that voice...

"Why are you here, Potter?"

Harry jumped at his rough, peremptory tone, turning from the counter he was leaning against.

"Er... I thought we were eating breakfast. You said," he clarified, suddenly confident again as he recalled, "for me to return this morning, and we'd have breakfast."

"I remember, Potter. I mean *why* are you breakfasting with me? Surely you have better things to be doing than making sure your old Potion's Professor eats."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Snape appeared to be on a roll.

"Doesn't the Chosen One, the Boy Who Bloody Lived, have better things to be doing with his precious time?"

Stung, Harry dropped the apple wedge he was still holding and glared at Severus.

"Hey, a little credit here for trying to help you!"

"Well, who asked you, Potter? Who bloody asked you?"

"No one had to, you git. I'll never understand you. I'm mean to you, you're mad. I'm nice to you, you're mad. Are you ever bloody happy Snape?"

"If I'm left alone so I can wank in peace!"

Harry frowned, flushing. "Pardon?"

_Great. So angry-Snape gets me hot, too. I'm even hearing things now._

"I said," Snape sneered. "If I'm left alone so I can *think* in peace."

"Oh..." Harry could feel his hurt and anger receding in the wash of sudden lust over what he thought he'd heard.

It was Snape's turn to frown. Potter was boiling, fair skin the colour of grapefruit pith.

If he'd looked down, he might have guessed Harry's problem.

"Whatever is the matter with you, boy?"

Harry shook himself, quipped, "I'm *not* a boy, dammit!" and to Snape's surprise, suddenly rushed out of the room. A hastily muttered, "Toilet, excuse me." clarified his actions.

* * * *

_I will *not* wank. I do not *need* a wank. I did *not* just get hard at Snape yelling at me. Really I didn't._

Harry sighed and looked down at his slowly deflating erection. He turned the tap and filled his cupped hands with cold water. Without taking off his glasses he splashed it in his face.

Then he sighed and pulled off his glasses to wipe them on a flannel before patting his face dry. He sat on the toilet and caught his breath.

_Damn. Maybe I'd better just leave._

The problem was, he didn't want to. He wanted, more than anything, he admitted now, to go down there, kiss Severus Snape to within an inch of his sanity and royally roger him on the carpet.

He shivered now, ignored the hopeful throbbing below his waist and looked at the tap. Maybe another cold splash of reality before he headed back to the kitchen...

* * * *

Snape scowled at himself. Not exactly going with a bang.

Then he rolled his eyes at the irreverent thought that maybe a bang was what he needed.

_Stupid boy. Stupid cock. Stupid libido._

He had just wanked, but as soon as he'd walked into the kitchen -- trouble! Potter was standing there, leaning against the counter, the line of his back accentuated by the lovely green sweatshirt he wore. His arse was tantalizingly tilted up and beautifully delineated by his skin-tight jeans. His damnable cock had actually jumped in his pants at the sight.

Filled with irritation and not a little fear, he'd jumped to the attack. The boy had naturally faced off with him, making his blood pump harder, making him feel gloriously alive. It was the first time since he'd woken that he'd truly felt alive -- comfortable in his skin and ready for anything. It had made him start to get hard again.

_Dammit, I need to get laid. That's it._

He reached down to adjust himself, but his already sensitive cock resisted his efforts, filling with more blood. He grumbled a little and unbuttoned his jeans to take himself in hand, and then moaned as the action made tingles rush through his entire groin and belly and shudders race along his spine.

_Most definitely need to get laid._

He hurried toward the rubbish bin and leaned over. Potter had just left. He needed the toilet he'd said. He might have enough time to toss off a bit and blunt the edge of this baffling carnality.

Holding his thumb and two fingers in a well-practiced position, he used his other hand to hold himself up and thrust his hips, pushing his prick into his grip. Maybe making his body feel as if it was actually going through the motions would make the seemingly insatiable need ease.

He gasped now, fucking his hand, feeling the thin, stretchy skin rolling back and forth over his shaft, covering and uncovering his reddened glans, making him feel absolutely bloody *marvelous*.

His breathing speeded up. Soon. Soon.

"Professor?"

Snape seized up, caught. His hips stopped on a thrust forward, his cock straining. Before he could do anything or say anything, his sought-after climax made his head rush, his pulse pound and spatter after spatter of thick pearly spunk gracefully arced into the rubbish bin.

_Bloody, rutting *hell*!_

"Don't you bloody knock?!" he managed to gasp out, snarling, finally able to turn away and fumble himself into his pants and start trying to button himself up.

"I'm sorry."

The voice made him jump since it was so close and he looked over his shoulder to see a completely unamused and concerned-looking Harry watching his face.

"I..."

"Here, let me."

Harry turned him. Harry looked at his face. Harry touched his cheek with an expression akin to wonder in his own face. Harry gently pulled him toward him.

_Why am I just standing here?_

Then Harry was kissing him and Severus groaned and kissed back, straining against him, clutching at his arms, his back, his arse.

A tiny portion of his disordered mind noted what a lovely, firm and resilient arse it was, but it too shut itself down in order to better enjoy this fine moment.

It took some time (and three overturned chairs, two broken plates, one overturned cup of tea, several missing buttons, a torn set of underpants, and a ruined mash of apples and nutbread) before Harry found the margarine tub and began to coat Severus's more than willing anus.

"Yes! Dammit, I'm not fragile, Potter. Just--"

"Shut up and let me fuck you, Snape."

A good slathering on his drooling cock and he began to slowly push his way into that incredibly tight arsehole, ignoring Snape's exhortations, although he noted that all of them were quite affirmative.

Soon they were thrusting in unison, grunting and groaning and straining toward a satisfactory conclusion, at least on Harry's part.

Snape's previously sated cock was only just coming to the realization that this would be a more socially acceptable time to be firm and upstanding.

_Bugger fuck if this boy isn't a bloody fucking marvel...oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..._

"I'm trying, you bastard," was enough of a grumbled curse from Potter to make Snape realize he was not just thinking, but speaking out loud. Not that he gave a rat's arse at the moment, since what he wanted most was for that blunt-headed prick to press against his prostate just so... oh, yes... like *that*.

"Good."

Neither knew who was speaking anymore. Neither really cared.

"Harder."

"Bugger."

"Yes!"

"Fuck!"

"Fuck me!"

"Fuck!"

"Fuck me!"

"Oh, god!"

"Fuck me!"

An indrawn breath, more sob than gasp marked the end of movement. The straining arched line of bunched back muscles spoke more eloquently than any words of a reached conclusion. There was silence.

Then Severus tapped Harry's ear with the side of his foot, not a difficult task considering his position.

"I could use some more friction, Potter."

Harry's eyes snapped open, his mouth closed, and he blinked back to awareness. Snape waited impatiently, unable to reach his cock through eleven stone of Boy Who Lived.

"Oh."

Harry eased back, Severus took himself in hand, straining to recapture the lost moment. He'd *nearly* been there, dammit.

"Wait, Severus. Let me."

Snape felt his hand pulled from his target, felt Potter slipping from him, felt the cool morning air against the warm and sweaty bits of him and mourned the loss of his sought-for orgasm. His cock twitched unhappily.

Then Harry leaned over and sucked him into that impudent mouth, one hand holding his arm, the other toying with his greasy bollocks, then slipping two fingers in his margarine-coated hole and Severus *flew*. The orgasm did not feel as if it would end. He could feel Harry sipping and licking at his slit for every last glob and nearly sobbed with relief and amazement.

"*Holy hell.*"

Harry sighed. "Yeah."

"Potter, what the bloody hell is happening?"

Harry stood back, uprighted a chair to sit on it.

"We fucked. I'm not sure why. But... I wanted to."

"So did I. This isn't natural, Potter. We must be jinxed."

"By who? You were in a coma. I was the only one in the room reading to you for weeks."

Snape frowned, began to sit up slowly, feeling every minute of his years along the crackling bones of his spine and hips. _Damn, but it felt good in spite of it all._

Before he could say anything else, a scratching at the kitchen window made them both look over. A large brown owl waited.

"Should I get it?"

Snape nodded and Harry fetched the message.

"It's from St. Mungo's."

Snape was trying to upright a seat and collect buttons at the same time without much success. "Just read it, Potter."

"Mr. Snape. Oh, it's from Healer Paracelsus. He says, 'please be informed that one of the potions we used during your recovery at St. Mungo's contained Ashwinder eggs. As you are doubtless aware--"

"Ashwinder eggs are used in the making of love potions," Snape finished, sitting heavily, having given up the search for buttons and just hefting his jeans over his hips. "Bloody hell."

"Well... that explains it." Harry handed him the letter. "You were on that stuff for at least four weeks. Apparently there is a cumulative effect."

Snape snorted. "Says here I should avoid contact with the public and just stay home and recover on my own."

"Wank yourself silly, he means," Harry murmured, annoyed and not a little hurt. He had so hoped this meant...

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What was that sigh about?"

"Oh... nothing really. I... never mind."

"Tell me," Snape insisted, setting down the parchment and crossing his arms to look at him.

"Well," Harry started, then surprised to feel that damnable moisture fill his eyes again. He cleared his throat. "I... I had hoped... it doesn't matter, Snape."

"It does to me, Harry."

That sharp green gaze turned to him and he waited.

"That's the first time you've called me Harry."

"Seemed like the right thing to do. We've been not so formally introduced, after all."

Harry smiled at this sly touch of humour and felt his eyes fill again. _Dammit!_

A warm hand touched his arm and he looked over at Severus.

"What is it, Harry?"

"I don't know. I think... I care about you, Severus. I haven't stopped thinking about you. I..."

"Well, that's that then." Snape let him go.

"What?"

"It's *not* just the bloody eggs. *You* didn't drink the potion, did you?"

"No."

"Although, you *are* 19 and still think more with your dick than anything else."

"Hey!"

"And I can't blame the potion on everything I've done. Much as I might like to," Snape sighed and looked briefly toward the rubbish bin before flushing slightly and looking down at the floor where bits of apple and nutbread lay scattered.

"I wanted this." Harry looked up at this quiet comment and frowned. "It's not Ashwinder eggs... or not all of it. I wanted it. I wanted..."

Snape looked up, black gaze meeting green and swallowed. "I wanted you."

Harry gave him a watery smile. "I wanted you, too."

"Voldemort is gone."

Harry nodded. "Yes. I killed the bastard."

"Good. Then let's bloody celebrate."

Snape stood and reached out a hand. Harry took it, standing as well. They began to head for the stairs leading to the bedroom.

"How long does Paracelsus say it'll take for the Ashwinder to get out of your system?"

"At least a week."

"Hm."

"The important question is how long will it take to get all the marge out of our clothes."

"Oh, yuck."

"Mine look no better."

"These were my best jeans!"

"Lost to ignoble adventure. Woe."

"Do you always have to talk like a bloody book?"

...

"Does 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me' count?"

"Mm... I'd forgotten that."

"Then I'd best make you remember, hadn't I?"

"Oh, I insist."

"Spoiled brat."

"Greasy git."

"That's just the margarine."

"Excuses, excuses..."


END


;) Yeah, it's sappy, but it's xmas and sometimes sappy works best.

to En4cerMax: Thank you! Yes, I adore bottom!Snape. ;)