Burning Time

The Burning Time

The city of tents was burning. Even wizarding tents will burn under the onslaught of Incendio cast by hundreds of Death Eaters simultaneously. The last thread of the last ragged tent had been consumed but the fire raged on, burning nothing but air.

Harry sat on a bluff high above this vision of hell. He rubbed his eyes, red and swollen from smoke and too many days too thin on sleep. It was cold on the bluff and the fire below looked inviting in more ways than one. He could see the crimson of the flames whether his eyes were open or not, could imagine the warmth -- although up here nothing could be felt but the occasional gust of warm wind, which did nothing to mitigate his chill. He folded a knee under his chin, wrapped his arms around it, closed his eyes and watched the flickering red shadows behind his eyelids, feeling curiously empty.

“All that’s missing is the fiddle.” The familiar sneering voice came out of the darkness behind Harry. He didn’t turn around; he knew if he did there would be only scrubby trees and darkness.

“Go away.”

“Skulking up here while your compatriots burn. Certainly not what the wizarding world was led to expect of the great Harry Potter.”

“Go away,” Harry said again, his voice a harsh whisper. “There was nothing I could do. Go away.”

There was a long silence. Harry still didn’t turn around, not yet crazy enough to search the dark for nightmare illusions. He knew he was asleep. Snape invaded his dreams regularly, and it seemed the weaker and more tired he was, the more likely Snape was to make an appearance. He suspected Snape must be dead; had suspected since the first dream had come. Why else would Snape plague his sleep if not to haunt him?

“Why don’t you try to kill me?” Snape sounded as if he might be genuinely interested.

Harry sighed. “If I thought you were real I would kill you, but only the living die and there’s no one left living.” He raised his head and stared back out over the still burning tent city. “No one could have escaped that. I didn’t see anyone. They’re all dead and you’re here. Now, go away. I need to sleep. I’m so tired.”

Harry let his head slump again to his knees, still seeing red behind his eyelids. It was quiet except for the soughing that was all that could be heard of the great wind that rose from the flames so far below. He spoke without opening his eyes. “It looks so warm down there. I’m so cold.”

No one answered. In the last instant before sleep (but he was already asleep), Harry felt himself enveloped in the darkness, cradled in two invisible arms. “Mama?” But it couldn’t be his mother. His mother was dead, too and he didn’t remember what her arms felt like anyway.

“Sleep, Harry. Sleep without dreams.”

His mother sounded like Snape but Snape had never sounded kind and Harry was too tired to worry about it. He was familiar with the way sleep deprivation contributed to his insanity. He felt a soft hand on his head. “Yes. Okay. Sleep. I need to sleep. I’m so tired.”

***

It was darker when he awoke (he thought he was awake); the fire below had finally subsided, until there was nothing left but smouldering ashes and glowing embers.

There was warmth against his back and warming arms still surrounded him.

“Awake at last? Good, my arms are about to drop off.”

Snape again, so Harry was still sleeping, or hallucinating. It made little difference. But because it was not real, because no harm could come, he twisted inside the circle of arms and burrowed his head against a chest that seemed bony but couldn’t be, because his mother had a woman’s soft breasts to pillow his head. He inhaled deeply, sucking in the somehow comforting smell of smoke and sweat.

“Have you come to take me, mama? Will I see my da again? And Sirius? I’m ready. I’ve been ready for a long time.”

He heard a muffled snort and ignored it as two lips pressed gently against his forehead over his scar.

“I’m so tired, mama.”

“Go back to sleep. Perhaps when you awake you’ll be more sensible.”

“I don’t want to sleep. When I sleep, he comes. He mocks me. I’m so tired.”

“Drink this.” A tiny vial was pushed into his hands and Harry uncorked it and tipped it back, grimacing at the taste. “Dreamless sleep. He won’t disturb you; he won’t mock you anymore. Close your eyes. Sleep.”

Harry obediently let his eyelids droop.

When his eyes opened again he found himself sitting up between Snape’s legs, his back pressed intimately against a hard, narrow chest.

“Are you still here?”

“Apparently.”

“There’s no end to this nightmare, is there?” But the question was rhetorical and Snape didn’t answer. Harry let his eyes shut again, feeling the rise and fall of the chest against his back.

After a bit, Snape took one of Harry’s hands in his and turned it over. A long slim forefinger stroked lightly over the planes and creases of Harry’s palm. Snape’s thumb swirled soft circles around the thick pad at the bottom of Harry’s thumb before slowly stroking from wrist to fingertips with four of his own fingers. Harry shivered and twisted his head to look at Snape’s impassive face as warm fingers touched lightly on his wrist.

“Don’t,” Harry said but didn’t withdraw his hand. He’d had no idea his skin there was so sensitive; no clue that his hand, rather than pulling away, would arch into the touch. His breathing felt ragged and shallow.

Snape ignored him and continued to play with his hand, feathering lightly across the tiny hairs on the back of his wrist, then tracing over each knuckle individually. His fingers returned to Harry’s palm and then he raised their hands and followed the movement of his fingers with his tongue. Harry could just feel the rasp of Snape’s morning whiskers against his too sensitive skin. It’s a dream, Harry thought, just a wet dream. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll come and then I’ll wake up. Just a wet dream.

And suddenly Harry couldn’t bear it anymore. Dream or not, the gentleness of it, the intimacy of it, the comfort of it, the way Snape’s finger tracing along the large vein up his wrist aroused him, made his cock stiffen, was too much. Was he so far gone that even his hallucinations thought he needed to be cosseted? He twisted violently, wrenching his hand away, and came to a stop on his knees facing Snape. In a fury, he closed his own fingers around Snape’s hand and bent the wrist back painfully. As Snape winced, Harry used the distraction to twist his arm roughly, bringing Snape to his knees in pain. Although the older man glared at him he did nothing to break away, and when Harry pushed him down to the ground he curiously seemed almost willing. Still on his knees, Harry scrambled behind Snape. Without pausing to think, he pushed worn robes up over narrow hips, expecting to see grotty grey underpants, surprised to find nothing but bare arse. He fumbled in his own pants to free his cock, spitting on his hand to slick it up, and then pressed his groin against Snape’s bum, his hard prick nudging between the pale cheeks

“Don’t poke around like that, Potter,” Snape said disparagingly. “If you want to fuck me, then fuck me. Push it in, boy!”

Harry slipped his hand into Snape’s cleft, feeling for the exact placement of the man’s puckered hole, and then guided his cock to it and thrust roughly. Snape grunted with discomfort but pushed his hips back. Harry’s fingers left bruises on the pallid flesh of hip and thigh as he fastened his hands in a death grip and plunged in.

Snape’s internal heat was on par with the previous night’s conflagration. Harry gasped with almost pain and certain pleasure as his cock pierced through the tight muscle. Their coupling was silent except for grunts and gasps and moans. Images and words passed through Harry’s mind; life, death, hate, warmth, please, help me, and then everything was obliterated in a long, high pitched keen of pleasure as Harry spent himself deep in Snape’s belly. He let his weight fall fully on Snape’s bowed back and sank his teeth deep into the well-muscled flesh of Snape’s shoulder.

He pulled his cock free of the still tight confines of Snape’s arse and sat back, breathless, on his heels. His cock was still half hard, still dribbling hot spunk that splashed weakly onto his thighs. Snape remained on his knees but his head sank down tiredly onto his forearms.

After a moment, when his breathing had returned to normal, Harry opened his mouth to speak but Snape, somehow knowing what was coming, cut him off. “I came when you did, Potter. I’m fine.”

“Good,” was all Harry said before tugging his bedroll to him and curling up on the ground. He didn’t stir as Snape stiffly lay down behind him and moulded their bodies together, his long arms once again wrapping protectively around Harry’s chest.

“Sleep, Potter,” he whispered. “Tomorrow is going to come as a big shock.”

Harry murmured something but was unable to form coherent words and then sleep took him again.

***

The next time Harry woke the sun was blood-red and struggling to rise above the choking, smoky haze. Ash covered the trees and ground and Harry himself. He tried to brush it off and discovered it was not the fine powdered ash found on a cold hearth but rather gritty and sticky. It took a moment to realise the reason for the unexpected texture. His stomach churned as he understood that this ash was made up of the burnt bones, blood and flesh of those who had occupied the tents. Cramps wracked his belly as he expelled everything inside him until nothing was left but the thin, sour bile that was the taste of death itself.

“Here, it will take the taste away. I’ve managed to toast some bread. It’s all I found in your rucksack. Stale, but still edible, I think.”

Something else was pushed into his hands, a hot metal cup, fragrant with the early morning smell of coffee.

“Drink, then give me back my cup. And be quick about it. I only have the one.”

“Oh god, where in the hell did you get coffee?”

“Three things no wanderer should be without. Rope. A knife. And coffee. Have you ever known me to be less than prepared?”

What was this dream trying to tell him? A rope. A knife. Coffee. Harry shook his head with amusement – Professor Trelawney would be so disappointed in him -- and then started as he saw something from the corner of his eye. He turned. Looked away, shook his head, turned back.

“Snape?”

“The very same.”

“You’re real!”

“Very much so.”

Harry waited for rage and anger to flood his aching body but nothing came. After a moment he said, “Good.”

“Yes, I’m real. And I’m not your mother.” It was unclear whether the curl of Snape’s lip indicated amusement or disgust.

It occurred to Harry that in another time he would have died of embarrassment, his cheeks flaming. Now, he just looked at Snape and smiled sourly. “You’re definitely real. I thought I was dreaming.”

Snape half turned and pulled at the neck of his robe, exposing a dark redpurple bite mark on his shoulder. “That was no dream. And I’m likely to be walking bowlegged for a week.”

“Stop it,” Harry snapped. “I was tired and scared and alone and probably hallucinatory.”

“Is that your charming way of abdicating responsibility for your actions last night?”

“No. I know what I did even if I don’t know why I did it. Why did you?”

“Turn down a chance for sex with the hero of the wizarding world? I don’t think so.”

“Stop it,” Harry repeated.

Snape just looked at him, no expression at all on his pale drawn face. “Why? Because I was tired and scared and alone and probably hallucinatory? You don’t corner the market on pathos, Potter.”

“Well I hope you enjoyed it,” Harry snarled.

“I did. Very much, thank you. I believe you enjoyed it as well.”

Harry looked at Snape and then quickly looked away. “It was good,” he conceded roughly. "And I still hate you.”

“No doubt,” Snape murmured. “Are you done with that cup?”

“I don’t suppose you have any bacon?”

“Greedy boy. No bacon, no eggs, no more toast. Now, give me back my cup.”

***

The coffee was long gone and the small fire Snape had built was dying. Harry sat with his back against a thin tree and stared steadily at Snape, who was sitting in front of him, legs crossed red Indian style.

“What a fool I was,” Snape murmured. “I actually let myself believe that Albus was right about you. That that thin frame harboured a hero who would fight to the death, but here you sit, alive once again, the only one alive in the midst of all this egregious death.”

“Yes, well, Dumbledore was proved to not be infallible.”

For a long time there was no response from Snape. Then, “Stop pussyfooting around, Potter. Ask me the question that’s burning in your mind.”

Harry choked back a laugh and irritably dashed wetness from the corner of his eyes, watering from the lingering smoke, no doubt. “Why did you kill him?”

“You would never understand.”

Harry laughed outright. Just like Snape to demand he ask the question and then refuse to answer it. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.

“What brought you here?” he asked after a bit.

“Happenstance.”

“You just happened to come on me in the dark.”

“Yes. It happens. I’ve been hiding not too far from here, keeping my eyes on the activities of Hogwarts East,” he nodded down at the remains of the tent city. “I smelt the smoke and came out to look and found you.”

“Quite the coincidence.”

“And was it just coincidence that took you away from the tents at just that moment?” Snape asked with asperity.

Harry lunged at him, his fists flailing. “Shut up! Shut up! Don’t you dare imply. . . Don’t you dare! I didn’t know! How could I know! I just needed to be alone. I had nothing to do with what happened. I would have gone back if I could, but what could I do, alone against hundreds of Death Eaters? What could I have done!”

Snape grasped Harry’s hands to prevent any more damage to his person. Unable to vent his rage and frustration, unable to do anything against this man who was not a dream and yet still mocked him, Harry collapsed weakly, his wrists still in Snape’s grip, and began to cry, huge, unpracticed sobs that shook his slender frame.

If he expected Snape to once again comfort him, he was disappointed. Snape merely looked at him, finally releasing his hold when it was clear there would be no more attempt to inflict damage.

At long last Harry looked up. He could feel his tears dried to a tight stickiness on his smoke-smudged face. He sighed and crawled on hands and knees back to his tree and rested against it again. When he was sure his voice would be steady, he asked, “Do you know anything about Hogwarts?”

“The last news I heard, but it’s weeks old now, it was still standing. All the teachers who remained behind were still alive. Except for Hooch. Stupid woman took it into her head to search the grounds by broomstick on a night with a full moon. I’ll miss her.”

Harry was startled. It had never occurred to him that Snape would have any fondness for his colleagues.

“But, as I said, my news is old. I’ve no idea how things stand now. I’m sure Minerva and the others will do their best, but what can one old woman and a handful of children do? Trelawney is useless, and Flitwick’s duelling skills are nothing against the numbers ranged against them. I am not hopeful.”

“Have you heard anything about . . .”

“No news about any Weasley, I’m afraid. How many of them were below?”

Harry winced. “Ron, Charlie and Percy. Ginny is, was, at Hogwarts. I don’t know about Mr and Mrs Weasley, nor the twins, nor Bill. Everyone’s so scattered these days.”

“Your friend, Miss Granger, where was she?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said softly. “The last time I saw her she was preparing to go take her parents to safety. We never heard anything from her again. Greyback killed Lupin. It seemed personal.”

“Knowing Greyback, I’m sure it was. I’m sorry, Potter.”

“Are you? Are you really? Somehow I doubt that. You hated Hermione. You hated the Weasleys. You hated Lupin. How sorry can you be?”

“I am capable of compassion, you little wretch! You’re not the only one who’s lost loved ones, Potter. Almost all my old friends are either dead, or gone over to the Dark Lord’s side. Why do you always think you’re the only one who suffers?” Snape was almost shouting by the end.

“Well, I didn’t kill any of my friends!” Harry shouted back and then reeled back in shock as Snape slapped him.

“Shut up, you stupid boy! You understand nothing! Nothing!”

“You’re right. I don’t understand. I’ll never understand. I don’t even want to.”

“How very like you,” Snape sneered. “Enough of these charming reminiscences. We have some planning to do.”

“We? I don’t think so. You go your way, Snape, and I’ll go mine.”

“Suit yourself, but stop mouthing off and start thinking. You can’t sit pouting on this hillside forever.”

The last of the fire had completely died when Harry spoke again.

“Where’s Malfoy?”

“Draco? Returned to his master.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Don’t you understand anything, Potter? My master is dead.”

Harry nodded. “I hate you,” he said quietly after some more time had passed in silence.

“That can’t be helped just at the moment. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t care for you much, either.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I don’t know.”

“Why were you so nice to me last night?”

“I don’t know that either. Exhaustion, most likely.”

Harry lips twitched and his shoulders shook in silent laughter. Somehow the gleam of Snape’s teeth as he grinned infuriated him all over again. “You should have died.”

“Yes, I should have. I wish I had,” Snape said wistfully. “Against all the odds I am alive and so are you. I’ve spied, I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, I murdered my dearest friend, I’ve allowed myself to be sodomised by the son of my childhood enemy and still the fucking world has not come to its fucking end.” Snape’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “And the Dark Lord is still out there somewhere, the Boy Who Lived has lived once more, and the spy is trying to come in from the cold.” He stood up. “Come, Potter.” He extended a hand to Harry. “Everyone dead but Him and still our work is not done. Come. Two warriors hand in hand walking down to the land of the dead.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Is that a quote?”

“It is now.”

Surprised at himself, Harry took Snape’s hand and together they walked down the hill to the smouldering city.

***

. . . And in my right against all bitter things
Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try;
Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by
(Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret)
Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly;
This is the end for which we twain are met.
– Francois Villon – Ballad Written for a Bridegroom, Verse 2