A Night Out

Why am I here? I don’t belong in places like this. I didn’t when I was twenty, and I certainly don’t now. The werewolf apparently disagrees. Not that he would know whether I stayed or not at this point. We were here less than an hour before he went off with some twink and told me not to wait up. Like I would. Let him go off and fuck boys half his age. I couldn’t care less what the mutt does. Merlin knows he needs something to take his mind off Black. Four years and he still pines. Fuck that. Life goes on, might as well move on with it.

So again I ask myself: why am I here? Why am I sitting in the corner booth of a gay club all alone and drinking Merlin-knows-what. Last time I ever let Lupin buy me a drink. Last time I ever let Lupin drag me to a place like this. I didn’t need to get out. I would have been perfectly fine at home brewing potions or reading and drinking fine scotch. Instead I’m in a room filled to capacity with half-naked men writhing against each other to music that’s so loud I can’t even tell what it is. Instead I’m drinking some appalling muggle mixed beverage from a plastic cup. It has an interesting mix of sweet and sour, and it’s almost enough to make me forget there’s alcohol in it.

How did I ever become friends with Lupin anyway? We were such great enemies. Sure, we had that tryst in fifth year, right after Potter starting courting Evans and Black was still hoping Potter was gay. That ended pretty damn quickly. I’ll never know how Black found out, but his solution was to tell me to meet up with Lupin in the Shrieking Shack on the night of a full moon. I never forgave him for almost getting me killed. I think it hurt more because I would have been killed by the only person I remotely cared about. It wasn’t until recently that I forgave Lupin for hiding the fact that he was a werewolf. I never forgave Potter for saving me.

Owing a wizard’s debt to Potter was bad enough. Owing one to his son was quite another. I paid in full more times than I could count and the ungrateful little bastard still didn’t trust me. Not that I ever gave him a reason to. I couldn’t let the boy like me. The Dark Lord would have expected me to use such a thing to his advantage. I would have had to turn Harry over to Voldemort, and then all would have been lost. I think toward the end of the war he understood that. I never got a chance to ask him.

We stood back-to-back in the final battle. I kept him safe long enough to kill Voldemort. We both passed out from the pain of our respective connections to the Dark Lord. I was only out a few hours. By the time he awoke, I was long gone. My debt to Potter and Dumbledore had both been paid. Harry had his revenge and I was finally a free man. Relatively. If Harry hadn’t sworn under Veritaserum at my trial that I was instrumental in his victory, I’d still be in Azkaban. I never did thank him for that. I’ll probably never have to. Remus Lupin is the only person in the world who knows how to find me, and I’ve sworn him to secrecy.

I can’t take this anymore. I’m leaving. I get up and turn toward the exit (all the way on the other side of the bloody dance floor). I go about two feet before some half-dressed boy barely old enough to be in here bumps into me. I glare at him the same way I would an errant student. He looks up and starts to apologize. He gets as far as, “I’m really...” before being struck dumb. I know the feeling.

His hair is as disheveled as ever, and his eyes are still that unholy, piercing green. There are a few distinct changes to how I remember him, though. He’s not wearing his glasses, I don’t remember quite so much metal in his face, and surely his body was never so finely toned. Maybe I just never looked properly. It really is difficult to tell what lies under a wizard’s robes. I pull my eyes from his to look him over. There is a metal loop in his nose, and another through his eyebrow. The way his mouth is hanging open as he stares at me, I can see a glint of metal telling me his tongue is pierced as well. The black mesh shirt shows rings in his nipples as well. I cringe when I think of the pain involved in such a procedure. How did I ever miss the fact that Harry Potter was a masochist?

“Professor Snape,” he breathes. He still seems awestruck. “I never would have expected to see you here.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. I keep my personal life very private, and I would thank you to never mention this to anyone. Ever. And don’t call me ‘professor.’ I haven’t taught you a damn thing for two years.”

“Old habits die hard, I guess. Can...erm, can I get you a drink?” My glare loses some of its intensity. A drink? Why the bloody Hell would Harry Potter want to get me a drink? Surely he doesn’t want to sit here and dredge up old memories best left buried. Oh wait, that’s what I was doing without his help. Maybe I could use another drink. I nod. He takes my empty cup and sniffs it. “Whisky sour?” I honestly have no idea, so I just nod again. He turns and wanders in the direction of the bar, swaying his hips as he does so.

How the Hell did I ever miss the fact that Harry Potter is gay? Surely he didn’t sway like that in school. Of course not. He had enough unwanted popularity without being known as a fag too. Apparently he doesn’t mind attention so much anymore. Maybe it’s because everyone’s forgotten him now that he’s saved them all. Maybe that same masochistic streak that has him shoving needles through his flesh misses it. Maybe he’s become so accustomed to people thinking the worst of him, he just can’t handle people not thinking of him at all. Bad attention is better than no attention at all if you’re a teenager.

Of course, now, after I’ve let him saunter off to get me a drink, I’m suddenly struck by the fact that he’s still a teenager. Nineteen. At least until the end of this month. Damn. I’m twice his age. I can’t do this. Once again I stand to leave, but there he is, suddenly inches away from me, handing me another yellowish concoction of citrus and alcohol. I can’t think of a good excuse to leave, and simply setting my drink on the table and disappearing sounds a bit cowardly, even to me. He slides into the seat across from mine. So, small talk it is.

I sip my drink and curse whomever decided that alcohol is best hidden so that you have no idea how much you’ve had to drink. I can’t stop looking at Harry. He looks so different from how I remember him. His hair hasn’t changed at all, of course. I wonder if he even combs it. It reminds me of how my hair always looks so greasy. At least I have an excuse. Silky, fine hair doesn’t do well with extended exposure to potions fumes. It generally looks clean for about an hour each morning. By my first class of the day, it’s already hopeless. At least I put the extra effort into washing it before coming here. But I know within an hour of going home tonight, I’ll be brewing a hangover potion, and then my hair will look just as horrible as it always does.


Harry’s looking at me oddly. “So, erm... how have you been?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I can’t complain.” Sure I can. I’m lonely and bored and depressed, and I didn’t even realize it until tonight. Damn Remus and his bloody ideas. “And you?”

He shrugs and looks away. “I’ve been better.” What the Hell am I supposed to say to that? He looks back at me. “Have you heard about Hermione?” I just give him a curious look, certain that he’ll continue. “She’s started a whole new branch of muggle relations in the Ministry. She’s working on a standardized curriculum for introducing muggle-borns into wizarding society. She’s also trying to make muggle studies a required course for graduation at Hogwarts. McGonagall likes the idea, but the Board of Governors doesn’t think it’s as important as some of the other classes. They don’t see the need for it.”

“I daresay we could use more people like Miss Granger in this world. Imagine how different your life might have been if you had known just a little more about being a wizard before being thrown into Hogwarts.”

He laughed bitterly. “Then I wouldn’t have spent ten years blissfully ignorant of the fact that so many people wanted me dead.”

“You would have been better prepared.”

He nods and looks away again. “I, um... I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For, erm... always being there for me.” He meets my gaze. “You’ve saved me so many times over the years. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

“You don’t have to.” I’m not going to sit here and explain my debt to his father. Let sleeping stags lie. “So what do you do these days?” That’s it, go back to the small talk. Coward.

He shrugs. “Not much of anything really. I have an apartment not far from here. I don’t actually have a proper job. I took some of the money Sirius left me and had it converted to muggle money. Then I invested it. So far it’s done quite well. If it keeps up, I can probably cash it in after just another year or so and live off that for at least ten years. If it flops, well, I still have the money my parents left me and what I didn’t take from Sirius’s inheritance. What about you?”

“I’ve saved enough over the years to live comfortably without needing to work. I still make potions and sell them through owl-order. It keeps me sane.” That’s it: lie to the boy. Like I’ve ever been sane. What sane person would have joined an evil megalomaniac bent on world domination and then turned against him, risking a slow, tortuous death, just because of a sense of obligation to the headmaster of a school?

“Something has to.” His voice has an odd tone to it. I can’t quite place it. Maybe it would help if he were looking at me, so I would have a facial expression to go with it. Instead, he’s staring across the dance floor like he’s not even seeing it. Suddenly he turns to me. “Dance with me?” It sounds almost desperate. Maybe I’m imagining it. I glance down at my drink and realize the cup is nearly empty. I finish it off and stand. He smiles up at me and then stands as well, suddenly invading my personal space. He sashays to the dance floor, towing me behind. I can’t help but admire the view of his arse along the way.

His body presses against mine and he starts swaying to the music. After a while he pushes his thigh in between mine and grinds against me. It’s hard for me to focus on the beat of the music while he’s there rubbing a very noticeable bulge against my leather-clad leg. How did Remus ever get me into leather trousers? Harry’s hands slide up my back and into my hair. He draws himself up to his full height and kisses me. Quite suddenly, the rest of the room doesn’t exist. I jerk away when I realize he’s apparated us.

I look around wildly. “Where are we?”

Harry presses against me again. “Relax. We’re at my apartment.”

“You just apparated in front of a hundred muggles.”

“Probably more.”

“How can you be so blasé about this!? You really don’t care, do you? You never cared about the rules before; why did I think that had changed?” I spin around to leave, but Harry spins me back around and then pushes me against the wall.

“I said relax. I cast a disillusionment charm on us when I sat down at that table. No one saw a thing.” Some of the tension flows out of my body, but now I’m very aware of the fact that Harry Potter has me pinned to the wall in his apartment. I’m not quite sure how to feel about it. “Now, where were we?”

He leans in and kisses me again. His lips are so soft; it’s so easy to get lost in the feel of his body pressed against mine, especially with the help of alcohol. His tongue slides into my mouth and it’s all I can do to hold back a groan. Never in a million years would I have expected this to happen. I’ve never been the type to have affairs, of any sort, let alone sordid affairs with boys half my age. But Harry doesn’t seem to care about age. He doesn’t seem to care about how I treated him while he was in school. He doesn’t seem to care that for years he thought I was the enemy. All he seems to care about is us, here, now. I’ve never been so happy to agree with him.

His mouth pulls away from mine and begins placing kisses along my jaw, down my neck, across my collar bone. Damn, when did he unbutton my shirt? I need to pay more attention. But, oh Merlin, that feels good. He’s kissing his way across my chest, licking and nipping and sucking my nipples. He drops to his knees and unfastens my belt and trousers. He peels the leather from my groin, and lifts my cock out of the confines of my pants. He licks his lips and then looks up at me through those dark eyelashes while he runs his tongue along the underside of my cock. My head falls back against the wall and I let out a throaty moan.

His mouth works wonders on my straining cock. A burst of jealousy hits me when I realize that someone else taught him how to do those things with his tongue, how to fondle the balls just enough to increase stimulation, how to squeeze the base of the cock to stave off orgasm. His tongue ring feels remarkable against my sensitive flesh, and I wonder idly why I’d never gotten a blowjob from someone with a tongue piercing before. Oh wait, such things weren’t in fashion the last time I had a blowjob. Damn.

He makes it last forever, and then he squeezes the base of my cock just when I think I’m about to come. He kisses his way back up my chest and neck. He licks the shell of my ear and then sucks my earlobe into his mouth. Gods, that mouth is talented. He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Not yet. I want to ride you.” He pulls back a little more. “Stay right here,” he says huskily before walking into what I assume is the bathroom.

All of my insecurities bubble up while he’s in that room. What if he’s changed his mind? What if this was all some sort of joke? What if he’s trying to get back at me for treating him so badly over the years? What if...?

He comes strolling out of the bathroom with a smirk on his face. He kisses me again, but this time his tongue pushes something into my mouth. I have just enough time to register that it’s a pill of some sort before it slides down my throat. Panic flares in my chest. What the Hell was that thing? Maybe it’s some sort of poison. Maybe he’s going to kill me. Maybe he’s going to incapacitate me and do something degrading to me. I’m in the perfect position for him to do such things: pinned against a wall in an apartment Merlin-knows-where, without a single soul knowing where I am or who I’m with, half naked and still hard as stone.

He pulls back from the kiss ever so slightly and chuckles. “Relax. It’s just a muggle drug. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“It’s not going to hurt you. It’s the second one you’ve had tonight, and the first hasn’t bothered you yet.”

The second? When...? My drink. Harry brought me that last drink. He had plenty of time to put the pill in and let it dissolve. I never would have noticed it with all the other strange flavors mixed together in that drink. I never even thought to check it before taking a drink. Severus Snape, renowned Potions Master, former Death Eater, successful spy, killed by a teenager. It’s somehow poetic. “Why would you drug me?”

“I just wanted you to relax. Obviously it isn’t working.” He presses his body against mine again and resumes exploring my body with his mouth. Now that I know what to look for, the signs of the drug are obvious. I’m having difficulty concentrating, my head is swimming, I feel detached from reality. I thought it was the natural high of hormones making me feel this way. Now I know better.

That sinful mouth has made its way to my nipples again. Merlin, it feels incredible. I love the way he nibbles them, dragging his teeth across the sensitive nubs just enough to entice. He gently slides my trousers down my legs. Thank all that’s holy the boy has a bit of self-control remaining. Those trousers are much too tight to be ripping off. He runs his hands along my bare legs and then follows with his mouth. He runs his tongue from the top of my foot, across my shin, over my knee (which I didn’t even know was such a sensitive area), and up my thigh. He stops just short of my groin and then repeats the action on the other leg. By the time he’s finished I feel like a seething mass of raw nerves, and I can’t tell whether it’s from the drugs, the alcohol, or that delectable mouth.

I pull him to his feet and kiss him fiercely. I shove my tongue down his throat, and he doesn’t seem to care. I stroke my tongue across his, reveling in the feel of that little ball of metal. My left hand slides down his back and squeezes his arse while my right slips under the mesh shirt, finds his nipple, and begins playing with the metal hoop there. He moans into my mouth, and I suddenly need to feel his naked flesh touching mine. It’s almost as if he’s reading my mind when he steps back and pulls the shirt off in one fluid motion, throwing it across the room.

He nuzzles my neck while my hands explore his chest and stomach. He sucks on a spot just below my ear while I unbutton his jeans. When I start to slide the zipper down, he kisses his way up to my ear and whispers, “Let’s move this to the bed, shall we?”

My cock certainly seems to like the idea; it twitches in anticipation. I start walking him backwards into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind me. I push him onto the bed and pull his jeans and pants off. I crawl over him, kissing a trail across his flesh much like he did to me in the other room. I nibble on the backs of his knees until he begs me to stop. I nuzzle the soft curls above his cock and then run my tongue across his protruding hipbone. The boy is entirely too skinny.

His fingers tangle in my hair and I vaguely hear my name carried on whispers and moans. The sounds sends little sparks of electricity across my back. I slide my tongue from his perineum, between his balls, along his shaft, to the head of his cock, where I dip it into the slit and taste the bitterness of pre-come. “Oh, God...” he moans. I take his entire cock into my mouth all at once, letting the head press into my throat while I hold my breath. When I pull back up I suck hard and move my tongue across the underside of his shaft. I haven’t done this in years, but if the sounds he’s making are anything to go by, I’m doing a fine job.

I want him to come in my mouth. I want to taste that bitter saltiness. I want to wake up in the morning with his flavor in the back of my throat to accompany the ache in my jaw. I want to kiss him afterwards so that he knows what he tastes like. He, however, has other plans. “Oh, God, Sev, stop, please. I want you inside me when I come.” How can I argue with that?

He stretches across the bed and pulls a bottle from the bedstand. He hands it to me and spreads his legs. I stare at the bottle for a moment. “Astroglide?”

“It works.”

“Do you even know how to use a wand anymore?”

He sits up and takes hold of my cock. “Oh, yes. But sometimes things are better the hard way.” He squeezes my cock when he says the word ‘hard.’ Once again I find myself wondering how I’m supposed to argue with such logic. I flip the lid open on the bottle and pour a bit of it onto my fingers. It’s thinner than I would have expected, and I start to wonder just how well it does work. Harry has obviously used it before, though, and it really is his decision at the moment.

Instead of lying down on his back again, he turns around and braces himself against the headboard, presenting his arse to me quite nicely. I consider the view for a moment before leaning in and running my tongue along his cleft. He moans and I take that as encouragement. I use my unlubed hand to brace myself against his back and slide my tongue over the tight pucker of his arse. He moans again, and I take that as an invitation. I shove my tongue inside and am very surprised to hear him chattering away in parseltongue. I begin tongue-fucking him in earnest. My cock is apparently very happy to hear the sibilant sounds issuing from his mouth.

I kiss my way up his spine and then slip one finger halfway inside him. I work it in and out a few times before adding a second. After a few moments I begin scissoring them apart, stretching him as much as I can. I add a third finger and he groans in frustration. “I’m not a virgin, you know. Fuck me already.” I withdraw my fingers and slap his arse hard enough to leave a red handprint. His responding whimper tells me he likes it more than he’d like to admit. I drag my nails lightly down his back; he arches into the touch, making my nails scratch deeper. Maybe he really does have a masochistic streak.

I stretch my body over his, making sure my cock sits perfectly in the cleft of his arse, my chest aligns with his back, and then whisper in his ear, “But I thought you were going to ride me.” He shudders beneath me. The movement does wonderful things for my prick. I lift up off him and recline against the pillows beside him. Without his bare skin touching mine, I feel oddly bereft. It’s like I’m numb to everything but the feel of him touching me.

He carefully straddles me, letting our cocks brush against each other for several moments before taking the bottle of lube and pouring a fair amount onto his hand. He slowly slides his hand over my cock. It feels incredible, but I know it’s about to get better. Thank Merlin he doesn’t waste time getting me lubed up. I would hate to come before we even get started. He sets the bottle on the bedstand and then positions himself above me. He leans in and kisses me languidly while he lowers himself onto my throbbing prick.

He’s so tight and so hot; I never want this to end. I want to stay inside him forever. Once my cock is fully sheathed, he sits there for what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. I know he’s adjusting to the invasion, but my body just wants to pound into him, comfort and consequences be damned. He kisses me again and then lifts up, almost all the way, and drops back down. I let out a throaty moan, my head falling back onto the mound of pillows. He takes advantage of the new position by latching onto my neck and sucking while he impales himself on my rod.

He gets a steady rhythm and soon I’m thrusting up to meet him every time. It feels so incredible, and I’m so close. He runs one hand over his cock and up his chest. He grasps his nipple ring and pulls. It seems to be turning him on more. I watch in fascination as he tugs it this way and that, pulling and twisting it. Surely it must hurt. He bites his lip and tugs particularly hard on the ring of metal. Then he’s shooting come across my stomach and chest, his arse clenching tight around me. That combines with the sound of my name being moaned and then morphed into a proclamation in parseltongue, and I can’t hold off any longer. I cry out his name as I drive my hips upward, shooting come deep inside him. It has to be the best orgasm of my life.

Afterward, we lie there in each other’s arms, breathing heavily and on the verge of sleep. I know there’s something we should be discussing, but I just can’t think of it. Besides, he’s so warm and he fits against me so well; I just can’t imagine ruining that right now. I’ll worry about it in the morning.

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I walk into the kitchen. Harry is there, standing at the sink, looking out a grimy window at a grimier street below. There is a mug of what looks to be hangover potion sitting on the table. With a slightly scratchy voice, he says, “You can take that, you know. It’s not drugged.” I want to say something scathing. I want to tell him that I’ve made enough hangover potion over the years to know exactly what it smells like, to tell him that I know he hasn’t drugged it. I want to believe that.

I drink it all in one go. He hasn’t killed me yet. He just keeps standing there, looking out that bloody window. Why won’t he look at me? Is he that ashamed of what we did? Is he hoping that I’ll just leave, and he’ll never have to see me again? “Potter...”

“You called me Harry last night.” Well, that was unexpected. He has a point, though.

“All right. Harry.” I still haven’t decided what I’m going to say. It’s a little late to bring up that he could have stopped at any point last night. I can’t bring myself to just leave. I can’t even bring myself to be derisive. My own defense mechanisms just won’t work with the brat. He’s grown up now; I could throw my most caustic remarks at him and he would laugh. That was part of what I liked about him last night. Why does it bother me so much now?

The silence stretches on for an eternity. Then quietly, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “You killed him.”

Great. He just had to bring that up, didn’t he? “I promised.”

“I couldn’t have done it.”

Wait, what? Then, he knew? The little brat knew I’d promised to kill Dumbledore. “That’s probably why he left it to me.”

“For the longest time, I blamed myself. And then I blamed you. And then I realized that the only person who deserved the blame was Voldemort. If it weren’t for him, none of it would have happened. I would have had parents, a loving family who never shut me away in a cupboard without food for a week, friends who could look at me and just see Harry. Like you did. Like you still do.”

“Who else am I supposed to see?”

He barks out a bitter laugh. “The Boy Who Lived, The Savior of the Wizarding World, The Man Who Killed Voldemort.” He followed this with a whispered, “James Potter’s son.”

I’m quiet for a few moments before saying, “I did see you as James’s son for a while. For about the first week of your first year, all I could do was look at you with contempt. But I had to distance myself from you.”

“Voldemort would have expected you to bring me to him if you hadn’t.”

“Even before his return, I was still being watched by Death Eaters and their children. I had to hate you, for your sake.”

“I figured that out pretty quickly. You don’t know how relieved I was when you weren’t there in that graveyard. But I was afraid too. You had always been there, ready to save me. That night you weren’t. That was the night I realized just how important you were to me.”

“And now?”

“Now I know the truth. All of it. And I’ve realized that you’re still important to me, in ways I may never understand.” He finally turns to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot, but I don’t know whether it’s from the drugs or the alcohol or a restless night. “When I saw you last night, it was like my heart stopped beating. I’ve felt so empty these past two years, so lost. I’ve been doing things - stupid things - just to make myself feel. All you have to do is stand there and look at me and I feel more than I do with any drug. I need you, Sev. I need you to save me one more time. Save me from myself.” It suddenly occurs to me that he’s been crying. That’s why his eyes are bloodshot.

“Harry...” How am I supposed to save him? I can’t even save myself.

“You don’t have to be perfect. I don’t expect you to change. I need you to be the same person you’ve always been. You’re the only one left, the only one that matters. All of my friends have moved on. They all have lives...lives that don’t involve me. But what do I have?”

I sigh. The boy...man...has put a lot of thought into this. Maybe it wasn’t coincidence or evidence of the fates’ sick humour that brought us together last night. Lupin had seemed so intent on going to that club. He wouldn’t settle for anything else. Maybe he’d known Harry would be there.

He turns back to the window. I think my silence is frightening him. What sort of world is this where gorgeous young men who have seen so much in so few years are afraid of rejection from bitter old fools like me? Taking a deep breath, I swallow my pride and steel my resolve. I step up behind him, pressing my body against his, and place my hands on his shoulders. “You have me.”