The Producers

“Oh this one is too funny,” Harry chuckled to himself, sliding his body further down the sofa in an attempt to get comfortable. Snape’s hard leather couch was pleasing enough to the eye, the dark green a testament to his Slytherin loyalties, but to get comfy on the thing was near impossible.

“Will you stop that inane babbling,” a deep voice bellowed across the room, “some of us actually have work to do.”

Nonetheless, Snape couldn’t help himself, and eyed the sheaf of papers Harry was reading.

“What exactly is it that you are finding so amusing? If I must be thwarted in my attempts to complete the marking of the third year potions essays, though they hardly deserve the credit of being described as such, you might be so kind as to tell me what is entertaining you so.”

Putting the quill down on the desk, he leant back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Harry stifled his giggles and began to read aloud.

‘Snape had been in a foul mood all day. Not that it had alarmed anyone; it was hardly out of character. Stalking around the dungeon, he waited for the infuriating Harry Potter to arrive and serve his detention. Once again the tiresome little horror had tried to get a rise out of his Potions Master and Snape had not given him the satisfaction.

Potter had actually had the gumption to argue with Snape over his required participation at Quidditch practice that would leave his Potions homework bereft of attention. Snape had taken great pleasure in informing Mr Potter that he had won himself a detention and that he would have plenty of time to work on his Potions assignment then.

A sharp knock on the dungeon door narrowed Snape’s eyes into beady little slits…”

“What in Merlin’s name!” Snape was temporarily lost for words. Not a feeling that sat well with him. He stood up, pushing the chair back and rose, feeling a defensive need to be standing.

“Wait, I haven’t got to the best bit yet.” Harry looked up and grinned.

“Potter, have you been pissing away your time writing this.. this.. what IS it exactly?”

“It’s called fanfic, and no, I didn’t write it.”

“Well where did it come from?” Snape snapped.

“People are writing about us!” Potter enthused, his eyes widening in what Snape took to be pathetic gratitude.

He could feel a migraine coming on. Why could the boy never answer a simple question? He rolled his eyes melodramatically and was about to rephrase his question when Potter burst out laughing, sheets of paper fluttering to the floor as he clutched his sides in suddenly induced hysterics.

The loud unexpected cackling caused Snape to involuntarily jerk backwards, losing his balance. One foot safely made contact with the hard polished floor, but the other snagged itself in the thick pile of the rug, causing him to plummet dramatically to the floor in a puff of black robes.

Harry hooted even louder, his eyes threatening to spill over with tears of laughter.

Snape immediately drew himself back up onto his feet and swiped a hand at the hair that had fallen across his face, trying to regain some small shred of dignity.

“Enough!” he barked angrily “Calm yourself Mr. Potter.”

Harry tried, desperately. But every time the giggles subsided and he dared to glance in Snape’s direction, the Professor’s wary look set him off into another rib cracking convulsion.

Snape tried a force ten glare and felt momentarily appeased when it appeared to have the desired effect.

“As I was saying… who has written this slanderous nonsense? I shall have them cleaning cauldrons for the rest of their schooldays.” Even that was little consolation, Snape felt, for the aspersions cast upon his character.

“No, it’s not a student. It’s a FAN!” Again, Snape noted the pitiable appreciation it seemed to rouse in the boy.

“We’re APPARENTLY two characters in a muggle book! A best-seller! And now we have our very own fan club and EVERYTHING!” Snape really wished Potter would stop emphasizing so many of his words.

“AND many of my fans…” Snape interrupted him with a cough, “Your fans?” Potter looked up at him.

“Well, yes. The books ARE all called Harry Potter..”

“Books? I thought you said ‘book’. Now we’re part of a series?” Snape was finding all of this information very difficult to process, despite his superior intellect.

“Yes, there are seven of them so far!” Dear Gods, if the boy smiled any wider his mouth would likely split open.

“And you are the .. main character.. in these books?” Even as he heard himself saying it, Snape was mentally repressing the urge to snort at the incredulity of it.

“Well, yes, I’m kind of like, the hero.” At least Potter had the grace to blush. Snape grunted.

“Then I suppose I should be flattered to have a luminary such as yourself sprawled on my settee.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Potter turned a hurt look on Snape. “I didn’t write the books! Or this fanfic.”

“Ah yes, the fanfic.” Snape glared at the scattered pages lying on the floor, willing them to spontaneously combust. “And what exactly were you finding so humorous about it? I fail to see anything remotely funny in the defamation of my personality.”

“Well.. it’s just.. kind of, spookily.. accurate.” Snape quirked an eyebrow. “That is, I mean, some of it is.. a bit.. true to life.” Harry finished slowly.

“Your eloquence, as always, never fails to impress,” he began, a scathing retort burning its way along his tongue. Yet again he was cut off mid sentence as Potter erupted into another inexplicable state of mirth.

Snape had had quite enough. He marched over to the couch and firmly gripped Potter’s shoulders, trying to shake some humility into him. The brat’s face was awash, more tears pooling at the corners of his green eyes, threatening to fall. Snape conceded defeat and let go of him abruptly, turning his attention to the fallen pages.

He gathered them up, trying to shuffle them into some semblance of order but there were so many sheets and none had page numbers, each page full and thick with black type, no discernable difference between them.

Snape huffed and threw them down on the sofa, before returning to his desk and picking up his quill. He ignored the stifled chuckles still emanating from the sofa and began scratching the nib viciously across the pages. Eventually silence permeated the room and he allowed himself to relax somewhat. Blissful minutes passed, but his curiosity ultimately got the better of him. He cursed himself inwardly for being weak enough to glance back up and see what Potter was doing.

The brat had resumed reading, and was clutching at his chest with one hand, as though it might explode at any moment. But more curious than that, however, was his mouth, which was contorted into a laughing shape, but made no noise.

Potter had cast Silencio on himself. Snape didn’t know whether to be furious at the deception or grateful for the peace and quiet. How dare Potter continue to laugh at him, and not even have the backbone to do it vocally. Snape drew his wand slowly and aimed it directly at Potter.

“Finite Incantatem,” he shouted, and immediately the silent room was punctuated with peals of laughter that were now free to resonate from Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s eyes darted upwards, meeting the full force of Snape’s fierce look. Abruptly the giggling stopped and Harry coughed modestly, before summoning a shy smile which Snape failed to return.

“I’m sorry,” Harry tried, his apology failing to convince, “It’s just, really, really funny.”

“Perhaps to your juvenile sense of humour, Mr Potter.”

“Well, maybe that one is a little, um, biased, but this one..” Harry reached under the sofa and produced another handful of papers, these ones neatly stacked and stapled. Gods, the boy was obsessed.

“I shall have to Reducio your ego at this rate, Potter” Snape glanced at the clock and made a mental note of the fact that he had now wasted twelve minutes on this futile exercise.

“Actually, this one is about you. Well, both of us. It’s very.. complimentary.” Harry flattened the urge to giggle.

Snape viciously bit his own lip before rising to the bait. “Exactly in what way is it complimentary about me?”

Harry threw him a positively wicked look before clearing his throat.

‘What do you want Potter?’ The lank haired Potions Master spat the last word into the air, as though it were an expletive. He sneered down his not inconsiderable nose and narrowed his beady eyes suspiciously..’

“I thought you said this was flattering!” glowered Snape, not at all amused by such blatant impertinence.

“Shh wait, I’m getting there.” Harry waved a hand dismissively in the air.

“Well it’s hardly been an ego booster so far,” he grumbled. Harry ignored the protestations and continued to read.

‘Harry slipped into the classroom and closed the door behind him. Glancing around nervously as though a Boggart might appear at any moment, he tentatively made his way towards the front of the dimly lit room.

“Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day!” snapped the Professor, which prompted Harry to respond by quickening his pace.

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” he said breathily as he came to stop just in front of the desk.
Snape sneered at the half boy half man in his midst. The growth spurts of his hormone-riddled puberty had given him definition in his arms and squared his jaw, but his face was still baby soft and his hair an unruly mop.

“I’m having problems Sir, and I don’t know who else to turn to.” The boy turned a pitiful wide eyed gaze upon the ropey old Professor..’

“Ropey?? OLD??” Snape spluttered. “Is this your idea of flattery, Potter, because I can assure you it is far removed from mine.”

“Hang on will you? Stop interrupting me.” Harry chose to take the liberty because he would literally explode if he didn’t finish reading the story to Snape. He just had to. Without waiting for a remonstration, he quickly resumed.

“And how precisely do you think I may be able to assist you Mr Potter?” Snape sneered.
“Well, it’s just, Ron and Hermione are seeing each other now, and I know they don’t mean to make me feel excluded, but I am, just the same. And even if things were like, how they used to be, I don’t know if I could look Ron in the face and discuss this with him, I don’t want to risk losing his respect.”
“And you’re not worried about losing mine?” Snape sneered.

‘Good gods, why has the heathen repeatedly used the word ‘sneers’? Have they not heard of a thesaurus?” Snape challenged. Harry smirked at Snape having only drawn attention to the sentence structure error, and not having bothered to comment on the fact that he apparently sneered so much.

“I, oh, no I didn’t mean that, sir, I just meant…”
“Your eloquence as always, fails to impress, Mr Potter,” sneered the Professor.
“Sorry sir,” the cherubic lips uttered.

Snape shot Harry a withering look that could have liquefied metal at a hundred paces. It had suddenly dawned on him why Potter had found his earlier retort so bloody hilarious. Someone was taking him off, and it appeared Harry thought they had done a grand job of it. Not to mention the very same author was painting Potter into the role of an angelic, ingratiating arse licker. As if!

“Well out with it, boy. What is it that you don’t want to risk persecution from your best friend over?” Snape flicked a lank length of hair out of his face.

“I think, I might be..” Potter lowered his voice and lifted his head, eyes saucer wide from underneath his lashes, “..gay, sir”

“Gay, Potter?” the malice in his voice had dissipated somewhat and he whispered the words in his rumbling tone, casting a doubtful look down at sweet, innocent Harry.

Sweet innocent Harry? Snape audibly let out a groan and debated forcibly ejecting the little brat from the sitting room.

“This is infantile nonsense. I have better things to do with my time than play audience to your self-esteem,” Snape made to get up.

“No wait, please, just two minutes, let me finish,” Harry begged. Snape sighed and reseated himself, reaching for the bottle of whisky and glass on the desk in front of him. He was going to need a stiff drink to tolerate this twaddle.

‘“Yes professor, and I wanted to know what I should do about it. I’ve kissed girls before sir, but it wasn’t, I mean, it didn’t feel right. And Sir,” Harry paused dramatically before launching himself forward into the billowy black robes , “I think I might be in love with you!” he beseeched, tremulously awaiting a response.’

On finishing the sentence, Harry quickly cast a look in Snape’s direction. He was frozen mid sip and looked like he might be about to choke. Harry continued quickly.

Snape felt his insides congeal at the unexpected warmth that had enveloped his waist, small hands tentatively sneaking around him, clutching tightly. This revelation was just about the last thing he ever though Harry Potter would say to him. Him! Greasy haired, hook nosed, finger stained Master of Potions, who barely had a good word to say about anyone, particularly the demon spawn love child of his former arch-enemy. He glanced down nervously at the top of Potter’s head, unruly hair falling about his face as great wracking sobs enveloped his body.

Snape let a hand pat the lad on the head, none too gently mind, as though he were being forced to pet a rather smelly mongrel. His mind raced with the possibilities the next few minutes might allow, and also with the far-reaching consequences of those potential actions.

The small hands around his waist began to tug at his robes and he decided against all better judgement that the least he could do was to educate the boy in the finer points of romance. Perhaps he would be a quicker study in this lesson than in Potions.

Snape let the boy continue to scrabble at his robes, casting a silencing spell on the room, as well as wards, even in the unlikely event that someone might willingly seek him out down here in the dungeons.

Potter had worked a hand inside the Potion Master’s robes and was fumbling with the fly of his trousers, gasping as he finally snaked a hand around the impressively long shaft that lay hidden within…’

This time there was no deterring Snape. He slammed the tumbler down on the desk and was across the room like lightening, snatching the handful of papers from Potter and brandished them angrily in his face.

“Is this your idea of a sick joke?” he spat, “Complimentary? It is categorically disparaging! You think this is funny? It implies that I would take advantage of a confused, underage student! Disgraceful! And what of this part?” He jabbed a finger accusingly at the text, “Aren’t you bothered that it disputes your sexuality?”

Potter shifted against the leather and righted himself, defiantly jutting out his chin.
“It’s fiction! It’s not meant to be a biography! And besides, why would I be bothered about being portrayed as gay? It doesn’t repulse me the way it obviously does you!”

Harry raked a shaky hand through his hair and continued to level an insolent stare at Snape, but his brain was jumping up and down desperately trying to warn him he had crossed a line.

Not even bothering to dignify Potter’s outburst with a response, Snape growled and went back to his desk. He drew his wand and levitated the bundle onto the highest shelf of his bookcase.

“Mr Potter. You have just had your fun terminated. I am confiscating it. Now kindly leave me alone.” The papers slapped down on the shelf and the sound echoed around the room. Harry felt the pit of his stomach coil with rage, eyes prickling with hot tears. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his bag, swinging it up onto his shoulder as he headed for the door without a backwards glance. The consequent slamming jarred Snape’s teeth in his head.

He was shocked at how quickly Harry had become emotional during their confrontation. The boy was crying, crying, for Merlin’s sake, over that pathetic attempt at fiction. Throwing a tantrum like an insolent toddler deprived of his favourite toy.

Snape felt his lip curling into a sneer and abruptly ceased. He would not become that ridiculous parody of himself now or anytime soon if he could help it.

What was Potter’s problem? Aside from the stunning revelation that they were apparently now famous in the muggle literary world, people seemed to be taking great pleasure in actually writing defamatory, sordid little side stories about them. What a tragic existence must befall some people, he mused, for them to waste precious energy on such a fruitless endeavour. But Potter had seemed ridiculously pleased at his latest brush with fame. As if the brat didn’t get enough admiration already for being ‘The Boy Who Lived’.

Snape had been just about the only person who couldn’t give a monkey’s arse about Potter’s wizarding notoriety when he had come to Hogwarts seven years earlier, a grossly underfed slip of a lad. He had soon excelled at most subjects, as well as proving gifted enough on a broom to warrant an unprecedented position in the Gryffindor Quidditch team in his first year.

Snape had treated him just like any other pupil, initially unimpressed by the child’s popularity but despite Potter being the son of his childhood rival and tormentor, he was also the child that Lily Evans had borne, and Snape had consciously decided, the first time he laid eyes on the boy, to see Lily in him, not James.

As time drew on, he had become an unlikely friend to Potter, the boy finding himself calling more and more on the Potions Master as an improbable source of companionship and they had settled, quite some years ago now, into a comfortable familiarity. Snape was not a particularly social sort of person; certainly he did not go in for idle chit chat but he found Potter’s presence an acceptable distraction from time to time.

Harry had tired quickly of being hounded just about everywhere he went, annoyed by the shallowness of his fellow students. He knew they weren’t interested in him as a person, only in the celebrity that they saw in their midst. Snape had never treated him worse than anyone else, but he had made it clear to him that he would not be one of those fawning admirers either, and that was just fine by Harry. He wanted to be treated normally, and so the implausible alliance had developed. Now Harry was eighteen, and he had stayed on at school to take advantage of one of the wizarding degree courses it had recently begun.

When he had told Snape of his intentions to continue his education at Hogwarts, nothing could have prepared him for the surprise and happiness he experienced when the older man had feigned a begrudging invitation for Harry to live with him. Since the alternative was lodging with the other students in nearby Hogsmead, a concept Harry had found too unappealing to contemplate with any seriousness, he had readily, and enthusiastically agreed. Snape had tried to keep up his charade of finding Harry a distasteful source of amusement, but it hadn’t lasted nearly as long as he had hoped.

This latest turn of events, however, left him feeling strangely insecure about their relationship, in a way he hadn’t ever before. Harry had never so much as raised his voice to Snape, whether out of respect or fear he didn’t know, but they had never actually had a serious argument before now. Potter, far from being put out by Snape’s sarcasm towards him, actually seemed to relish the snarky comments he made, giving as good as he got, both of them enjoying the witty banter.

He had never before witnessed Harry as distressed as he had become this evening, nor experienced the utter unpleasantness of him flouncing out of their quarters. Snape wondered where he might have gone. He thought back on the whole bizarre episode and still failed to ascertain what had set Harry off in such an extreme manner.

Snape reached once again for the bottle of scotch and poured himself a rather generous amount before giving up on the marking and retiring to the sofa. His arse protested as it made contact with the unforgiving leather. Damn couch was hideously uncomfortable, he reflected, as he slugged back the entire glass worth.


A few hours later, Harry staggered back towards Hogwarts, the great castle lights twinkling at him as if Dumbledore himself had seen him coming. He had gone to Hogsmead and settled in the darkest corner of the Three Broomsticks, not wanting to draw attention to himself, needing to brood alone over the affairs of the evening. During the consumption of his first large whisky he raged internally over Snape’s audacity. Who the hell did he think he was? He had no right whatsoever to take away something that was Harry’s. He wasn’t a student anymore, at least not one of Snape’s, and he was eighteen for Merlin’s sake!

The second large single malt had been devoted to mulling over Snape’s reaction to the part of the story that had asserted Harry’s sexuality as being gay. He felt entirely shocked that he had spent a good seven years in the frequent company of the man and never before realised he might be homophobic. This was something Harry felt he couldn’t let pass without comment, and that in itself bothered him, the inevitability of another confrontation; so much so that a third scotch and a pint of Hogsmead’s finest (just for good measure) had slipped down disturbingly quickly.

And so it was that Harry found himself stumbling along the dark stone paths, trying to focus on anything that might be kind enough to appear motionless to him in his sozzled state.

Damn it, he had thought Snape would be amused by the stories. They were mostly light hearted and he had found them to be oddly compelling. Not because they were about him per se, just the fact that it was amusing to read about himself in so many different and unpredictable scenarios.

The flattery he could live without, he openly detested it anyway, but the stories themselves seemed to infiltrate his mind, unconsciously suggesting an array of possibilities he had never considered before.

Well Snape could go fuck himself, Harry mused. He’d read what he liked, when he liked and there wasn’t a damn thing the man could do about it.

Harry took a moment to compose himself as he stood just outside the entrance to their shared residence, and after a deep breath, crossed the threshold.


As soon as Harry entered the sitting room, his eyes registered the fact that Snape was not at his desk. He was sat on the couch in front of a roaring fire, full glass of scotch in one hand, the other idly playing with a loose thread on his robes.

Snape had heard Harry approaching the dungeons, could tell by the uneven footfall that he was intoxicated. He had also sensed Harry’s reluctance, knew he had lingered at the door before coming home. The realisation caused a dull ache in his chest. Part of him wanted to clear the air before it festered and became a serious issue, yet another part was telling him to leave the whole sorry mess alone until Harry was sober.

Harry dropped his bag on the floor and continued to eye Snape warily before sitting at the opposite end of the settee. For a few moments, they both watched the fire raging in the inglenook. A loud pop caused them both to flinch as red hot embers flew out, landing on the stone hearth, glowing boldly before turning to ash.

The non-confrontational side of Harry wanted to say sorry, that he didn’t realise that Snape would be so offended by the drabbles. But the voice in his head was urging him to accuse the older man, loudly, of being homophobic, of taking himself too seriously, and to challenge Snape’s right to confiscate his personal belongings, regardless of what they might be. What Harry hadn’t planned on saying, was what actually escaped his lips before his brain had time to object.

“I’m moving out.”

The words hung heavily in the air. Snape stopped fiddling with the loose thread and rested his elbow on the chair arm, leaning his face against his hand. Harry glanced at him and saw that he had closed his eyes.

‘Bugger,’ he thought, ‘I didn’t mean to say that.’

Time ticked away, and with no response from Snape forthcoming, Harry’s irritation mounted.

“Well I’m glad to see you’ve no objections,” he accused childishly, “I want to live somewhere I can read whatever the hell I like without fear of retribution. And live with someone who isn’t homo bloody phobic.”

That caught Snape’s attention. He whipped his head round to glare at Harry.

“You dim-witted child,” he hissed in a dangerously low voice, “I’m the last person to be judgemental of one’s sexual inclination. What the hell do you think you know about anything anyway? Have you ever experienced prejudice? Well have you?” he snarled, dancing flames from the fire reflected in his dark eyes.

Harry sat back in the crook of the settee and began to consider his carefully measured response but the alcohol had befriended his mouth and it turned loose on him.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t have the first clue about prejudice!” he retorted, sarcasm saturating every word, “I was never treated unfairly for being the thorn in the Dursley’s side was I? Kept in a cupboard under the stairs, very just! And when I managed to escape that shit hole, I came here, only to have everyone know who I was before I’d ever laid eyes on any of them.”

Snape drew his breath quicker than Harry could and let rip.

“Oh, poor hard done by Harry Potter,” he mocked nastily. “It must have been utterly appalling to be the most popular boy in the school, quite unbearable I imagine.”

“You know I hated all that attention,” Harry shouted, “I’ve never experienced anything BUT prejudice my whole life!” Snape saw how quick his temper had erupted, the lean frame shaking with rage.

He really hadn’t wanted to get into another argument but Potter had pushed him and now they were both paying the price. Years of tentative trust had built up between them and it seemed that it might all be shattered over a piece of bloody literature.

“I’m not a bigot, Potter. I’m unquestionably not homophobic. It would be entirely ironic for me to be so, taking into account the irrefutable fact that all my previous liaisons have been with men.”

Snape silently cursed. He had not planned on divulging that information. Harry’s ferocity had stripped him of his normally cool, controlled demeanour, his sharp mind dulled somewhat by the copious intake of alcohol and he had blurted it out before he could stop himself.

Harry seemed not to have heard though, as he carried on his tirade.

“I saw your face when I read that stuff to you, you were sickened by it, I know you.. hang on.. what?” His ears urgently attempted contact with his brain.

“I am gay, Potter.” Snape enunciated each word carefully, as though talking to someone very simple or very young. In Harry’s case he thought spitefully, both. The shocked look on Potter’s face as he hastily sat down on the sofa was every bit as satisfying as Snape had hoped it would be. In the face of muteness, he continued.

“I was not concerned with my own portrayal; as you so helpfully pointed out earlier, there are certain similarities between myself and my fictional alter egos, however grossly exaggerated they may be. Nevertheless, I was outraged, as I had every right to be, over the implication that I would take advantage of a student.”

Snape accio’d another glass from the bookcase and set it down on the floor along with his own. He reached over the arm of the sofa and retrieved the whisky bottle, pouring a liberal amount of the golden liquid into each glass before handing one to Harry.

“Cheers,” Snape muttered sarcastically. Harry couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the other man. He continued to stare, wide eyed, desperate to make some sense of what he had just heard. He regretted having drunk so much in the pub earlier, because surely if he hadn’t he would be able to think of the perfect thing to say right now, instead of...

“Are you kidding me? What a ridiculous thing to say! Is this how you amuse yourself, pretending you’re gay just to prove a point, get one over on me? You think if you say you’re gay I’ll have to apologise for accusing you of being…” the train of thought chuffed away and left him in a dark tunnel.

Or.. said Harry’s brain…

“Or,” said Harry slowly, “Oh my gods, you got all tetchy over that story because it hit a raw nerve! You really are gay!” he pronounced triumphantly, as though it had been his conclusion all along.

Snape couldn’t resist the temptation to be cutting. He slow clapped Harry and, fiction be damned, allowed himself to sneer at the red faced boy. Whether Potter was crimson from embarrassment, the alcohol in his bloodstream, or the blazing fire they were less than two foot away from, Snape couldn’t tell.

“My protestations were never about the insinuation that either of us may be attracted to men. It was purely and simply concerning the very notion that I would engage in any unscrupulous behaviour with a student.” The curled lip relaxed a little.

Harry felt all his indignation and resentment melt away. It was not a pleasant sensation to find it being replaced with remorse and embarrassment. He raised the tumbler to his lips and gulped two large mouthfuls in quick succession.

“I’m really sorry,’ he mumbled, casting his eyes down at the drained glass. Snape felt the knot in his chest loosen.

“Sorry because I’m gay?” he said, not really sure what direction, if any, he should be taking this conversation in. Harry’s head jerked up.

“No! I don’t mean that, why should that make me sorry?” he asked as Snape tested the impact of the revelation by reaching towards him, intent on removing the glass from his hand. Harry made no movement other than to pro-offer the tumbler. For all his verbalising, Snape had half expected him to recoil in horror.

“It is very late. I really must retire for the evening. You would do well to follow my lead.” Snape yawned as if to emphasize his point.

“Oh. It’s just, well, I have lots of questions, I mean, that is, if you don’t mind talking about it all with me, I really wish you’d told me before now.”

“When would have been an appropriate time? When you were eleven? Perhaps one of the countless evenings we have spent together, just dropped into the conversation? ‘Mr Potter have you finished your Potions thesis yet? Oh and by the way, when I get the chance, which I confess is not as often as I would like, I prefer to lie with men.’” Snape rubbed at his eyes and Harry blushed.

“Well, no, I mean, I just never realised, we’ve been friends for years and you never told me. I never thought about it, about you, who you might have been seeing or... God, have you got a boyfriend?” Harry’s eyes grew round, overwhelmed with curiosity.

He couldn’t recall ever seeing another person in Snape’s quarters that wasn’t associated with Hogwarts, although until he had moved in two months ago, he had probably spent two nights a week there, leaving plenty of other time for Snape to have indulged in a relationship. The thought induced a twinge of inexplicable jealousy in him. He didn’t want to think that someone else might be benefiting from Snape’s unique sense of humour, his quiet self confidence, his loyalty as a friend, the clever and knowledgeable virtues that Harry himself had come to appreciate. Perhaps even take for granted.

“I am not having this conversation tonight. I’m dreadfully tired and truth be told, a little upset by our quarrelling this evening.” Harry felt a pang of guilt at that. “So if you think you can keep your inquisitiveness contained, we will continue this discussion another time.”

Snape rose from the couch and settled the empty tumbler on his desk.

Harry watched him set the glass down, and reluctantly mumbled his agreement.
“Okay. I have lectures tomorrow that I probably shouldn’t be hung-over for anyway. Can we talk tomorrow night?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, Mr Potter. If you wish, we will continue to dissect my sexuality and lifestyle to satisfy your apparent fascination,” Snape smirked, not unkindly, before turning away from his desk to the door set behind it and disappearing. Harry remained on the sofa, still watching the door in case Snape should change his mind and come back out to appease some of the burning questions Harry had. But the distant sound of water jettisoning against tiles told him the man had no intention of returning.

Harry let out a small sigh, sure that the next twenty four hours would be very long indeed, and vacated the green leather, retiring to his own bedroom on the opposite side of the living room.

***