The Perfect Companions

The Perfect Companions

“And thish,” Harry declared triumphantly, “is Mishter Ice.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mishter Vodka!” Mister Ice said in a squeaky, uncanny exaggeration of Harry’s voice. The glass he was confined in clinked a little too hard against Mister Vodka’s, who sloshed over the rim.

“Now,” Harry stage-whispered, after running a finger through the spillage and sucking it off the tip with a flourish, “you, me and Mishter Ice are going to get very well acquainted this evening.”

Surprisingly, Mister Vodka said nothing and Harry frowned at him.

“Whatsa matter? Not still sulking over Mishter Lemon are you? I told you, Mishter Lemon isn’t keen on...group activities unlesh they involve Mishter Coke, and Mishter Coke is intent on diluting your po – po – potency.”

Harry chuckled low in his throat and gave Mister Ice’s glass a slow twirl. He was just about to upend him into Mr Vodka’s when a deep voice interrupted his alcoholic foreplay.

“Potter.”

Harry’s hand froze mid movement, doing a good impression of Mister Ice. Only Mister Vodka remained impassive. Even in this state, Harry recognised the spine-tingling timbre, so electrifyingly reminiscent of aching arousal, undiluted hatred and a whole Apocethary full of potions ingredients in between.

Without looking up, Harry said, “This is a private party. Neither myself, Mishter Ice or Mishter Vodka are inclined to admit voyeurs.”

Mister Ice gave a small whoop as he slid into the liquid blanket of Mister Vodka, allowing himself to be fully immersed.

“What in Merlin’s name are you wittering on about?” the deep voice snapped impatiently.

Harry shared a long-suffering look with the recently united Mr Vodka and Mr Ice.

“Voyeur, voi-yûr',” he said, greatly exaggerating each syllable, “a person who derives sexual gratification from observing the naked bodies or sexual acts of others, especially from a secret vantage point. And you,” he accused the glass, “would know all about secret vantage points, wouldn’t you?”

Wisely, the two inhabitants kept quiet. Snape, however, did not. Bracing one long, potion-stained hand on the table, he brought the other to rest on the cushioned seat behind Harry’s head, and leant forward.

“You,” he growled, shockingly close to Harry’s ear, “are still the same arrogant, impudent, lazy little good-for-nothing you were at school. I have more voyeuristic enthusiasm for Flobberworms than the Golden Boy.”

Snape left Harry in no doubt that his underlining of the word ‘boy’ was meant as an insult. Harry planned to take it as one too, but a long strand of dark hair, definitely not his own, fell into his peripheral vision and tickled along his chin. Startled, Harry scooted along the booth, valiantly rescuing Misters Vodka and Ice as he went.

Curling his fingers tighter around the glass, Harry dismissed the voyeur with a snort and raised it to his lips, savouring the nearly tasteless fluid as it slipped down his throat. With his head tilted back, he could see the thin hand still resting territorially on the table. The stains made quite an intriguing contrast against the sallow skin, and reminded him of a picture he’d once seen, Indian women demonstrating the precise and artistic application of Henna. If that’s what he’d been trying to do, Harry thought, then Snape appeared to have used a fat headed paintbrush and wielded it with his toes. The ink was smudged, and there was no discernible pattern. Except Harry knew it wasn’t ink, and that the splotches were the result of a lifetime spent preparing potions.

Harry set the glass down with an air of finality, his relationship with Mr Vodka violently at an end. Mr Ice cowered inside it, cold, wet and alone.

“I want to touch your hand,” Harry murmured softly. The network of slow-pulsing veins beneath Snape’s tainted skin were calling to him.

“Harry? Harry!”

He reached out to touch them but Snape snatched his hand away. Harry whined like a kicked puppy.

“Harry? Harry!”

Someone was rifling through the top pocket of his jacket. The veins sounded awfully familiar. A lot like...

“Miss Weasley. No, you may not speak with Mr Potter. He is currently indisposed. Goodbye.”

Not veins talking to him then, just one of those stupid ringtones Ron had charmed his phone with, so he knew who was calling.

“Harry? Harry!”

Harry and Snape groaned simultaneously. Harry poked his tongue out and licked the residue of Mr Vodka from Mr Ice.

“Miss Weasley – no, perhaps I did not make myself cl – as I have already – I rather doubt he is capable of –“

Harry smirked into the glass and tuned out, offering Mr Ice a conspiratorial wink. Mr Ice seemed strangely unhappy, friendless. Feeling generous, Harry sent up a small flare with his wand, satisfied by the speed with which another Mr Vodka appeared on the table.

It didn’t matter where Harry went or what he did, people fell over themselves to indulge his every whim. It was the reason why this particular Wizarding establishment now boasted a Muggle jukebox. The fact that the landlord had actually installed one after suffering through Harry’s tenacious debate on the benefits of such a device, left him feeling terribly embarrassed. He had apologised profusely on the next visit and vowed never to drink again, before ordering a vodka and punching in the code for ‘Like a Virgin’.

With a heartfelt sigh, Harry began the onerous task of introducing the new Mr Vodka with the somewhat thawed Mr Ice. Apparently happy to be suspended in temperate liquid folds once more, Harry didn’t feel neglectful of him when he glanced up at the figure casting a shadow across the table.

Severus Snape. Buttoned up to the neck in a long, black frock coat, the hint of a starch stiff white collar beneath it. Black hair swept his shoulders looking for all the world like...like a...Harry’s brain was on strike. Sexy bastard. No, wait, not sexy. Bad brain, Harry scolded. He tried to focus on the row of shiny black buttons, eyes running down them until they ended rather abruptly at groin level. Harry’s face flushed and his gaze travelled back up, only to find himself the focus of a withering glare.

“That,” Snape said, placing the phone on the table and sending it skidding towards him as though he was initiating a game of air hockey, “was Miss Weasley. Judging by her colourful language, I suggest you return her call at your earliest convenience. She has been relieved of the notion that this may be in advance of tomorrow morning.”

Harry moaned. He slumped forward and head-butted the table. Pain flared up, thankfully not the scar, never that anymore, but even so, the sudden throbbing made him moan louder.

“Why are you here?” he whined, lips ghosting the wood as they moved. Snape sat down next to him and helped himself to Harry’s drink.

“It would appear that nearly succumbing to death, at the fangs of an abnormally large serpent was not enough to pacify the Fates. Determined as they are to render my existence as miserable as possible, I continue to be plagued by you, Potter.”

Harry tried really hard to close his eyes but they just weren’t co-operating.

“What’re you talking ‘bout?” he said, mustering as much irritation as he could, “I haven’t bloody seen you for two years! That’s not a plague, that’s a drought.”

“Then I am quite prepared to expire from dehydration,” Snape countered evenly, “a condition you appear to be in no imminent danger of.”

Harry poked at his phone. The press of a hard thigh against his own was improbably comforting.

“Why do you care? You never did before.” He could see the glass cradled in Snape’s hand and willed his fingers to walk towards it. Snape slapped them away.

“Nor do I now. I came here for a quiet drink, and you are spoiling the ambience. Whatever personal demons are haunting you, Potter, I suggest you deal with them in some other manner. The answers to your problems are not to be found at the bottom of a vodka bottle.”

Harry snorted, “What do you know about my problems?”

“Regrettably, more than I would ever wish to. One cannot so much as glance at a newspaper without being subjected to the intimate details of your chronically sad existence.”

Harry’s wand poked the air feebly but no more Mr Vodka’s materialised. Snape had either blocked his request, or spoken to the barman. Harry wasn’t used to being refused, and that was partly responsible for some of the lethargy he felt. He never had to do anything for himself, was barely allowed to play a part in decision-making processes. Too many people willing to do things for him, to treat him like bloody royalty when he’d only done what was necessary; anyone would have done the same when faced with the responsibility of slaughtering a Dark Lord.

A year of having people tripping over themselves to make his acquaintance and offer their services had left him exhausted at how often he said no thank you, so he’d started saying yes please. Mostly, to various bar staff in any number of pubs. He just wanted to be treated normally, whatever the hell that was supposed to feel like. A damn scar on his head and people thought they owned him, that they were entitled to pick over the bones of his life and offer a commentary on it.

Snape’s words cut him though, as far as it was possible considering the almost impenetrable layer of anaesthetic his self indulgence had created. Snape knew him, and he’d never once treated Harry with anything less than ill-disguised contempt. It was almost funny how that seemed better than the alternative he faced every single day of his – what was it? Ah yes, chronically sad existence.

“You’re a bastard,” Harry slurred, placing his palms on the table and swaying to his feet. The room tilted suddenly and he pitched forward, strong arms coming from nowhere to secure his waist.

“How right you are, Potter,” Snape said silkily against his neck, awakening many of his alcoholically numbed nerves, “How right you are.”

***

Harry surfaced slowly. A piercing ray of sunlight filtered through a crack in the curtains where they did not quite meet. His bottom lip had dried and stuck to the pillow. A brass band had snuck in through his ear during the night and were now playing enthusiastically, the pounding beat forcing his teeth to clench against the throbbing in his skull.

Distorted fragments of the previous evening flitted in and out of reach. A bar, yes, there had been a bar. Nothing unusual there. And drinks. Plenty of them, judging by the monstrous headache and his furry tongue, the taste in his mouth a twee combination of old socks and effluent. He fumbled for his glasses, pleasantly surprised to find them on the bedside table. Usually they ended up on the floor or crushed beneath his body, too intoxicated as he was to remove them before losing consciousness. Certainly the number of Reparo’s he’d performed on the wire-rimmed frames would attest to it, if investigated.

Sight restored, Harry propped himself up. A piece of parchment lay on the bedside table, held in place by a small, ornate vial.

Potter,
May I take a moment of your time to articulate how utterly charmless you are. Your home is a hovel, and your precarious state of mind draws you ever closer to an interlude at St Mungos. I strongly suggest putting your life in order and finding some continued purpose for your existence; there are only so many tales of woe one can bear to read, before either cancelling a subscription to the Prophet or violently removing the instigator of aforementioned stories.
P.S Do not forget to call Miss Weasley.
P.P.S The vial is a pain-killing potion. I have no sympathy for your condition, self-inflicted as it is, but suffering what I imagine to be the less than dulcet tones of your on-off girlfriend this morning, whilst still heavily intoxicated, is a fate I would not wish on even you.
Severus Snape

Harry stared at the spidery scrawl and re-read the letter. Horror rose within in him. Snape had helped him home. He’d been in Harry’s house, his bedroom! A quick check under the duvet revealed, unnervingly, a lack of underwear. His clothes sat atop a chest of drawers, neatly folded. Mr Vodka suddenly turned nasty, and Harry almost didn’t make it to the bathroom before they were briefly reacquainted. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he flushed the vengeful deposit away.

A situation I would not wish on even you.

The words swam in front of his eyes. What did it mean? Had he been forgiven? For two weeks after the final battle, Harry had sat at Severus Snape’s bedside, willing the man to survive the horrific injuries he’d sustained. He could freely admit his reasons had been entirely selfish; he wanted to apologise, to try and explain why he’d never given the man a chance, to thank him for the monumental sacrifices he had made. Snape had never been easy to get along with, but viewing those memories had changed everything. Like a man born blind and restored the gift of sight, Harry could see with stunning clarity Snape’s motivation for treating him the way he had, for doing what needed to be done to rid the world of Voldemort. As far as epiphanies went, he’d found it rather uncomfortable.

Worse still, had been when the Potions Master finally regained consciousness, only for his first words to be, ‘Potter you utter shit, why am I not dead?’

Harry had tried his best to explain, hoping that they might put their former hostility aside and at least manage to be civil towards each other. Snape had other ideas. He instructed Poppy Pomfrey to forcibly remove Harry from his private room and promised him a slow and painful death if he ever attempted to return. It had bothered Harry for months afterwards; truth be told, it had never stopped bothering him. At times he was angry and indignant, mostly he was filled with an obsessive need to make peace with the man.

Ginny could never understand why he felt like he did. It was the one thing they argued constantly about. He was still a murdering, death-eating bastard, she said. He killed Dumbledore, she said, it was outrageous that he hadn’t been thrown in Azkaban, she said, and even more unbelievable Harry had defended him at his trial, especially after the way Snape had treated him. Sitting by his bed, watching him sleep, (well, you must be mad, she said) leaving only to use the toilet and grab something to eat (Mental, mate! Ron chipped in); what kind of person showed their thanks with the choicest swearwords and the threat of a curse?

Harry had actually smiled at that one; Severus Snape did, he’d told her. Ginny just stared at him like he’d truly lost his mind, which, all things considered, he probably had. Harry never mentioned Snape anymore, not to Ginny anyway. But then, there were lots of things Harry didn’t talk to his, currently ex, girlfriend about. Merlin the times they had split up and got back together these past two years; Harry had lost count. Two years. It had both dragged and flown by simultaneously.

It really was just bloody typical that he should come across Snape again, when circumstances negated to paint him in a good light.

Harry assessed his reflection in the mirror. Christ, there was hardly any light he would look good in at the moment. The only mornings he felt fully rested, came after overdosing on Dreamless Sleep.

Dragging himself back to bed, Harry picked up the small vial and downed the contents. As his bloodstream absorbed the potion, spreading it through his body and neutralizing the worst of the pain, Harry wondered why Snape would bother to see him home safely, never mind leave a hangover remedy. He chewed it over and over, but kept arriving at the same answer; absolution. In his own quirky way, Snape had forgiven him. Deciding to believe that made Harry feel much better, until he remembered he was still naked and his pants were sat atop the clothes pile. Merlin, how embarrassing. Surely there was no earthly reason why Snape would feel compelled to remove his bloody boxers before putting him to bed?

“Harry? Harry!”

Harry screwed his eyes shut and tried to block the sound out with a strategically placed pillow. Bloody Ginny. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? Did she not realise how this situation was doing neither of them any good? Marriage, kids, a house full of Weasleys; it wasn’t what he wanted any more, was it? He didn’t like being told how to feel, what he should think, or why he should be grateful that despite his appalling attendance at work, he’d still made it through the Auror training programme. The sad fact was, he didn’t care anymore. About any of it.

As soon as the ringing stopped, Harry switched the phone off. He helped himself to the last set of clean clothes, dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen to block the Floo. The memory of a previous morning-after and an irate Ginny compelled him to do so; he’d learn that lesson the hard way. Collapsing into the kitchen chair, Harry surveyed his home. A mountain of plates dominated the sink, brown tea rings and breadcrumbs littered the sideboard, and the bin spewed takeaway cartons like an overactive Mount Vesuvius.

Snape was right, his home was an absolute shit pit, and Harry was a bloody mess.

***

The following Friday found Harry at his usual table in the Cock and Bull. A Wizarding pub with a distinctly Muggle name that he appreciated for its low lighting and close proximity to Grimmauld Place. Stumbling distance, actually. He also rather enjoyed the fact that someone had spelled the pub sign to read ‘Cock and Balls’, something the landlord had yet to rectify.

It was still relatively early, but Harry was on edge. What if Snape didn’t come? Perhaps it was just a strange coincidence that he’d found him there the week before; Harry certainly frequented the place often enough to know Snape wasn’t a regular.

That he even cared so much annoyed Harry. Two years had passed and still the desire to grab Snape roughly by the shoulders and shake some sense into him hadn’t abated. He wanted to bunch his fists in those sombre black robes and yell at him; yes, you were on our side all the time, but how the hell was anyone supposed to know? Yes, you treated me like a gangrenous appendage, you bastard, but now I know why it was necessary! Yes, you killed Dumbledore because he asked you to, and I don’t hate you for it! And then, in his head, Snape would tighten his long, bony fingers painfully in Harry hair, force him to his knees, and push him roughly until he toppled backwards, Snape claiming his mouth and lifting his robes up and –

Christ, where had that come from? Harry shook his head. That sort of image was highly disturbing. He chased it away with another neat Vodka before remembering his resolution to take things a little easier on the drinking side of things.

On the Ginny side, Harry had spent most of the week fielding her calls. Only when Ron collared him at work did Harry promise to make amends, and he had, in a fashion. He’d sent her flowers (none that spat poison or would bite) and arranged to attend her upcoming Quidditch match that weekend.

Perhaps things weren’t so bad. If he could just hand in his notice, Apparate away to a remote island where the sun was too hot to wear anything but shorts, and warded heavily enough to avoid detection, life would certainly improve. Though it didn’t really help that a frolicking Snape kept slipping into the daydream. Actually, as Harry peered closer, Snape wasn’t frolicking at all, he was flailing madly in the water, evidently in some distress.

As though watching a Pensieve memory, Harry saw himself take off down the beach, pounding the exotic white sand in his desperation to reach the helpless man. Who knew Snape couldn’t swim? Fighting the currents that threatened to drag him under, fantasy-Harry powered his way through the aquamarine surf, reaching fantasy-Snape and securing him well enough around the waist that he could paddle them both back to shore.

Equal measures of relief and panic flooded him. Fantasy-Harry dematerialised before his eyes, and fantasy-Snape lay unconscious, vulnerable to the frothy white swash that rushed over the sand and lapped at his ankles. Harry ran to the lifeless form and dropped to his knees. He pressed his mouth against thin, bluish lips, heroically administering the kiss of life. Snape spluttered up a lungful of water, opened his eyes and glared at Harry, then shoved him aside as he sprang to his feet. Harry toppled sideways and automatically reached out to save himself, Snape’s black swimming trunks the first thing that came to hand. Harry heard the unmistakeable sound of fabric tearing. His clenched fist held the pathetic remnants victoriously as he landed on his arse. Harry’s heart leapt into his throat as he sat upright. Snape’s recently exposed cock was just inches from his mouth, long and solid, even whilst flaccid. The nest of dark curls around the base were damp and springy. Tiny droplets of water ambled down the shaft and collected at the tip. Harry dragged his gaze away and glanced up. Snape looked murderous, like he was about to pounce.

“Another drink for you, Mr Potter?” Ted asked brightly, collecting up the not insignificant number of empty glasses that had accumulated in front of him.

Harry nodded mutely. A small trickle of sweat meandered down his nose. God, why was he thinking these things? Perhaps he really did need to check himself into St Mungos. Merlin knew he could do with the break from work.

Each time Harry surveyed the bar, a little more of his hope dissolved. Each time his hope dissolved, Harry ordered another vodka. So far tonight, neither Mr Vodka nor Mr Ice had offered much in the way of conversation. It was just his luck, Harry concluded, that when he needed to discuss something as serious as fantasizing about his nasty ex Potions Master, they would suddenly disown him.

When the bell for last orders rang, Harry found enough strength to send up another flare for service. Despite his concerned glances, Ted sent another one over and nodded to the jukebox. Harry shook his head; only very slightly, worried that any exaggerated movements might dislodge his liver, and that was one organ he definitely wasn’t prepared to live without. He didn’t feel like singing along with Gloria Gaynor tonight; there were only so many times you could listen to ‘I Will Survive’ before you stopped believing it. On the other hand –

“Ted!”

Ted looked back up from pouring a Butterbeer for a seemly young witch. Harry thumbed at the jukebox and mouthed, “Gloria.”

Ted’s frown deepened, but the portly landlord dutifully flicked his wand at the wall mounted box.

Harry sang enthusiastically all the way into the second chorus, until a large, ungentle hand clamped over an escaping high note. By swivelling his eyes, Harry could make out the inky blotches around each fingernail, and despite the natural reaction to resist, he relaxed.

“It appears that once again, Potter, you have chosen to disregard my advice,” the voice said disapprovingly. Harry wondered what Snape would do if he bit him. He was about to experiment when his jaw was released. Harry sucked in a breath and swallowed his excitement.

“I was waiting for you.”

Snape sneered at him and snatched the glass out of his hand. With a venomous jab of his wand, he silenced the jukebox. Wisely, Ted retreated to the other end of the bar and began polishing goblets.

“I still require an explanation. Your friends did not risk their lives purely for you to abuse yours, and neither did I. Ever the ungrateful brat.”

Snape slugged the drink back and crunched Mr Ice. Harry never ate Mr Ice. For one thing it set his neuralgia off.

“M’not ungrateful,” he protested, staring at the empty glass. Snape’s fingers were idly dragging through the condensation, moving in tight circles that made Harry’s nipples tingle.

“Yes, you are,” Snape hissed, “you have your desired career, childhood sweetheart, a vault full of gold and the admiration of all Wizardom. What else could you possibly yearn for, Potter?”

Like last time, a leg rested heavily against his. Unlike last time, the length of Snape’s scrawny side buffered his, close enough that Harry swore he could feel the indentation of each bony rib. Mr Vodka silently initiated a game of Truth or Dare. Harry took the dare and leant into the contact. Snape’s body stiffened. Harry waited. Mr Ice held his breath. Snape stayed where he was and didn’t move away. Harry smiled, and promptly passed out.

***

“Harry? Harry!”

“Harry? Harry!”

Harry laid as still as possible. The phone was ringing, the room was darkened, and he was in bed. Naked, again, judging by the rub of cotton against bare skin.

“Infernal bloody harpy!”

Snape! Harry battened down his eyelids and tried to breath evenly.

“Miss Weasley, it is late. No. Yes. No, I very much doubt Mr Potter – I hardly see how that is any of your – of course I read the papers – No. No – goodnight Miss Weasley.”

Harry got that sinking feeling that usually accompanied walking into a raid and realising he’d forgotten his wand. Explaining once to Ginny why their former Professor had answered his phone late on a Friday night had taken no small measure of patience. Two weeks in a row? He was a dead man walking. Well, lying down. Naked. With said former Professor stomping around his bedroom and by the sound of it, elaborately shaking out his clothes. Harry tracked the sounds since he daren’t open his eyes. Snape in the bathroom, the clink of a glass, the tap running. Footsteps navigating his bed, the glass placed on the bedside table. A clink, possibly another potion vial. Gods, how he hoped with every last fibre of his being that it was. The scratching of quill on parchment, a quiet rustling as it slid beneath the vial.

An indeterminable pause, then fractional pressure on his head, a palm resting lightly, moulding to the shape. Inquisitive fingers wound into his hair and smoothed it. Harry’s breath caught in his throat and the stroking abruptly ceased.

“Potter?”

Shit.

Harry faked a loud, snuffly snore and shifted his weight, concentrating on deep, regular breaths; in, out, in, out. Images of other instances that required in, out, in out barged their way to the front of his mind. The beach again, this time fantasy-Harry reclined in a hammock, lazily swinging between two palm trees. On closer inspection, his naked, oil slicked body was bent double, ankles locked behind his neck in a stunning display of physical flexibility. Snape– oh Merlin! – the tip of Snape’s tongue was drawing a line along the inside of his bronzed thigh. It slowed before reaching his groin, the teasing action eliciting a deep moan that implored the wicked man to keep going. Harry could feel Snape’s breath everywhere, on his balls, across the tip of his weeping cock, between his widely spread arse cheeks. Harry’s mouth widened in a silent scream as Snape pushed his nose – and oh my fucking God what a nose– into his crack, to lave greedily at his entrance.

“Potter!” Snape said in a harsh whisper, “If you are awake, I demand you declare it this instant!”

Harry prided himself on not moving a muscle, though admittedly it was due to the alcoholically induced paralysis more than any impressive show of self control. The beach, sun and hammock faded into obscurity, and Harry rapidly became aware of the nightmare it had left in its wake. His cock was painfully rigid and tenting the duvet, and the increasingly laboured breaths filling the darkness were most assuredly not his own.

‘Dare you,’ Mr Vodka purred.

Harry gritted his teeth and rolled jerkily onto his side, away from Snape.

‘Ha! Chicken,’ Mr Ice taunted.

Merlin, was Snape going to stand there all bloody night? What was he doing anyway? Compiling a report? Detailing every last mortifying second of Harry’s ill-timed arousal? No doubt he’d be planning to get a rise out of him for years to come with this.

Harry coughed and snored sporadically until Snape’s cloak cut through the air. His muttered parting shot of ‘foolish boy,’ kept Harry awake well into the early hours, a persistent erection denying him sleep.

***

The following Friday, Harry was ridiculously pleased to discover Snape already perched on a bar stool when he arrived. He briefly lingered in the doorway, and dismissed the butterflies in his stomach in favour of deciding whether or not he should acknowledge the man. Well of course he had to acknowledge him, but should he go a step further? Invite Snape to join him at a table? It was one thing to deal with Snape when Harry was three sheets to the wind, quite another to willingly enter into conversation with the sarcastic git whilst stone-cold sober.

Harry took a deep breath, and stepped up to the bar. Not close enough for Snape to consider his action an invasion of privacy, but not so far away that he might accidentally overlook his presence altogether.

Ted flashed him a grin, no doubt already counting the Galleons his patronage promised, and served up a double Vodka without Harry needing to exercise his vocal chords.

Snape sat stoically on his stool and stared straight ahead, showing absolutely no sign of having noticed Harry’s arrival. The only indication that he hadn’t been Petrified was a rhythmic tap-tap-tap against his pint glass. Harry’s unblinking gaze dropped to the fingernail responsible for the metrical clink. He debated his options of addressing the man. Mr Snape didn’t sound right. Snape seemed a bit rude, and Severus too personal. Even Professor was now an inaccurate term, but it was the one Harry felt most comfortable with. Apart from bastard.

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry squeaked. He cleared his throat and repeated the greeting when his first attempt emerged as falsetto as if Mr Ice himself had spoken.

Snape’s head turned by degrees, assessing Harry’s appearance with his usual coolness before sneering pointedly at the large tumbler of colourless liquid Ted had hastened to serve.

“Potter.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

Snape let out a long, frustrated sigh and looked at his glass. Which, Harry realised too late, was full.

“Oh right. Well, would you er – care to join me? At a – er – a table?”

“Why of course, I’d be delighted to, Potter. Nothing would fill me with greater joy.”

Harry bristled with pleasure until it dawned on him that Snape was being a sarcastic bastard again. Why, though? The man had stroked his bloody hair! Hadn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t, maybe he’d only dreamt it. Perhaps it had been a terrible, lovely dream; like the hammock tomfoolery. That particular little fantasy had lodged in his head all week, playing on a loop. So vigorous their seaside activities became, that more than once they had overturned the swinging net and landed in a heap among the dunes.

“I only wanted to thank you for ah, your help, and the potion, it’s really quite effective, sir.”

Snape snorted so hard the froth on his beer flew into the air, “Of course it is, you imbecile. I brewed it, and I am not in the habit of supplying inferior concoctions, even if they are wasted on the likes of you.”

Harry scowled and turned away, stopped, turned back, opened his mouth to retort, closed it, and then went to his usual booth to begin a session of silent fuming. He finished his drink and requested another.

Whilst fuming, his eyes drifted back to the bar. Snape’s body was long and lean, Harry couldn’t help but notice. After all, there wasn’t much else to look at, a few other patrons, various witches and wizards but none of them held the commanding presence Snape did, even if he was sat on a stool.

Had his broad shoulders always been so distinguished, or was it simply the cut of his robes that accentuated the shape? Come to think of it, Harry had never actually examined Snape’s rear in fine detail before, clothed or otherwise; why would he?

Oh yes, he’d enjoyed looking at it in Potions, but that was because it meant not having to suffer a glare or a stinging put-down. This was entirely different. Against his better judgement, Harry imagined how that lissom spine might look when released from the confines of fabric, stretched out across silk sheets. How might it arch under the dedication of Harry’s mouth? Would the uniformed row of vertebrae curve delightfully if he licked each one in turn?

No! No, this was terribly wrong! Harry made himself look away from the black clad torso and concentrate on thinking about Ginny. On Wednesday, he’d decided to swallow his reservations and ask her to marry him. The restaurant was booked for the following week and he’d all but picked out a ring. Perhaps if they were married, things would improve. He would hold down a respectable job, be a good husband (and when the time came a model father) and completely stop entertaining sexual fantasies about Severus Snape.

Yes, good. Marry Ginny. Not Snape. Harry ordered another vodka and gave Ted the special sign for Whitney. Ted made good on both requests in his usually speedy manner.

Merlin, it was worth every last knut he’d spent so far tonight, to see the look of disgust on Snape’s face as the warbling tones of ‘I Will Always Love You’ bounced off the pub’s ceiling. Snape turned his head and gave Harry a nasty glare, then whipped his wand out and spelled the jukebox silent.

Harry frowned and drilled his eyes into the back of Snape’s head. This was his bloody local and his sodding jukebox! He drew his own wand and blasted it back on again.

Snape cut it off. Harry countered it. Ted ran for cover. Mr Ice cheered Harry on and Mr Vodka watched disapprovingly. Flashes of light erupted and repeatedly struck the smoking gadget. Whitney managed to stutter her way through a whole verse before Snape flew off his stool and tilted Harry’s chin up with the tip of his wand.

“Why,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “are you being deliberately obtuse?”

Harry swallowed, “S’not your bloody pub is it? Anyway, I’m celebrating. Playing a song for Ginny. I’ve decided to ask her to marry me.”

Snape’s eyes looked blacker than ever as they held Harry’s gaze, the moment seeming to stretch out indefinitely. Eventually, he shrank back as though Harry had wandlessly Crucio’d him and lowered his arm.

“True love,” he mocked, like it ranked below Hippogriff shit.

“Yeah,” Harry said with conviction he didn’t feel, “so if you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to that record now.”

“A rather ironic choice, wouldn’t you agree?” Snape growled, taking another step back and drawing himself up to his full height, “when the word ‘always’ implies a condition of constancy. Unless I am mistaken, your relationship with Miss Weasley has been anything but consistent.”

Harry stared at him. The frown lines ran deep, and his unhealthy pallor appeared tinged with green. Snape’s eyes glittered dangerously, framed by horribly greasy, bet-it-feels-silky hair that Harry was certain would tickle nicely against his bare skin. Oh Merlin, not again, not now.

Harry drew patterns in the sand with his toes; could taste the sparkling sea carried on the breeze. He watched Snape stretch out under a black and green striped parasol, nose buried in some monstrous academic tome. Rays of sunlight ricocheted off his pale legs, the blinding glare forcing Harry to don sunglasses in order to continue his evaluation. Thick, wiry hair ran down the centre of his chest, disappearing into the black swimming trunks. Which he must have replaced, Harry mused. Fantasy-Snape fanned himself with a lazy hand, grumbling quietly about the necessity of such a climate. Harry refrained from attacking Snape with his ice cream cone; content instead to watch him swot bad temperedly at passing flies.

“Harry? Harry!”

His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, jerking him back to reality with the distinct feeling he was having a heart attack. Harry reached for it but Snape was quicker.

“Accio Potter’s phone!”

Harry’s jaw dropped as Snape smoothly flipped it open and began to speak in the most sickeningly sweet voice he had ever heard.

“Miss Weasley. Déjà-vu. Indeed he is. I shall hasten to transfer the handset, since I believe he has something of import to request, and may I be the first to offer my congratulations should your answer be ‘yes’.”

With a smirk, Snape tossed the phone in the air and only by the residual Seeker skills he possessed did Harry manage to catch it. What the hell was Snape playing at? He couldn’t ask Ginny to marry him on the bloody phone! Snape folded his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow.

Harry scowled and put the phone to his ear, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Ginny was shrieking like a banshee and Harry couldn’t tell if it was good shrieking or bad shrieking. Very slowly, he edged the handset away until the burbled voice grew faint and set the mobile down on the table. His eyes darted between Snape and the phone. Snape’s lip curled and Harry wanted to seize him and crush their mouths together. Ginny was still squawking but Harry wasn’t listening. Staring at the keypad defiantly, he flipped it shut and hurriedly turned it off.

“Well,” Snape smirked, “True love has certainly evolved since my formative years. I wonder if Miss Weasley will interpret your actions as such.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, still staring at the lump of metal, “what would you know about true love anyway?”

“Perhaps more than someone of your limited intelligence might think, Potter,” Snape said in a voice that sounded oddly unlike him. Harry glanced up, then just as quickly away again as the air between them crackled.

Harry found the watermarks on the table fascinating. Snape just stood there, hovering like an overgrown bat. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach swarmed and took flight. Mr Vodka coaxed him with a gentle whisper. Harry drank his fill and Mr Ice urged him to indulge his Slytherin side. With a hidden smirk and as much dramatic flair as he could muster, Harry pretended to pass out.

***

The moment Harry’s cheek impacted the table, Snape swore loudly and hooked his arms around Harry’s midriff, hauling him out of the booth. As they stumbled into the darkness, he could only guess that Snape wasn’t Apparating back for fear of irrevocably splinching them both. The journey, despite taking less than five minutes under normal circumstances, developed into something far more complicated as Snape supported Harry’s weight and half frog-marched, half dragged his charge in the direction of Grimmauld Place.

The arm around his waist felt protective, and Snape’s breath against his ear became further ragged with each step, turning into harsh little pants of exertion as they finally staggered up the stairs and into the bedroom.

Snape manoeuvred Harry onto the bed, steadying him in a one-armed grip as he wrenched the bedclothes back with the other. Harry nearly laughed at the incredulousness of it all when Snape bundled his legs on and shoved him under the covers, but his amusement turned to trepidation when the duvet wasn’t immediately drawn over him. Was he seriously contemplating playing dead whilst Snape undressed him? Would it be a quick Devestio or would Snape do it manually? And why did he crave the latter so eagerly?

For a long moment, Snape did nothing at all, and Harry longed to know what thoughts were running through the man’s mind. He was willing to bet it had nothing to do with turquoise waves and secretive sand dunes.

But then fingertips ghosted his Adam’s apple, skimmed over the curve of his collarbone and came to a hesitant rest at the first button. God, it was excruciating not being able to moan and writhe under the man’s obvious devotion to the task. Each time a button slipped from its hole, Snape’s touch would linger on the exposed patch of skin before setting to work on the next. By the time he reached the second to last button, Harry was sure he’d been rumbled. Not only was his heart thumping wildly inside his chest, but even a blind man couldn’t fail to notice the unmistakeable bulge in his jeans.

Not so Snape, apparently. He blithely ignored Harry’s bottom half and continued to coax Harry’s lifeless arms free of the shirt, firmly rolling him one way and then the other, until cool cotton sheets met his bare shoulders. Next went the socks, and then came another brief pause before Snape started on his trousers.

It was torturous bliss. The sound of his zip being dragged down caused Harry’s cock to jerk. He sensed Snape’s fleeting hesitation before carrying on, the other man’s breathing noticeably more laboured than before. Warm hands drifted into the tight space between his hips and the restrictive waistband of his jeans, tugging them down in small increments, first one side, then the other until Snape encountered the monstrous hardness trapped in Harry’s pants, its presence an obstruction in what would otherwise have been a well executed disrobing.

Harry, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a ten ton truck, lay perfectly still and dared not imagine quite how the situation might conclude. If he pretended to awaken now, Snape would probably Disapparate on the spot. Though, surely a small moan couldn’t hurt? Something to show his approval? His bloody cock hurt, and that in itself deserved some positive acknowledgement.

With painstaking care, the trousers shifted again, and Snape stretched them forwards to avoid brushing Harry’s swollen prick. His breathing – oh Merlin, it wasn’t breathing it was – Snape inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the thick scent of Harry’s arousal and – fuck – that made his prick leap again.

Harry wished his eyes were open; he’d give anything to see what he felt sure of; that Snape was watching him closely , waiting for a reaction, maybe not entirely fooled after all.

He wanted to react; Merlin he wanted nothing more than to sit bolt upright and run his hands all over those stuffy bloody robes, seize Snape’s shoulders and drag him down until the crushing weight of chest and lips and cock on cock forced him into sensory overload.

What’s stopping you? Mr Vodka snapped, whilst the denim slid over his calves and grazed his heels.

Just do it already! Mr Ice barked impatiently, as the exquisite agony of Snape’s thumbs stroked along his navel and dipped into his pants, caressing the fabric down, down Ohfuckgod down.

Harry knew the precise moment the head of his cock had been exposed to Snape’s gaze, not just because cool air licked around the heated flesh, but because Snape emitted a quiet, throaty moan.

Harry blinked his eyes open and stared straight at him. Snape stumbled sideways and released the elastic, which snapped back across Harry’s throbbing shaft; the sudden pressure triggering his orgasm. Harry cried out as long, violent pulses coated his belly, unable to look away from Snape’s horrifically fascinated face. If Harry hadn’t have been experiencing the best climax of his life, he might have been amused at the way Snape’s hands had frozen in mid-air. His sharp cheekbones were deeply affected but with what, Harry couldn’t tell. Nor did he have long enough to identify it, because as his hand flew to his cock and wrung the last of the devastating pleasure, a resounding crack signalled Snape’s departure.

***

The next seven days felt unbearably long. Harry went over the scenario in his head countless times, and when the grainy recollection started to fracture, he helped himself to a Pensieve from the Magical Artefacts department at the Ministry instead. Of course, being that he’d only witnessed the last few seconds of the encounter, there wasn’t much of the memory to see; perhaps less than ten seconds between his eyes fluttering open and Snape’s silhouette vanishing. But Harry paid close attention, ignoring the incredible orgasm his memory self had in favour of concentrating on Snape’s reaction. As shocked as the sallow face seemed, there was a raging inferno in the stormy eyes as they watched Harry shiver violently and ejaculate across his own stomach.

Whether he’d wanted to or not, he had visited Ginny, who forced him to face the fact that their relationship just wasn’t going anywhere, and despite having heard the same old line trotted out on numerous occasions, for the first time in his life, Harry took a deep breath and agreed with her.

Why she looked so completely shell-shocked he would never know, nor did she give him a chance to enquire before hexing him into the fireplace, viciously throwing Floo powder in his eyes and sending him on his way with a grand total of seventy eight good reasons why he should never, ever contact her again.

Harry had never been so grateful for his job at the Ministry, where he was able to rely on the discretion of the Curse Breaking department, and forgo worrying about his angry, boil-covered bottom making the front page of the Prophet. At least that’s what he’d assumed a Secrecy Act should prevent. Someone obviously disagreed, because Tuesday’s headline was accompanied by a gritty image of Harry bent over an examination table entertaining a rectal thermometer. That had been the last straw.

Kingsley had been advised where he could shove his Auror training, Ron informed in no uncertain terms how unappealing the prospect of his sister as a future wife really was, and Wednesday, Thursday and Friday’s Prophet all carried quarter-page pictures of Harry giving the Wizarding world a two fingered salute.

All in all, he hadn’t felt better in years, perhaps ever.

With no job and no girlfriend, a huge weight had been lifted, and Harry set about restoring Grimmauld Place to its former glory. It took the best part of three days to do a proper job of tidying the old house, yet as exhausted as he felt sinking into his booth at the Cock and Bull, he was also immensely cleansed by the spontaneous spring clean. Severus Snape remained the last piece of unfinished business Harry needed to address.

Ted hadn’t seemed all that thrilled when Harry politely but firmly refused his usual tipple and ordered a mineral water instead. Mr Ice had looked appalled at Harry’s new choice of partner for him, but the cold, wet goodness of Mr Water sliding down his throat, and the feeling that he was purging the last of some very bad habits, left Harry uncaring.

When Snape finally showed up, Harry was hyperaware of his presence without having seen the Floo spit him out, or the squeak of the pub doors admitting him. He liked to think it was a meeting of minds, a connection of sorts between them, but in reality, it was the loud crack of wood splintering and a belch of heat from the smoking jukebox that alerted him. He couldn’t decide whether to jump up and throw his arms around the man or give him a taste of revenge Ginny style. It just wasn’t done to hex Kylie Minogue whilst in the middle of...well, any of her songs, but especially not ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’. As song choices went, Harry had found it spookily appropriate, given his current situation. He’d glanced at Ted who’d shrugged and mouthed ‘random selection,’ before defiling a packet of Spork Scratchings.

Snape approached the bar the way he approached life; in a thundercloud of intrigue and mystery, looking every inch the tall, dark, Death Eating spy, who would sooner hex your ears off than impart a courteous greeting. It was a look Harry was shocked to realise he’d appreciated for some time.

Before he talked himself out of it, Harry stood up and made for the bar, sparing a glance at the charred wreckage hanging from the wall.

“I liked that jukebox.”

“Did you.”

“You know I did.”

Snape turned and looked him straight in the eye. The cartilage in Harry’s knees turned to butter.

“Another song with dubious emotional attachment, no doubt.”

“You could say that.”

“Allow me to hazard a guess. Miss Weasley.”

Snape’s nostrils flared indignantly and Harry tried not to think about where that nose had been in his fantasies. His hands groped for the edge of the bar. He wondered if Mr Vodka had secretly disguised himself as Mr Water because the room started to morph out of shape beneath his feet.

“Actually, no.”

If Snape was surprised, he didn’t show it. Harry noticed a copy of the Prophet under his especially-sexy-tonight hands, so that explained that conundrum. Despite now looking as peachy as a newborn’s, pictures of Harry’s quivering, pustule-infested bottom were still running on pages four, five and six, along with an in-depth article on who had hexed him and why.

“And how long, do you suppose you and Miss Weasley might stay separated this time? A day? A week?”

“What do you care?” Harry snapped in an attempt to mask his hopefulness.

Snape snorted so hard it was a miracle he didn’t rupture any blood vessels.

“Look, about the other night – “ Harry began.

“Do not,” he hissed, “mention it again. My actions were wholly justified.”

“I never claimed otherwise, I wanted to thank you for looking out for me and that whole, ah, you know – “

Harry couldn’t bear Snape sneering at him so he looked away. First at his shoes, then at the empty glasses lining the bar, and finally, straight ahead. A mirror. Harry hadn’t noticed it before, but the mirror sat behind rows and rows of bottles, and the reflection of his booth made his insides clench. Snape sat here and watched him. Out of the entire range of seating the pub offered, Snape sat in a place where he could spy on Harry without him knowing. Or so he had assumed.

“I am not a knight in shining armour, Mr Potter. It will not happen again, of that you can be confident.”

Snape downed his drink and stood up.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Harry blurted, “where can I find you, I mean, are you working? How will I – Snape!”

He watched in dismay as Snape stalked out of the pub with an assumed air of human tornado about him, and ignored Harry’s insistent requests that he stay. The pub fell quiet. Witches and wizards all around were gawping at him with mixed expressions of awe and sympathy on their asinine faces. Thoroughly dejected, Harry picked up the abandoned newspaper and returned to his booth, seriously contemplating exchanging the mineral water for a large vodka.

Mr Ice sensed the hairline crack in Harry’s defences and went for the jugular, but Harry stood firm, fed up of drowning his sorrows, no matter if this one was more baffling to deal with than the rest put together. So Snape was a confusing, infuriating bastard. Hardly a newsflash, that.

Torn between going home and staying, Harry eventually decided to stay, and spent the rest of the evening talking to Ted, who, it turned out, reckoned he was a bit of a Seer, though when Harry asked about his future, Ted just chuckled and said something about it being bright. Once again, Harry’s less than charitable view of Divination reaffirmed itself.

The call for last orders came and went, as did the shout for time. Harry slunk back to his table and cradled the dregs of pathetic looking mineral water, which no longer bore any sign of Mr Ice. He buried his head in his arms, steeling himself to return to a large, empty house and his ridiculously anti-climatic life, when a deep rumbling stiffened the hairs on his neck.

“Merlin’s beard, not again.”

Harry acted his role of ‘pathetic drunk’ like a consummate professional, challenging as it became when Snape’s breath heated his neck and those long, bony fingers gripped the loopholes of his jeans to slide him along the seat.

Snape’s patience, it seemed, was not infinite. Muttering aloud, he informed the empty bar that he cared not if Harry got Splinched on this occasion, and that it would be an ending entirely of the boy’s own making.

Knowing it was unlikely to happen since not a drop of alcohol flowed through his veins, Harry felt the mounting excitement that they would be back in his bedroom in less time than it took to –

The landing severely lacked style and grace. With twelve odd stone of Boy Who Lived for Vodka in his arms, Snape fumbled his footing and collapsed on the bed, still clutching the deadweight of his human burden .

Shoving Harry off him, Snape struggled to sit upright, and managed a brief moment of respite before Harry snagged his sleeve and yanked him back down.

“What in Merlin’s name are you -”

“Ask me,” Harry rasped, swallowing repeatedly against the lump of knotted nervousness in his throat.

“Ask you what?” Snape demanded, “whether you enjoy suffering the relentless itchiness of carbuncles on your derriere? Because I promise you Potter, I shall be more than happy to oblige should that prove to be the case.”

Those damnable lips were so close. All Harry had to do was lean forward and he could mould their softness to his own.

“Ask me if I was awake the entire time you undressed me last week. Ask me if I came because your touch sets my skin on fire. Ask me, please just sodding well ask me, if the raging erection I have right now, is because you’re so close to me. Ask.”

Snape clasped Harry’s hands and tried to prise the death-grip digits from his robes.

“Potter,” he said, sounding much to Harry’s ears like a plea, “I will not take advantage of you whilst intoxicated.”

“I’m not, I drank water all evening,” Harry protested, engaging in finger war to outmanoeuvre Snape’s spectacularly lame attempts at keeping him arms’ length. Anyone would think Snape wanted to be manhandled.

“Don’t lie,” he growled, breath ruffling Harry’s fringe.

“Test me then. Vodka and water taste completely different. If you kiss me, it’ll prove it.”

Harry’s fingers broke free and clawed into the dark fabric. Snape’s cheeks were stained crimson, such a delicious contrast of colour against the rest of his ashen face. The distant dripping of a tap mirrored Harry’s heartbeat, drumming in time, ticking off the seconds.

“What do you want from me?” Snape said, finally relenting and meeting Harry’s gaze.

“Anything.”

“I meant – “

“I know.”

It didn’t matter if this happened once, or every day for the rest of their lives. It didn’t matter if Snape whispered loving reassurances or growled dirty words; if he was slow and gentle or hard and fast, Harry simply wanted him however he’d be allowed, in whatever way Snape offered himself.

“Your career, relationship. Giving up on everything?” he sneered, eyes still dominating Harry’s attention.

“I haven’t given up on you.”

Snape shifted uncomfortably, and said nothing.

“I didn’t know you were on our side back then, I didn’t know you.”

“And you proclaim to now?”

“No, but at least give me the chance. Can’t you overlook the whole Boy Who Lived thing?”

“Can you overlook the whole Death Eater thing?”

Harry smiled ruefully, “Already have, at the hospital, when you were – God, it was so awful seeing you like that, I just kept thinking-“

“Shh. Philosophy isn’t your forte, Potter. ”

Snape’s hand trembled slightly as it cupped Harry’s chin. A blemished thumb outlined the sensual pout, marking out invisible contours along the length of it, adding pressure to coax Harry’s bottom lip down to reveal a row of straight, white teeth. Snape’s unwavering gaze challenged Harry to break eye contact, or change his mind, but Harry fell further into the intense exchange, until the pull became too great to resist.

“Kiss me,” Harry said softly, an urgent undertone laced into the words.

Snape closed the short distance between them with painstaking trepidation, so that their lips remained separated only by the thinnest film of air, eyelashes tangling together as Harry closed his eyes and embraced the palpable magic around them.

He lunged into the kiss, gasping disbelief at the firm pressure Snape met it with. Nimble fingers threaded into his hair, and Harry moaned quietly, Snape echoing the sound as Harry parted his lips and legs simultaneously, granting access, inviting further intimacy.

Snape slipped an arm under Harry’s neck, firmly cradling his head in the crook of it. Through the thick vapour of lust and enchantment tickling his sensitized skin, Harry vaguely acknowledged an urgent need to shed the restriction of clothing. Snape hooked his leg over and slid his knee up, sandwiching it between the denim clad thighs which snared him immediately as they clamped tightly around it. Digging an elbow into the mattress, Snape continued mapping Harry’s mouth as he levered his weight and rolled on top, pinioning Harry to the bed with sharp hips.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” Harry groaned, the words licked from his lips by a hungry tongue that swiftly found his own.

He stroked the back of Snape’s neck, fingers gently tugging hair, happily yielding to inflamed desire as the kiss deepened.

Snape kissed like – Harry had no means of describing the fireworks that exploded in his chest each time Snape plundered his mouth, had no words adequate enough to explain the unconscious jerking of his hips when Snape pulled back, panting heavily and just stared at him with glittering eyes, before dropping back down to resume his oral assault. It was melting Harry’s brain, and he wondered if suffering blood deprivation there would have any long term consequences; if the size of his cock was any reliable indication, there wasn’t a drop of the stuff left anywhere above his waist.

“Potter,” Snape groaned, working his way down the taut tendons of Harry’s neck, “I must warn you, I am not honourable and have every intention of – “

“Fucking me,” Harry gasped, tightening his grip on Snape’s head as the man licked around the hollow of his throat.

“Am I to believe, that despite my vociferous protestations to the contrary, you actually acquired some level of competence in Legilimency after all?”

Harry arched into the bruising pressure of fingertips learning the curve of his hipbone.

“What? Merlin, do you ever just switch your brain off? I – this is – I want to feel you,” Harry managed to get out, “touch you, you know, with our clothes off. Soon. Now, in fact. Do it.”

Snape smirked and murmured the incantation, pausing to bite Harry’s earlobe before growling the final syllable. Harry had always been sure Snape could perform Wandless magic, and he wasn’t disappointed.

The instantaneous freedom melded their clammy, heated chests with a barely audible squelch, hips already so rigidly in alignment that when the fabric disintegrated, the hot flesh of Harry’s cock was straining not against his boxers, but into similar silky hardness. Harry bucked at the contact and cried out, canting his hips and spreading his legs wider, wrapping them around the backs of Snape’s calves to trap him there.

“That – that spell,” he panted, squaring his shoulders as sharp teeth grazed one of his nipples and delectably pincer-like fingers tweaked the other, “Know any others that reduce preparation time?”

Snape glanced up, a faint look of surprise on his face that he endorsed with a quirked brow, “Been reading up on homosexual liaisons, Potter? How intriguing.”

Harry nearly managed a witty retort but Snape’s weight shifted unexpectedly, forcing his legs to slide up the backs of Snape’s thighs. A wet warmth circled his belly button and dipped inside, causing Harry to shudder and make fists in the dark mane, vaguely aware that his movements were nudging Snape toward his leaking shaft.

“Not – not really,” Harry answered belatedly, eyes rolling back in his head as Snape pulled out of the controlling grip and moved lower, closing in on his groin.

Snape tasted the crease, a light sheen of sweat there, then shifted again to bury his nose in the thatch of tight, dark curls. His vocal, drawn-out inhalation made Harry beg, curse, and beg louder, cock twitching violently at the realisation of Snape being at eye-level; so close Harry could feel the hot prickle of breath glancing off the leaking head. With the speed of a cobra striking, Snape pulled back and drove forward, mouth perfectly aligned with Harry’s cock.

Harry abandoned rational thinking, since his brain could only comprehend the movement of tongue across his slit, the wet pink tip working back his foreskin with teasing flicks as it skimmed lightly around the ridge. Snape’s thin lips stretched as wide as they could, bloodless around the coke-can girth of Harry’s erection.

Just when Harry thought he might not last another second of having that super-tight mouth squeezed around his cock, Snape pulled off.

“Potter, I cannot seriously be expected to take this monstrosity all the way into my mouth.”

Harry closed his eyes against the heated flush spreading across his cheeks. This was why he’d never entertained the idea of leaving Ginny before. Who else would be accommodating enough to tackle such a big issue? She’d already known Harry had a huge cock, thanks to Ron’s inability to be discreet, but rather than put her off, it seemed she was more than up for the challenge, pursuing him throughout six year until he gave in. It had always left him wondering if that was the only thing about him she’d liked.

“You saw it last week,” Harry snapped, “did you think it might have shrunk since then?”

Merlin, if anything it was bigger than ever under Snape’s watchful gaze.

Harry threw an arm over his eyes, this was excruciatingly embarrassing. What would Snape do now? Get up and walk out in disgust, probably. Large cocks were all well and good when gossiped about in changing rooms and showers, but when it actually came to sex, it could be a right bloody pain in the arse. Harry couldn’t help laughing internally at his own joke; like anyone would ever let him anywhere near their arse with it.

“Harry,” Snape said, his voice not soft, but not full of scorn either, simply commanding that he open his eyes and face him.

Blinking away a suspicious dampness, Harry glanced down and gasped. Snape held his wand in his hand and was pointing it at his mouth. He murmured in Latin, eyes locked with Harry, even when his jaw clicked and his entire face seemed to change shape, the O of his mouth growing larger, widening, making room for...

“Merlin, I hope that change won’t be permanent.”

A hand to his chest pushed him roughly into the mattress, and another wrapped around as much of his shaft as it could, holding it in place so that Snape could ease it into his cavernous mouth. Even with the magical stretching charm, it was still a tight fit. It was pure bliss though; so hot and wet, liquid fire, Harry had never felt anything like it. Snatching at the bedclothes, he pumped his hips a few times and cried out as Snape hummed around him, almost managing to touch his nose to the base of wiry hair as Harry slid past his gag reflex and fucked his throat, fingers wound so tight in the sheets they were tinged blue.

Harry only had a moment to be disappointed in how sickeningly short a space of time he had climaxed in, whilst Snape swallowed his seed down and licked his way up the softening flesh. He felt Snape crawl up his body, felt the brush of hair across his chest and nibbles to his chin before his mouth was filled with the taste of his own release. Once again, the monster below began to stir.

Harry blushed and looked away but Snape caught his face.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, I find myself rather enamoured.”

Harry snorted, “Really. You think I should be overjoyed at having to carry a Basilisk around in my pants?”

“Perhaps it is more a burden for you than me, though one which I am sure we will easily be able to work around.”

The little fireworks silently detonated in his stomach again. That had almost sounded like Snape planned to make things more – well, permanent.

Feeling less self-conscious, Harry slipped a hand between their bodies and fondled Snape’s balls.

“Let’s not talk about it right now. I thought you’d planned on having your wicked way with me?”

Snape smirked and Harry felt a distinctive twitch against his leg.

“Oh I do, Potter, rest assured I do.”

And he did.

***

Epilogue

“Potter, when you insisted I fulfil your wildest fantasies, this was not what I imagined.”

Harry rolled onto his stomach and removed his prescription sunglasses.

“It was your idea to get away for a while. I just suggested the location.”

Snape turned to face him and narrowed his white-ringed eyes accusingly, “You bribed me, boy. Your exact words, as I recall, were: If we do not find a remote desert island and escape to it before the end of the week, your snake will forever be denied mating rights with my basilisk.’ Honestly Potter, it really is long past time that you accept you cannot demand and expect to get your own way over everything.”

Harry bit his lip in an attempt not to laugh. This was about the only thing Snape had agreed to in the four weeks since finding themselves sexually compatible in many, many ways. So compatible, in fact, that it seemed the man was loathe to give it up at the expense of a little discomfort and personal pride.

“Did you put the sun cream on like I told you to? Only your face is very red, and the sunglasses have left you with circles. You look like a panda.”

Snape bared his teeth and pounced, knocking Harry onto his back, “Just how might one attempt to exorcize that impertinent bratty streak of yours?”

Harry grinned and wrapped his legs around Snape’s back, “I don’t know. You could try driving it out. Forcefully. That usually works.”

Snape snorted and swiped at Harry’s mouth with his tongue, “Yes, for all of five minutes.”

Sweat from the sun caused their bare chests to slip and slide, though Harry wanted to feel something all together harder without the constraint of swimming trunks; or in Snape’s case, a modified set of robes that hung from his waist. Harry thought he looked pretty ridiculous, but there was no one except them inhabiting this tropical paradise, and he supposed it didn’t really matter if Snape appeared to be wearing a black sarong.

“Harry? Harry!”

“Harry? Harry!”

“Oh my God! Tell me this is a joke? You brought my mobile with us? Why?” Harry cried, pushing Snape off. “How is it even possible to get a signal out here?”

“Must I explain every occasion you find yourself flabbergasted by the power of magic?” Snape rooted around in the small beach bag, extracted the silver handset and flipped it open.

“Yes?” he snapped.

Harry couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth lifting. Ginny really hadn’t known what she was letting herself in for with her incessant attempts at contacting him since their break-up. The Daily Prophet reported that Harry Potter had, without a shadow of a doubt, moved on to pastures new, though they had yet to discover exactly whose pastures Harry was grazing in nowadays.

Ginny, however, had simply not got the message, despite Harry telling her very clearly that he was with someone else and no, they were not going to get married and have three adorable red-headed children. Or six. Or however many she’d set her heart on. Yes, he’d agreed wearily, Dean was a far better choice of husband, though Harry neglected to mention that that was probably because Dean wanted to sleep with women, whereas he now couldn’t imagine doing so ever again.

Four weeks, he mused happily. Four weeks and he was sat on a bloody fantastic beach, watching the waves lapping the shore and basking in the delightful tropical heat that forced them to shower morning, noon, and night. Together. Humidity that encouraged them to sleep naked, because naturally it was too hot for pyjamas. Fresh fruit for breakfast, and fish they’d caught for dinner, though Harry preferred doing it the Muggle way, whereas Snape would get impatient waiting and just Accio them out of the sea. There was even a hammock! Just the memory of it made Harry’s cheeks burn.

Harry stretched into the sand, feeling the grains running through his toes and listened to the one sided conversation with half an ear.

“Miss Weasley. Is there any manner in which I can make this tolerable for either of us? I suspect not, so I shan’t try. Mr Potter no longer finds you attractive, if indeed, he ever did. No, you may not speak to him. He has no desire to repeat what he has already made painfully clear over the previous four weeks. It would be hypocritical of me to offer you my sincerest condolences for the situation you find yourself in, but given that I benefit directly from it, I cannot.”

Harry cringed a bit and rooted around in his own beach bag, looking for the flask. He could hear her spluttering outrage. Snape had fallen silent again, apparently giving Ginny time to vent her displeasure, though probably not as much as she would have wished for.

“Yes, that would be an accurate summation. You have understood correctly. Potter is mine, and now I must ask you to terminate this travesty of a rational discussion , and find someone else willing to listen to your unearthly caterwauling . Good day, Miss Weasley.”

Snape flipped the phone shut, took one look at Harry’s grin and lobbed it into the sea. Harry watched the silver reflect the sun as it skimmed the waves and finally plopped, sinking without trace.

“What are you smirking at, brat?”

Harry raised the hip flask and toasted his lover, “I was just thinking how spectacularly fortunate I am to have the perfect companions.”

Snape raised a rather frazzled eyebrow, “You specifically agreed not to imbibe alcohol on this holiday. It was one of the terms of my accordance. What is in that vial?”

Harry had promised to go easy on the alcohol, it was easy to do when you weren’t trying to drown your sorrows, but there was no way Mr Vodka and Mr Ice were going to be left at home. Not after all their help. Mr Ice had been specifically charmed to stay cool, a neat trick Ted had taught him the day before they’d left by long distance Portkey. He’d also introduced Harry to the delights of cocktails. The one in Harry’s flask was a pathetically weak incarnation, but a trace of Mr Vodka was present, if silent, and the blend would prove ideal for his objective.

“It’s called Sex on the Beach. And if you’re up to the real thing, I’ll happily pour it away.

***