Story Title: The Thin Line
Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: "He had always thought him ugly as sin. He didn't realize sin could be so beautiful."
It's a thin line between love and hate, good and evil, ugly and beautiful.
Pairing: Snarry (Duh)
Warnings: My Usual…sort of…whatever…
Inspiration: Can't remember…-Checks ever-handy booklet-…Gnuhm….it doesn't say…but it was inspired on the train to—or possibly from—Grand Junction because the writing in my notebook is completely wonky. (yay! I got to use that word in a sentence all casual-like until I ruined it with this parenthesized sentence! Eee!)
Dedication: Kate, of course. For listening to me read new material over the phone, checking my email and other such things for me over the phone when my internet is down, and being the coolest Twin-who-is-also-my-Wife anyone could possibly have. I Love You, Kate!
Music at the moment: Miyavi, Night in Girl. (Miyavi is love!!!! 3 3 3 3)
The Thin Line
Greasy, stringy hair, yellow teeth, yellow nails, oppressive black robes covering every inch of skin, and too tall for his own damn good. That was Severus Snape. Evil to the bone, bent on hating and humiliating Harry all the time. Snarky, rude, annoyingly right all the time, and sadistic, that was Severus Snape.
Every night in the common room the man was torn apart and examined by the Gryffindors, with loud exclamations of their favourite—and greatly overused—nicknames for him. Every night someone had something to contribute to their hate of him, and every night he was raged at—from a safe distance—until the ones who had been mistreated were satisfied.
Harry never thought anything of these traditions; he was an immense partaker, most of the time. But then, somewhere within his sixth year, something changed.
It started during the winter. The first time that year it had snowed, Harry had snuck away, unnoticed by any of his dorm mates under his invisibility cloak, to knock upon a door that he had never even been close to.
That night he had asked for things he hadn't known he'd wanted, begging in a way he hadn't known he could. That night, in the dimly lit, extremely cold dungeon, he had gotten what he'd asked for, and for the nights after, he had returned over and over, indulging on his unknown addiction.
Since then, the common room discussions had made him ashamed, cased him to feel the burning in his stomach and the bile at the back of his throat. But he returned, night after night, whenever he could.
In the cool, seclude rooms of his potions master, things were different. He arched under the mans skilled hands, moaned at the softest touch of his mouth, and fell victim to fire at every fleeting look, every dark-eyed stare.
Here, there was no shame, no regret. Only freedom, only fire, only dark looks and sly smiles, only soft words and touches so hard they hurt, only passion, only pain, and only life.
But, above ground once more, Harry would often be plagued with shame, self-loathing, and, of course, regret. Above ground he despised the man who he knew in a way that was sometimes too much.
Harry had always thought him ugly as sin, and now, alone in the dungeons with only one other, his existence was sin. He breathed it into his deprived lungs, thought it in his waking moments, felt it on day's he could not sneak away, and lived it on days he could. He felt only have alive when he repressed it with his shame, he felt it slip through his veins like oil, felt his heart feed on it like blood, and knew he depended on it.
This knowledge drew his shame in such an immense fashion; it was suffocating him, killing him.
The man knew of Harry's shame. He knew of the sin and he knew of Harry's dependence on it, like a drug. This changed nothing, and nor was it supposed to. Every night Harry would disappear from his bed, and every night he lay in someone else's—though he was not, by any means, asleep.
Sometimes Harry thought that Snape played on his shame, toyed with his dependency, sadistic as he was always accused of being. And some nights, Snape was sadistic. But that kind of sadistic Harry did not, in any way, mind.
This went on well into seventh year, when Snape and Harry saw less and less of each other.
For in seventh year, Harry had to dissaparate in the secrecy of a Hogsmead bathroom, on a Hogsmead weekend, to Malfoy manner, where Snape now stayed. He had to dissaparate at an exact time—so as not to be seen or heard—and return at an exact time—so as not to be late.
But still, he did this. Even after the potions master killed Dumbledore, his addiction was still strong. Even after the horrible things people said of Snape, causing Harry's shame to rise so thick it filled his throat and slithered through his lungs, threatening his air.
The shame he felt was worth the few breaths of freedom he caught, the few tastes of delectable flesh that was not nearly as close to him as he wished it to be, even when the man was inside, outside, and all around him.
For this he snuck away, under more secrecy than his invisibility cloak, and for this he withstood the shame.
Then one night, when the snow was drifting lazily towards the already white ground, and the candlelight lit only dim portions of the courtyard he stood in, Harry came across someone he thought to never see again.
Two months prior to this meeting, he had arrived at Malfoy manner at the time he had been told, only to find himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, who was not expected home at the time. With one yell from the blonde, death eaters were there in seconds, causing Harry to dissaparate back into Hogsmead quicker than he would have liked, deprived of his need.
After that he had not returned, and after that he had not seen or heard from the source of his obsession.
Now they stood, at arms reach from each other. Snape stood quietly, hands by his sides, cape billowing slightly in the muffled wind as his hair slithered across the side of his face. Harry watched him for a long time, eyes so bright in the frigid air, face so pale, hair so dark.
Then he stepped forward and raised his arms—which, despite the weather, were not covered by anything but an overlarge tee. His hands found the man's face, and his fingers traced the sides and the jaw line, his neck and eyes and nose and mouth. His fingers found silky hair and he reveled in the sensation of running them through it.
His arms, stark white, bore red, silver, and white lines, all criss-crossing and beautiful in the orange light from the candles. His smile was soft, ethereal, and his eyes were lit with a glow not quite human.
"I didn't know sin could be so beautiful," he said quietly, looking like an angel and speaking words that damned him. And then Snape's arms were around his thin frame, and Harry's arms were trapped between the warmth of the man's chest and his own. Harry pressed his face into the achingly familiar torso and breathed in a smell he thought he had imagined.
The snow fell and melted in their hair, and the candles were eventually doused as the wind picked up and snow began to fall more heavily.
The two of them stood there, in a stolen moment that should not have been, and in this moment, everything was perfect, even if time was soon to start again, and everything would soon deny them forever.
A/N: Awww!!!! Isn't it cuuute!!!! Awww!!!! Sorry, sorry.
I opened up all of the stories I needed to work on and found myself among 13 unfinished or not even started stories, so here I am. When I came across this and read the summary, I had to write it. And look! It's so cute!
Er…right, so, I might sound like I'm confident about it, but your opinion matters much more to me than my own, so please review? Please? I'll throw a ramune party…or a snarry party…or a fanfiction-in-general party….or a Miyavi party…or a diet Pepsi party…or a whatever-floats-your-boat party…or a fuzzy-pink-pen party…or a stapler party…or a book-book party… ….please?
Love,
Cozy
(PS: love you Kate!!! -waves frantically from the states-
Music: still Miyavi but I have no idea what song it is…