Tags: MoD!Harry. Slash. SS/HP Pairing, (some SS/OC sex and one HP/SS/CW in '94). Slow plot. Realistic relationships. AU world-building/Harry's past deviates from canon.
Warnings: Vulgarity, Explicit R18 gay sex, grey-consent, highs and drug use, mentions of underage sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, people being human and making mistakes.
.
This fanfiction breaks the usual 'romance' patterns; it is not a fairy tale. Harry and Severus both come from abusive homes and have issues.
Childhood abuse and redemption-through-romance fanfiction is rarely realistic. My story has been inspired by my experiences, and the trauma of some very close friends. (If you're a friend who confided in me, please don't read this.)
.
To anyone needing to hear this, you are not alone. PM me, even if just to say hello.
I post ~3k word updates around the 11th and 25th of every month. Due to losing the contents of my hard drive, all future chapters are being completely rewritten for your enjoyment. Feel free to check out my other fic More Than One Way to Skin a Cat at /s/13283547 in the meantime.
xoxox
Summary: Severus Snape likes to think of himself as a clever man. Youngest British potions Master in over a century, a teacher consecutively turning out only the best students from his NEWT classes. Enter one Harry Potter about to turn his world upside down.
It is 1991, and suddenly he is being outwitted by, and growing irrationally fond of his childhood bully's spawn. Caring for him, even. And meanwhile, there is a mystery surrounding the new friend he has made—one who knows far more about Severus than he is comfortable with, considering them having met in a Muggle gay pub. If he were a clever man, he'd ignore both of them.
Severus is slowly coming to realise he isn't anywhere near as clever as he thinks.
xoxox
Book One: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Severus knew, from the first time he laid eyes on the boy, that he hated him. The Headmaster had been running around for years panicking because Potter had never arrived at Privet Drive. Severus had secretly been glad, because he knew Petunia would have been an awful aunt to the boy; if he'd known that Albus' brilliant plan for the Wizarding World's 'saviour' involved the hateful, bitter, resentful Tuney Evans he might even have kicked up a fuss.
As it was, the boy was obviously safe, had been for years—and he looked just like his father. Severus was glad he hadn't been involved in Albus' various hunts for the thrice-forsaken Harry Potter.
Potter's name was called and, looking to all the world as if this was his moment, walked the short distance to the stool. The entire Great Hall was whispering and the brat was basking in it. Then the boy was sorted into Slytherin—he was one of Severus's snakes—and though he hadn't thought it possible he suddenly hated the brat so much more.
To polite but restrained applause Potter strutted over to the Slytherin table, sliding onto the bench across from Draco Malfoy.
This was going to be a long seven years.
xoxox
That night as Severus strode to through the dungeons on his way to give his usual speech to the first years, he decided upon a plan: he would just ignore Potter's spawn to the best of his abilities.
For some reason his eyes disagreed and sought the boy out above the rest the second he stepped into the common room. It couldn't be helped, though. Up close Severus could see the boy's eyes. Lily's eyes, his mind provided ever-so-helpfully.
They were looking around the common room curiously, had now fixed on a school of minnows flashing by the porthole windows. There were ink stains on his hands. His robes were of average quality, even though every proper pureblood knew the standard Malkin's robes were only purchased to theoretically meet the uniform requirement.
Potter was snubbing Draco by ignoring him to take in the view. The Snake-worthy aloofness had obviously been inherited from his father, but other than that it looked like Harry James Potter was going to be eaten alive. Already a few older students with parents who had served the Dark Lord were eyeing him speculatively, and on the whole Slytherin was finding him quite lacking.
Severus stepped through the tapestry behind which he had been observing—not hiding, never could a mere boy intimidate Severus Snape into cowering behind a trick door. Many of the upper years had gone off to their rooms already to start warding them, but the remaining ones were waiting, sending occasional eager glances Severus' way.
The first years however were pretending they weren't huddled in the middle of the room, and weren't looking around nervously.
Except Potter again, who had spun to look straight at Severus' shadowed entrance the second he'd stepped from it, alerting Draco and therewith everyone else. So much for swooping in and startling the children.
And now he was letting an eleven-year-old child upstage him. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.
Severus pretended calm, because Slytherin made excellent actors, and smoothly delivered his speech on the nature of house pride, Slytherin integrity, and not being an embarrassment. He finished with an invitation to consult with him, his office hours, and a sarcastic wish for their pleasant night.
Judging by Potter's smirk he had caught the joke and found it funny, suddenly lessening Severus' satisfaction. Severus strode out again quickly, knowing his robes would billow excellently, and cast a disillusionment spell before sneaking right back in again.
It was the first night of the year, and while Slytherin might by necessity be civil outside the dorms, now would be war.
xoxox
He started with the second years: each Slytherin had a private room which they warded themselves. Knowing just how malicious children could be to each other, Severus stalked down the corridor casting anti-rape-intent-wards. He could not—would not—prevent the heartache, thievery, blackmail and punishment that would occur tonight. It was a Slytherin ritual from the Founders' days that prepared the children for the ugliness of the world.
But everyone below sixth year, he would at least protect from one particular fate.
By the time he reached the first year boys' dorms he was approaching magical exhaustion. Least at-risk, he always saved them for last. And if he intended to throw up a few extra protections for Draco and Potter, nobody would know.
Draco's wards were not bad; Lucius had been tutoring him for a year. A seventh year could disassemble them, but likely nobody would deliberately antagonize the Malfoy heir. A quick intent-alert ward was all Severus added.
And then came Potter's room, and despite his earlier opinion Severus suddenly wondered if the boy wasn't perhaps the most Slytherin-ready of them all. Because his diagnosis showed these were very advanced, on par with Severus' own casting, and though they were not deadly they were definitely malicious.
Causing ingrown hairs or boils in unfortunate places. An intent-based ward would strip and freeze. There were more, but he was too exhausted to care. The boy was well warded, and now Severus would have to brew another batch of Boil Cure before tomorrow morning. He leaned against the wall and started to weave his own anti-rape wards into Potter's matrix.
Then the door opened, and Lily's eyes were staring right at his own disillusioned form. Potter closed his eyes, frowning—was the brat really so stupid?—pulled out his wand for a wards diagnostic. Severus had stopped casting when the door opened, and now the anti-rape was slowly collapsing as it failed to take root in Potter's complex web.
Wonderful. This was not Severus' night.
Potter's wand flicked back into a quick-draw holster, then the boy pulled a package from his pocket, extending it. Stunned, Severus took it, absently wondering how bizarre this must look with an ordinary muggle shoebox floating before his disillusioned self.
"I do appreciate it Professor Snape, but my own wards will cover that. The only thing I apparently wasn't prepared for was someone improving my wards." And the spawn of his enemy smiled at him, in a wry, self deprecating way.
Severus was glad he was disillusioned; though the boy could evidently still locate him he wouldn't be able to discern his incredulous expression. Not to mention the fact that his mouth had been gaping. He rectified that immediately, teeth clicking shut.
The boy kept talking, "If it's important to you that I have that particular ward up, I can cast it myself from the schematics? I can't imagine the drain of warding every student's room."
Severus nodded absently, realized that he was disillusioned, and then remembered that he hated the boy. But Potter was smiling again, warmly this time. "Thank you, Professor. If that's all, I'd like to go to bed now. I wish you a good night, sir."
He stared. The boy stood there, head cocked adorably—by Merlin where had that thought come from?—head cocked questioningly, that quirked smile directed right at him. After a minute, Potter nodded politely, almost a bow actually, and closed his door.
Severus shook himself. Potter was bizarre. Scruffy image, excellent perception and advanced wards were one thing, but manners? Since when did Potters have manners, proper pure-blood bow-to-head-of-house manners? Upon which he opened the shoe box (Nike, size 8, 50% off) to find neat racks of boil cures, hair growers, exfoliators: three rows each to cure every ugliness Potter's wards would inflict.
He popped a lid at random and sniffed—these were perfect. Better than most apothecaries could provide, so most likely self-made. Severus moved to finish warding the last two dorm rooms in a much better mood.
The boy was an enigma, but he could take care of himself, was polite, and he could brew. Perhaps having him in his house wasn't quite so awful at all.
xoxox
The next month passed in a blur of classes, exploded cauldrons, supervised detentions, docked house points and copious headache relievers.
To Severus' shame Draco was proving to be a poorly-socialized nightmare. His mother had coddled him, his father had spoiled him, and he'd never had an original thought in his life. Unfortunately, his sense of entitlement stretched so far that his godson's behaviour was downright Gryffindor, alienating his peers with alarmingly efficiency. Severus had tried talking to the boy twice already, but Draco thought himself far too good for advice from his half-blood Head of House.
After all, he was a Malfoy, and the world should prostrate itself at his feet. Now, after the third detention Draco had managed to land himself in, Severus had decided to delegate.
Potter was just handing in his potions vial, content the exact violet shade and gel consistency it should be. It had taken nary a week to determine the boy's brewing was at least at OWL level—talent and skill utterly wasted in a first year class. Severus had tried pairing him with Longbottom this lesson, where Potter's timely intervention had prevented three mishaps. Despite its eggplant colour, Longbottom's vanishing solution would be able to remove ink stains at the very least.
That was what had given him the idea, actually: if Potter could work a miracle with Longbottom, then perhaps he could do the same with Draco.
Potter, who was still standing at Severus' desk, holding out his vial. Severus took it from him, proclaimed it "adequate," and logged it thus in his grade book while studiously ignoring the boy's beaming smile. "Stay behind after class," he added. It was acknowledged by a polite bow in return.
Once the classroom door closed he looked up from his desk. He regarded the boy carefully, testing him for fidget as they observed each other. The robes were still standard, the ink stains multiple—was that a quill in his hair? "Professor?" Potter was asking quietly, passing the test of Severus' purposefully quelling glare.
"There's a quill in your hair," Severus blurted. Oh Gods. Had he really just said that? How humiliating.
Potter beamed, presenting the hairpiece-slash-writing-utensil on a flat palm. As if he were feeding a horse, the idiotic part of his mind noticed.
He took the quill and examined it carefully. It was expensive, the kind that Family Heads presented to their heirs, the kind that might be engraved, cost a month's worth of his salary and should be carefully kept in a designated box. Harry Potter kept his tucked neatly in his ponytail like a muggle's fag behind an ear.
In that moment Severus decided he needed a smoke, and that tonight he would ignore his marking, all his obligations, to go out. He knew just the place.
His mind returned to the present and observed he was still holding the quill, had been for much longer than was polite. Potter had remained standing, straight-backed and beaming. Who handed over their ridiculously expensive quill to their professor? More importantly, who kept such a quill in their hair?
Or any quill in their hair, for that matter. And why could Severus not get over that?
Severus drew his wand, received a nod at his questioning brow-raise, then cast a diagnostic. The quill was charmed ever sharp, linked to an inkwell, and had heavy wards. There was even a hair sticking charm, the type found on hairpins. Severus had to stifle a laugh at that one, while Potter was still beaming. "Did you cast these yourself?"
The boy nodded. "It would be rather difficult to buy one with that particular configuration, and my Paterfamilias was indisposed."
Potter had just made a joke about his dead father. And of course he had cast this magic, far beyond his level.
Severus hated the boy for his mystery, but he was an excellent source of house points, was well behaved, and had successfully babysat Longbottom. While Lily's eyes sparkled at him, Severus decided to pretend nonchalance and returned the quill. It went back to its place in Potter's hair, the hairpin charm doing an admirable job of taming the trademark Potter flyaway mop.
"How did you find today's lesson?" Severus found himself asking, for reasons unknown.
They were going to be late to lunch because Severus was struggling with coherent thought. The boy started gushing about reactions, and combinations, and what he thought about the instructions. He was using terminology from NEWT-level books and advanced ideas about alterations to increase the potency. Without any further input the boy was still jabbering about vanishing potions five minutes later.
That is, until Severus drew his wand, causing Potter to cut off mid-sentence. It had been a good sentence, debating the usefulness of very effective vanishing potions and the danger of vanishing more than the targeted stain. Severus saw the boy's first twitch as he struggled not to draw his own wand, so he purposefully exaggerated the movements to conjure a chair.
He called for a house elf, requested lunch, and directed the boy to sit. The boy relaxed into the conjured seat as soon as Severus had stowed away his wand,.
"Sorry, sir. I'm sure there's nothing I can contribute on vanishing potions that you don't already know. Was there something in particular you wanted, besides for us to have lunch?"
And didn't that just sound wrong. Severus did not have lunch with students. Barring Harry Potter, because as of now Severus apparently was having lunch with a student. "You shared your workbench with Mister Longbottom today."
The boy grimaced minutely before donning a neutral expression again. "Yes, sir. Were you planning on making that a permanent arrangement?"
He wanted so very much to say yes, to hoist the Longbottom problem onto Potter and finally have some time for other students in the first year Slytherin-Gryffindor class. But Potter looked so resigned and secretly miserable. Today's potion had been perfect, but based on the thoughts he'd just shared the boy was capable of so much more.
Severus swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. "Though you did an admirable job of supervising Mister Longbottom," he began thoughtfully, and why was the boy now smiling shyly at him? "I have a proposal that could be beneficial to us both, Mister Potter."
The smile turned wry, prompting Severus to check his own incredulity and amusement were in no way visible in his expression.
"What can I do for you, Professor?" That was obviously cheeky, and in an older student it might have been flirtatious. Severus mentally filed it away under ridiculousness-of-Potter and did not reprimand him.
Deep breaths, he reminded himself. Then, a fortifying sip of tea. "Mister Malfoy is-" Diplomacy dissolved on the tip of his tongue like an ashen Cokesworth snowflake, he should have prepared a speech in advance. This was a pending-
"A pending disaster, sir?"
The boy had read his mind. What the fuck. He checked his occlumency; it was airtight, this should not be possible.
Oh. He was an idiot. Severus long prided himself in his intellect and his superiority, and here Potter was taking it from him like clumps of lost hair. Oddly, he didn't entirely mind, which made continuing this conversation even more of a mess. "Indeed, Mister Malfoy could be described as a pending disaster. As his head of house and Godfather, I would of course never describe him as such." Where was his cool? He was Severus Snape, Slytherin Dungeon Bat, first years' worst fear. Now new-and-improved, bantering with eleven-year-old Potter. Ridiculous.
He amended his plans for tonight: he was going to get drunk, get laid, and then smoke the cigarette he was craving while basking in the afterglow of a satisfying shag.
Potter summarised the issue succinctly. "You want me to prevent Malfoy from shaming our House, and alienating himself from every political ally he might have, ever."
Potter was remarkably observant and extremely intelligent. If anyone could do it, it would be him. Severus decided to nod.
Nodding was safe, it would prevent all manner of stupidity from coming out of his mouth.
"And in return, you will pair Granger with Longbottom? Sir? You mentioned this would be mutually beneficial."
Severus nodded automatically, and then stopped mid-action. Pairing Granger with Longbottom was actually an excellent idea. It might take the girl down a few pegs, while her bossy know-it-all nature would hopefully impart some knowledge upon that useless Longbottom embarrassment. But he wanted to give something to Potter, not just withhold what was easily equatable to a punishment.
"I was thinking more along the lines of allowing you to brew something beyond the first year curriculum. You have proven your aptitude for higher level reactions today."
Which he had. Knowing how to brew was one thing, knowing how to neutralise Longbottom's recurring disasters harmlessly and even making the potion usable showed a very high level of comprehension.
Potter was beaming again. "Really, sir? I'm honoured." He was glowing actually, an additional heat and light source in the room. It should not be physically possible to appear so happy.
Severus nodded, because nodding was still safe, and pushed the plate with the last cucumber sandwich over to the boy. Potter liked cucumber sandwiches.
Severus would deny to his dying breath knowledge over the boy's sandwich preferences because he still firmly believed he could ignore him.
While having lunch together.
Severus very much wanted to shake his head free of cobwebs, but abstained—it would send mixed messages. "You will be distracted this coming week throughout your classes. Your teachers will complain to me at the next staff meeting. I will assign detentions wherein I will determine your level of brewing. Any docked House Points must be earned back yourself; I am sure you are quite capable of it." And now he had complimented him, because Severus' mouth-brain filter was almost non-existent around one Harry Potter.
Private brewing time was the opposite of ignoring him, and even Severus' strong capabilities for denial had run out. He groaned silently and sighed dramatically without changing his breathing. Then, having adequately released his frustration he dismissed the boy.
A house elf popped in to clean away the dishes. Severus glanced into their dregs before the cups were swept away and saw muddled goop. Divination had never been his forte, but he had somehow expected something momentous of his accidental lunch with the Wizarding World's Saviour.
xoxox
It was Wednesday evening, time for the fortnightly staff meeting. Severus came in exactly one minute early, set himself up with ungraded essays, and contributed the bare minimum while covering his students' work liberally in red ink.
Schedule changes, homesick students, detention plans, infirmary reports, problems with bullies and finally—
"Mister Potter has been distracted this past week," Minerva began. "Normally he is such a good student, bright, no trouble with wand work, well written essays. He has been slacking off, though. I fear he is bored."
There was a general consensus of nods from the other teachers; Albus looked alarmed. "You say he is a good student. Do you think he has received prior lessons before coming to Hogwarts, then?" Again, there was general nodding. A poorly coordinated Mexican wave, Severus thought, and he must have been projecting through his Occlumency because Albus jerked back when those damned twinkling eyes met his. What was he doing performing surface Legilimency on his teachers anyway? Albus righted himself in his seat and turned to him. "Severus, what about your class, how is Harry doing?"
"I paired Mister Potter with Mister Longbottom, and he is adequately challenged neutralising the pending explosions next to him."
Minerva winced. "Augusta did not instil much confidence in the boy, and he is using his father's wand. If he has been struggling in my class, I am afraid to ask what he is doing in yours."
"I assure you Mister Longbottom is not only a dunderhead, but also a walking disaster and a threat to the safety of everyone in the same room with him. The only times his cauldron did not explode were the last lessons when Mister Potter was counteracting his poor choices."
Albus' eyebrows rose. "Harry is that advanced? Improvisation and neutralisation is OWL level."
Severus nodded and couldn't help looking just a little bit smug.
"Nevertheless," Filius interjected, "You must speak to Mister Potter about his attitude in his other classes. He cannot spend our lessons scribbling into that journal of his. It isn't proper."
He hadn't known about Potter's journal keeping. "I will assign a week of detentions and reprimand his poor classroom habits. Will that be sufficient?" The second wave of nods greeted his statement. Severus just wanted to leave this meeting and escape to muggle London to purchase more cigarettes.
xoxox
"What is the most complex potion you have ever brewed?" Severus began, leaning against his desk because the week had been exhausting, and Potter had already demonstrated his capacity for understanding that Severus was human.
"Veritaserum, sir," he replied evenly, sitting at the front workbench. He had a sheaf of parchment out, having pulled the quill from his hair to rest beside it.
Severus swallowed his incredulity. Potter routinely defied logic. Why not now, as well. "Have you brewed several potions simultaneously?"
"Yes, sir. No more than three, though."
That was amazing. And wonderful, because the infirmary needed Bruise Salve and Pepper-up. Albeit complex, they were more tedious than volatile and could be brewed simultaneously. So Severus assigned the potions, pulled up a stool opposite Potter's desk, and watched him work.
The recipes were consulted, transcribed in standard potions shorthand, then cross referenced with a quick matrix drawn up for simultaneous brewing. The boy fetched his ingredients, arranged them into groups and assembled something in front of where Severus was sitting. The boy looked at him then, a question clear in his eyes, so Severus took a hint and scrutinized the ingredients before him. Fendril leaf, Loafroot and crushed Poffin beak. "Those aren't in either recipe, boy."
Did he flinch? Potter had just flinched. "No, they're not, sir." It was spoken far more quietly than usual, but Severus had no idea what he had done wrong.
"I understand what you are suggesting, Mister Potter." Internally, Severus sighed gustily. He refused to feel bad for somehow figuratively stepping on Potter's delicate toes. "Explain your reasoning."
A few minutes into the increasingly enthusiastic and energetic lecture along the lines of shorter brewing times and increased efficiency, Severus decided to interrupt. "I am aware of this, Potter. I was just assuring myself that you were too. You may begin brewing." Potter's face proceeded to flash between sheepish apology and delight. He replaced the quill in his hair, effectively holding it out of his face, and did indeed brew two potions of increased efficacy ten minutes faster than the usual two and a half hours. The quality was superb. Severus would deliver them to Pomfrey tonight and ask for the restock list. If he was lucky Potter's genius would hold so that he could foist all of the time intensive infirmary brews onto him.
xoxox
It was Friday night, his Slytherins were having a party to celebrate something inconsequential, and his workload had just decreased monumentally thanks to whoever had taught Potter potions before sending him to school. Seized by a sudden burst of energy, Severus donned muggle attire, cast a glamour, and flooed to the Leaky Cauldron. It was Friday night, and he had been promising himself a new packet of cigarettes since Wednesday.
A quick stop at a corner store for the fags, duck into an alleyway, the sound of a car backfiring, duck out of a different alleyway, walk to his pub of choice. Inside the Admiral Duncan he took a seat near the wall, nursing cognac and watching other men dance with each other to music that wasn't entirely awful.
A redhead dancing with a group caught his eye—because he might just have a thing for red hair and green eyes—and he had seen the man a few times before. Possibly, he frequented this pub at these times with the hope of watching this man dance. Possibly, he was that pathetic.
Perhaps next time he would be alone, and Severus would gather the courage to talk to him.
Then the improbable happened—nothing is impossible, Lily had always told him—as the man Severus had been eyeing for the past dozen visits approached his intentionally out-of-the-way table and gestured at the seat across from him.
"May I? Or would I be blocking your view?" That was a very smooth voice. Melodic. Laughing at him, actually, because yes he had been ogling, and no this was not the first time. Severus fought back a grimace, and lost. "I'm sorry," the stranger said next, stunningly sincere from a man Severus had just scorned, so Severus acquiesced before the man could turn away.
"Please, sit. I suppose I owe you a drink at the very least."
The man laughed and looked carelessly elegant as he slid into the offered seat. "At least? Does that mean you're offering more?" He winked.
Severus had just been winked at. How uncouth. How delightful. "Perhaps I am," he decided to drawl, inserting as much sex into his voice as he could. "But let us begin with that drink and a name, perhaps? I am called Prince." It was his usual moniker when he went to gay bars for casual hook-ups. A hat tipped to his mother, who would probably be horrified by his sexual deviance. Severus flagged down the barkeep Poddy, indicated his desire for a refill and gestured for his new friend to order.
"I'll have what you're having," and those eyes hadn't left his face, as though they were looking for something. An absent thank you thrown at the server. A sip of the cognac. A raised eyebrow. "You have good taste, Prince." Severus liked the way his moniker rolled from that tongue. "What is it you do for a living, then?"
He smoothed over his fresh grimace with a weak smile. "I teach Chemistry."
The man's eyes widened for a second before the man nodded sagely. "How exhausting. Prince, you call yourself." He smiled then, wryly, and Severus knew the man understood it was fake. Who was named Prince, anyway? Severus kept his face blank and let the man keep talking. "Alright. Two can play at this game. If you're Prince Nelson, reluctant Chemistry teacher, let me be Mark Evans, reluctant politician and inventor."
Evans. What an abysmal choice for a pseudonym, but it was too late now. They were musicians, apparently, and he was supposedly a fan of Prince. He would have to do some research to make sure he could at least identify some tracks.
"Politics, Mark? Are you not a little young?" And wow that was a bad come on for someone whose pants he was trying to get into.
"Good genes and a good glamour, Prince. I'm in my late thirties, and I'm sure you've never heard of me in Muggle or Wizarding politics."
Wizard. This man was a Wizard and he most likely knew who Snape was because there were very few Potions teachers in the UK. But, they were both still sitting at this table drinking cognac together. Perhaps it wasn't so bad to be propositioning a Wizard politician who wore a glamour and was a regular patron of this Muggle gay bar.
Severus coughed awkwardly, watching Mark across the table. He was still lounging comfortably on the uncomfortable wooden chair, looking casual and cool and very attractive. Although the face wasn't real it was a nice face, with smouldering eyes and bow-shaped lips.
"So, do come here often, then?" The line slipped out of Severus without his brain's approval, startling him so much he laughed. Well, more of a smile, but for Severus' standards it was a laugh.
Mark grinned back. "A few weekends a month. But you knew that already, Prince." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Is it just the face you're hiding?" Severus could feel hungry eyes trailing over his body, and decided to answer with an uneven shrug. He was Prince tonight, and he could afford some plebeian manners.
He decided on sultry. "Hmm. Like what you see, then?"
Mark was laughing now. "Yes, very much so." It went straight to Severus' cock. There was something wonderfully arousing about being wanted. "I'm afraid you'd hate me afterwards, though, so I'm going to have to say no. Though you have no idea how much I'd like to find a room and spend the night in together." Mark ran his hand through his curls while Severus swallowed his disappointment. It had been too good to be true. He pulled out a fag, lit it, and smirked when he saw Mark's eyes watching his lips. Perhaps he'd been rejected, but it was good nevertheless to be wanted.
"What happens now, Mark?" He kept his voice playful and flirtatious, watching how it made Mark shift in his seat. It made him feel powerful, and he was going to enjoy it while he could.
Mark glanced over his shoulder to the group he'd been dancing with. There were four of them, crowded around a table on the side of the dance floor. He looked back at Severus. "Are you looking for a fun Friday night then, or just to get laid?"
Severus smirked in response, leaning forward into Mark's space. "Does it have to be either-or?"
Mark chuckled, and when Severus drew back he followed, chair scraping as it dragged across the floor. He pointed to his friends. "On the left is Gramps or Wheels, the one with the gray in his hair. He hangs with us to feel young. He rarely wants to fuck, and when he does he'll be Dominant—something tells me that wouldn't suit you at all."
Internally, Severus agreed with this assessment, though it was decidedly odd having someone else tell him about his sexual preferences.
"Next is Ricky in leather, who tries to get into everyone's pants," Mark continued regardless. "Quick, easy fun, most likely before you even make it to a bed. Harold in the suit thinks he's better than everyone else—went to Eton, bit of a diva. He'll pretend to be difficult, but flattery will get you everywhere. Once you get him into bed, he'll want to be worshipped. And Nellie on the far right, who actually can pull off wearing suspenders, is taken and faithful. Will you be joining us this Friday night, Prince?" The last part was almost purred.
Severus did indeed join them and had a wonderful time drinking, flirting, being flirted with, and feeling surprisingly at home with this group of quasi-strangers. Four Muggles and a Wizard who had heavily hinted that he knew Severus' real name.
He had decided to woo Harold: prematurely greying with an oval face, his teeth repeatedly bleached and re-stained by tobacco and tea. Despite the late hour the man had gone to the effort of a clean shave. He wore a shawl which somehow did not emasculate him, and despite his somewhat paunchy shape the crisp suit made him look sharp—and overdressed for the muggy bar. The man didn't seem to care a lick, simultaneously projecting easy companionship and an air of being better than everyone in the room.
Severus had always been one for the refined, enjoying the way their careful manner would come undone in the act. So he spent his carefully saved coin buying Harold overpriced whiskey. Several drinks later he had learnt that the man loved his sister, hated the rest of his family and was a huge fan of jazz music. And finally, as last call came at nearly eleven, the group began to break up.
Unable to resist the chance to spy, Severus cast a quick eavesdropping charm on Harold's glass before excusing himself for the loo. Hopefully he would be able to assure himself he had sufficiently wooed the man.
It didn't take more than a minute for them to start talking about him. "You like him," Gramps was saying. Severus smirked, satisfied he'd achieved the desired result.
"Am I that obvious?" Mark then replied.
Severus hadn't been expecting that. Although, Mark had made it quite clear at the beginning that he fancied him. Where was Harold?
"Are you okay? He's been coming on to Harold all night. That has to hurt."
"No, it's my fault. He doesn't know it, but we work in the same place. At some point he'd realize who he'd fucked and hate me for it, and we'd still be stuck working together. It's not worth it." That was interesting. Assuming their workplace as Hogwarts, this meant Mark was a seventh year sneaking off grounds to get drunk and get laid.
Suddenly, Severus was very glad he'd been turned down.
"You have it bad, don't you?" Gramps asked, and Mark laughed humorlessly. "I'm sorry, Hotch." Gramps continued, "Want me to make it up to you? We could still have a spot of fun."
Mark's real name must be Hotch—except, he was glamoured and had probably been using a fake name to begin with. Hadn't he said Mark Evans was a play on Severus' chosen moniker, Prince? This was supposed to have been a way to spy on Harold, and Severus had yet to decide if learning about Mark was better or worse.
"Alright," Mark answered. Glasses clinked and chairs scraped. "Let's just give Harold a chance to come back from the loo. Idiot shouldn't have followed Prince there in the first place." More shuffling, followed by, "Here he comes."
Severus hurried out, hoping to catch the group before it dissolved—but by the time he reached Harold, it was just the two of them left.
Harold passed him a cigarette case. "Mark said this was yours. Shall we go?" Severus examined the metal carefully, wondering what the gift meant as he followed. He opened it while Harold was hailing a cab and promptly snapped it shut again, embarrassed. Severus took another peek and removed the note.
Prince,
Thanks for your company tonight. Harold's shite at having protection in his flat, so I thought I'd make sure you were prepared the Muggle way just in case.
Wishing you a fun night, and hoping you'll be joining us again,
-ME
There were three condoms and twice as many foil packages of lubricant inside. Was it sweet, or mortifying that some seventh year with a crush on him be providing the condoms with which Severus'd be buggering someone else tonight?
Thank the Gods for their relative mutual anonymity.
Explicit sex begins
As Mark had promised, Harold wanted to be worshipped—and Severus obliged him happily. With so much liquid courage coursing through him, Severus relaxed into it, enjoying how Harold let himself be kissed against the various walls and doors of his apartment on the way to his high-threadcount bed.
By the time Severus had finally undressed the man, Harold was a mess of haughty breathlessness, just coherent enough to demand to be sucked off.
Mark's condoms found good use, though Severus did his best to stop thinking of the other man.
He kept his fingers curled inside Harold as he came—Severus delighted in the way he keened and thrashed. It took an hour and a lot of fondling, sucking, kissing, and a beautiful love bite on the man's shoulder before Harold was well and truly ready for another round.
Fighting his own weariness Severus let Harold pull him into a searing kiss, fingers slipping out of Harold as their bodies shifted. "For God's sake," the man groaned against his lips, "get on with it and bugger me."
That went straight to Severus' prick, where the last condom was put to good use. He didn't last as long as he wanted, but he was tired, and the foreplay usually took far longer than sex anyway. Harold didn't seem to mind being wanked to a second finish with a few fingers up his arse.
Explicit sex ends
They were both lying on their backs, spent, when Harold rolled to face him. "Not bad, Prince Nelson. Not bad at all."
Severus decided to take it as a compliment. He also took the offered cigarette, dragging deeply before passing it back. When it was gone Severus rolled onto the man for another languid kiss before withdrawing and beginning the process of collecting his clothes.
Harold had propped himself on his elbows to watch Severus dress. "Just like Hotch, or I suppose he's called Mark now. Always refusing to stay and cuddle."
Severus shook his head absently as he buttoned his shirt. "My workplace would notice. Mark says he is in the same boat, though I fail to recognise him." The Muggle wouldn't understand about glamours.
Anyway, Severus had been a Death Eater and a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. He was certain he would figure out Mark Evans' identity soon enough.
"Ouch. Guy's really smitten and you can't even recognise him."
Severus groaned at the reminder, and at the unfortunate reality of come on his left sock. He turned away and cast a cleaning charm, surreptitiously vanishing all traces that he had ever been in this room. "As long as I am unaware, I cannot get into trouble for fraternising with a subordinate. It is probably better this way."
Harold nodded. "Makes sense, but it must still hurt Mark's sensibilities. Thanks for the night, nonetheless. Will we be seeing you at the Admiral Duncan again? You don't need to spend the whole time ogling, you know? We're quite amenable to talking. I'd like to say we don't bite, but that's only half true."
The laugh burst out of Severus before he could stop it. He put on the laundered sock. "Yes. I do believe we shall be seeing each other again. Likewise, thank you." He took a last look at Harold lying just-fucked in bed, and couldn't help but steal another kiss. "Shall I see myself out?" Harold smirked and nodded, so Severus left the flat and found a dark corner behind a dustbin to Apparate away.
xoxox
During the weekend detentions Potter successfully brewed everything Pomona wanted, from SkeleGro to Blood Replenisher. The boy often had ideas for improvements, but Severus had stopped supervising after the first day. As long as the end result met his high standards, he explained, it did not matter to him what exactly Potter did.
Severus had never been so ahead on his grading, and if it made him a little more patient with his dunderheads on Monday nobody mentioned it.
In class, he set Potter to brewing the OWL curriculum two at a time, with Longbottom sandwiched between him and Granger. When Severus saw the first thing Potter do each lesson was to cast a strong shield, he had to bite his tongue to hide his laughter.
Granger was happy to boss Longbottom around, while Potter often glanced over to salvage mistakes. Granger would then leaf frantically through her textbook trying to understand Potter's additions, keeping her busy and blissfully quiet.
It seemed that September had held Longbottom's final exploded cauldron. His essays always held the explanations for Potter's changes to his brews, and while it was obvious Granger had coached him somewhat he was nonetheless earning Es and even the occasional O for his written work.
That Wednesday Draco attended breakfast acting decidedly subdued, and although he regained his pompous attitude by Friday he stopped causing trouble and insulting his Housemates. Severus realised rather smugly that one conversation with Potter had effectively solved three problem students: Granger had a friend, Longbottom was earning better grades and by necessity had grown enough backbone to tell Granger to shut up sometimes, and Draco was suddenly no longer a prat.
It was a miracle, and he couldn't wait to brag about it—in his own way—to his colleagues at the next staff meeting.
xoxox
Poppy was stocked, and Potter had demonstrated proficiency with two more NEWT level potions. These were the last two days of detention wherein Severus wanted to encourage Potter to continue advanced brewing. "Is there anything you would like to brew, that you have not successfully brewed before? Or something you want to try altering significantly?"
Aside from nourishing his talents, the other Professors had been right when they said Potter needed something to keep him from boredom. Severus shuddered to think what James Potter's genetics mixed with Lily's brilliance and Harry's own brand of genius and ingenuity could accomplish should the boy start looking for ways to cause trouble.
Severus suspected that by next year at the latest he would never know, because Potter's ability to manipulate would have developed to the level where nobody would be able to definitively source anything back to the boy.
"I have an altered aging potion and a variation of dreamless sleep I'm working on at the moment," Potter said.
And then there were these moments of startling honesty between them where Potter dropped his usual mask. Severus should have been expecting Potter to have his own inventions going—he himself had begun inventing his first potion in his mother's shed before Hogwarts, too. "Would you like to see, Professor?" What a stupid question. He didn't deign it with an answer yet Potter understood anyway, pulling out the journal he was known to scribble in.
A frown crossed Potter's brow as he removed some very complex wards, and to Severus' alarm the boy began sweating. After a few minutes he gasped and sat down abruptly, sheathing his wand. "Sorry, sir. My core was pretty drained already."
Watching as the boy leafed through to a certain page, Severus caught glimpses of some advanced ward schemes, rune diagrams and many pages of neat handwriting. Potter passed him the book then, whereupon Severus carefully read through the recipe there. It was an altered aging potion, and it actually looked like it could work. He flicked back a page and saw the same recipe with ingredients, times and amounts crossed out and rewritten many times over in the margins.
"This—" Severus didn't know where to begin, really. It was a brilliant potion, and if it worked Potter could sell it handsomely. But he couldn't say that, so he searched for anything else. "This is your final version so far, do you know if it works?"
Potter nodded and launched into an explanation. "It lasts exactly 222 hours, after which it required 22 hours of the body at real age before being safe to consume again, indefinitely. It counteracts the problem with Tumeric toxicity in standard ageing potions by using a combination of ground Welsh dragon bone and Brazilwood flower extract. The set times and expensive ingredients make the potion basically unmarketable, so I shelved it for the dreamless sleep alternative."
How astute.
Potter walked around the table, subtly leaning his weight against it, and leafed through his journal again. There were many more rune diagrams, though Severus couldn't discern any details, and a few more attempts at potions recipes. The dreamless sleep alternative was obviously still very much a work in progress. There were tables of variations Potter had tested, with detailed notes. "This is my best version," Potter explained, "My problems with dreamless sleep were the mandatory nine hours of sleep granted, and the addictive properties limiting its use to three nights in a row, no more than five times in two weeks." Potter flipped to a much neater draft. "This is my best version. It lasts four hours and is addictive after the fifth night in a row. I don't really have the capacity to safely test its limits, though."
A thorough read through the recipe showed it to be plausible. "Why are you not sharing this?"
Potter grimaced, and pointed at a step in the process. "Besides the fact I'm not a Master and therefore cannot publish in anything reputable, it's the fanged geranium here that's problematic. If pelargonium is added instead it causes intense nightmares—which makes my potion a tool for torture, and I absolutely refuse to share that with the world. You and I both know what kinds of people are out there. Sir." The title was tacked on as an afterthought, coupled with a wry smile.
Perhaps it was a good thing that the Wizarding World's saviour was so jaded considering the hardships he would yet face, but it was nonetheless sad that an eleven-year-old child was thinking about the risk of his invention being misused to torture.
Severus sat down heavily and gestured the boy to do the same. "I understand your concerns. Will you tell me why you are trying to improve a sleeping potion?" He tried to gentle his voice, beginning to skim Potters thoughts with surface Legilimency.
Potter broke eye contact and scrambled around the table to the opposite chair. "I'd rather you didn't, Professor Snape," he said once he'd placed the table between them.
Severus grimaced, then nodded. "My apologies, Mister Potter. I was hoping to facilitate the conversation rather than hinder it. I will obviously not be trying again."
Potter shrugged. "I understand why you did it." He closed his eyes, removed his glasses and scrubbed at his face. "I'm actually impressed you lasted this long. The esteemed Headmaster and Professor Quirrell combined their efforts to give me quite the headache at the Sorting Feast."
Severus leaned back and settled into his seat, watching Potter re-don his glasses. Was that bitterness at the headmaster? And he seemed decidedly resigned about Quirrell. "You may choose to discuss Professor Quirrell, or your Dreamless Sleep habits with me now, Mister Potter."
Potter retrieved his book and thumbed through it absently. Severus waited out the several minutes and three false starts Potter took before he spoke. "I can remember my parents' murder."
Severus really hadn't been expecting that.
"I can remember it from the perspective of the Dark Lord."
Severus sucked in a breath. Potter had called him the Dark Lord—Albus would be horrified. Potter remembered his parents' murder from the Dark Lord's perspective. That was alarming, and indicative of some kind of link between them—Severus was horrified.
The silence had continued far too long. "Would you like to talk about it?" Oh Merlin, this was becoming very awkward.
Potter snorted. "Thank you, Professor. As my head of house you are doing an excellent job of fulfilling my emotional needs. Would you like to know how she died, sir? Lily Evans? I have my own memories of that one, though it's only blurry shapes and voices."
That had regressed far too quickly from sad banter—to downright heartbreaking. Severus didn't know what to say.
Potter was watching him carefully, fingers steepled on the table, offering to share his memories of his mother's murder. "May I ask you a question, Professor? It is offensive in nature, about my mother. You would be doing me a favour." How Slytherin.
Severus thought, then pressed his lips together and nodded jerkily. "What will you give me in return?"
"The memories I mentioned, for you to view in a Pensieve as you please. And a candid discussion about the Dark Lord, Albus Dumbledore and where your oath to me places your loyalties in the Final British Wizarding War."
Potter had once again revealed himself as the boy-who-knew-way-more-than-he-should. It was a generous offer, for a single offensive question asked. "Am I required to answer your question? You are offering quite a lot. As well as raising a lot of questions. You know far more than you ought to, Mister Potter."
Potter shrugged half heartedly, then withdrew an unsealed envelope from his bag. He slid it exactly halfway across the table before settling back into his chair. "One offensive question asked without repercussions. In return, memories of Lily Potter neé Evans' last five minutes from two perspectives. If I receive a sufficient answer, in written format to be burnt immediately after reading, I will be equally thorough in our pending discussion on the coming war and what side we will be on."
Severus reluctantly reached forward and took the envelope. "We, Mister Potter?"
The boy had the audacity to smirk at him as he gathered his belongings and strode briskly for the door. "You made a vow, Professor. Rumour has it, you're a man whose word has worth."
Nobody was supposed to know about that vow, least of all the boy himself. Who had just ducked out the door and closed it gently, leaving Severus to the envelope. Severus had been played, but the knowledge after the fact did not change that it had been a masterful move followed by a tactical retreat.
He unfolded the parchment reluctantly and stared at the words printed there.
What was the nature of your relationship with Lily Evans, and the full extent of your feelings towards Lily Potter?
The boy was absolutely right; without their deal Severus would have been deeply offended. This was probably the question he least wanted to answer—he wasn't even sure if he knew the answer, himself.
The next day during breakfast he received two vials of swirling memories delivered by a Hogwarts owl. They were placed in a hidden alcove in his bookshelf together with Potter's letter, as Severus tried in vain to forget about their existence.
xoxox
Reader feedback is the reason I'm still posting-what do you think of my fic so far? Favourite, Subscribe, and Review to let me know!