TITLE  A Stroll Before Dying (a little death…) pt 1 of 2

AUTHOR  islington road
PAIRING  SS/HP
RATING  PG this part for some language

SUMMARY  Harry wakes up with sticky pajamas and decides to go for a nighttime stroll while his sheets dry, a certain someone finds him and wants to confiscate the cloak under which Harry is stark, bollocky naked…

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A Stroll Before Dying (a little death…)

Harry woke up with a bang.

And what a bang it was. From dead to the world to full ahead-go on all six cylinders in the blink of an eye. Well, that was stretching it a bit. Harry only had the one 'cylinder', and by the time he woke up it had already… spent… itself.

'Oh bugger.' Harry peeled himself up from his sheets where he must've been rubbing himself, belly down, for quite the enjoyable minute or two if the warm, sticky smear was anything to go by. He rolled himself over, trying to avoid the soggy splotch on the sheet. His right hand grappled for his wand so he could flick a lumos and inspect the damage.

'Oh bugger'. He had to grapple for his glasses with his left hand. And then he could inspect the damage.

'Urgh.' There was a definite wet patch on his sheets, more substantial than a smear but less than a puddle. Regardless of size, Harry had no real wish to roll over in it any time soon. 'Maybe after it's dried a bit or something,' he muttered. Bloody hormones. And his pajamas were sticking to him something awful. He'd sweated through the thin cotton at the armpits and around his neck, where it had run all the way down  his collarbones and chest. Oddly enough, he'd also sweat majorly from the back of his knees – was that even normal? Anyway, Harry thought, it feels really quite icky.

'There's only one for thing it,' Harry grumbled, and he scrambled upright, careful not to disturb his tightly drawn curtains. This whole puberty thing was embarrassing enough without having an audience. Next, he shimmied out of his sticky pajama bottoms and his undies (which were the stickiest they'd  been - ever), and then shucked his pajama top. He gave it a quick whiff, scrunched his nose up and tossed it to the end of his bed, he wouldn't be wearing that anytime soon. Harry glanced down at himself. At least I can leave my socks on, he thought wryly. There was something at least that didn't have to be stripped off after midnight every single night. Well, that wasn't quite accurate - it wasn't once a night. Sometimes it was twice.

Harry grimaced.

The whole thing was so frustrating! If it was some nice, normal predictable thing that would at least be tolerable. But nooooooo! Sometimes he'd know he was having pleasant dreams and he could get to that nice plateau where he could enjoy the feelings and still have enough presence of mind to wake himself up fully before he messed the sheets. Sometimes he'd only surface from his sleep in time to enjoy a nice mellow climax and then he'd be consumed by a warm wave of well-being and satiation, in which case he'd go back to sleep with a big stupid grin on his face. Which, coincidentally, he'd wake up with the next morning and be teased about unmercifully for the rest of the day.

Or it happened like it'd happened this night. He'd wake up in an instant with his heart pounding practically out of his ribcage, his cheat heaving and every last inch of his skin flushed and sweaty. The absolute worst thing was that in these cases he could not simply go back to sleep. Not even if he changed his sheets and PJs. He was so wide awake. And somehow coming so hard courtesy of the mattress seemed a bit lame. Let's face it, to enjoy a wank-session it was kind of nice to do it deliberately, with a bit of skill and finesse. Not just humping the goddamned mattress! A bit of a waste, really.

Oh well, it seemed like a stroll through the deserted hallways was in order. It was better than lying on whatever dry bit he could find and wondering what he'd been dreaming about that was so good he'd tried fucking his bed. And it was infinitely better than listening to Neville's whimpers when his silencing charm slipped. It was just strange what brought that boy off. I mean, devil's snare and lime marmalade? Come on. Besides, a nighttime stroll helped with the, er, musty-musky smell that tended to linger after the more athletic sessions.

And, yes, the invisibility cloak had a new home under Harry's bed where it was considerably more handy for these nighttime meanderings than buried at the bottom of his trunk.

Maybe it was the hedonist in him, but Harry had taken to going starkers under the cloak. It did feel nice against his skin, and it allowed the cool nighttime air to dry the sweat, but mainly the cloak felt nice against his skin – settling on his shoulders and hanging down from his chest so that it brushed against his legs with every step he took before swishing back to tickle the inside of his thighs, swirl around his knees and pull just that tiny, little bit against his backside. It was light and liquid-y, but it still stopped the worst of the draughts, it also didn't seem all that absorbent and Harry had long ago stopped worrying about staining it. He had considered what he'd do if he did stain it. But asking Dumbledore how you go about getting dried come out of invisibility cloaks just never seemed to make it on to his top ten things to get done list. Strange that. Hell, Dumbledore'd probably go tell him to ask Snape for a mess-removing potion. And wouldn't that be a riot.

Besides, going to all the bother to dig out fresh, un-musky clothes to put on to put his cloak over the top of seemed somehow pointless. When he put the cloak on he was invisible after all.

Harry shivered.

Tentatively, The-Boy-Who-Really-Didn't-Want-To-Wake-His-Dormmates-Despite-Being-Invisible crept down the stairs to the common room and carefully opened the portrait-hole. Harry's breath caught in his throat when the latch made a 'snick' sound, but it only sounded so loud because everything else was so quiet. He had to let his breath out slowly after he'd told himself off being so easily spooked. Coward.

Once I get out into the corridors I'll be more relaxed, Harry thought, there's no one to accidentally wake up – just snarky gits to avoid. But that wasn't hard once you got the hang of it, and pesky Peeves was more often a help than a hindrance, causing a ruckus that invariably allowed Harry to slip away from curious red eyes before they became any curiouser. That isn't to say Peeves was always Mr. Oh-So-Helpful, but he had provided several well-timed distractions in the past and Harry hoped that was a trend that was likely to continue.

Confidence restored, Harry set off on a twisty-turny trek through some of Hogwart's more recalcitrant hallways.

A left here, a right there, a bit of back-tracking because of  what appeared to be a cul-de-sac, up stairs, down stairs, and he was thoroughly lost. A couple of sidesteps took Harry to an arched-window-lined corridor than seemed to stretch off long into the distance. It looked quite pretty really. A bright moon was glowing through the row of mullioned windows casting all sorts of pools of shadows on the floor and walls. The entire length of the corridor looked like it had been randomly splashed with black and phosphorous-white paints by a four year-old who'd run out of Ritalin. But it was pretty.

Harry padded silently along, his mind half on the view in front of him and half on the route he'd taken behind him in the vague hope he could retrace it before dawn.

Alas, he had no attention to spare for what was alongside him. Which is why he didn't see the black robe that blended with the black shadows, or the pale face that shone with the moonlight.

It has to be said, it was not one of Harry's better moments. Upon reflection, he'd probably be the first one to admit it, too.  That is, he would have been had Snape not beat him to it.

By remaining completely still and overwhelmingly focused Severus Snape could outwit and outwait just about anyone and anything. He had been known to outstare statues when he had a mind to and the time to spare.

The Potions master had been lying in wait for his invisible prey. He knew that he stood a good chance of going unnoticed by being in an unexpected place, especially if he was able to blend in and remain motionless. And by suppressing his magical signature – not that any of the brainless idiots running about the place, staff or students, could appreciate such a skill (with the perennial exception of He-Who-Must-Obeyed, a.k.a. his Dumbledoriness) – so as not to alert possible miscreants with that creepy, 'I'm being stalked – there's someone in the shadows' feeling.

After all the years, better that they should remain uncounted, he had spent looking out for a certain student's hide, Snape was (one could say peculiarly) attuned to the magical signature of one Harry James Potter, resident rule breaker and trouble maker. That is, he could practically smell the boy. Which was the only way he was ever going to be able to punish him for his foolish wanderings since the damn meddling, conniving old headmaster had given the equally damnable boy his ridiculous father's ridiculous invisibility cloak. Much to Snape's, and Snape's ulcer's, frequent disquiet.

Snape had been tracking the reclusive Potter for several nights each week for the past two months since term had resumed. He maintained it was for the boy's own good – for Potter to be resoundingly punished for once and, best case scenario, confined to his house's common room except for classes (and the inevitable detentions with Filch) and meals. Thus, it had nothing to do with needing a hobby more challenging than insipid crosswords and chess-challenge puzzles to combat his insomnia.

Originally, Snape had tried following the brat from the Fat Lady's portrait. Surely, he had thought, waiting for the painting to open and have a complete absence of person or persons come out would be a dead giveaway.

And so, despite the difficulty he'd had in concealing himself outside of Gryffindor's tower, Snape had lain in wait one very late night. After a not-inconsiderable wait and one or two muscle cramps later, he had finally been rewarded with the tingling of his 'Potter-sense' and the opening of the portrait hole. However, in the hours that followed, Snape had been unable to get even the tiniest tweak to indicate Potter's whereabouts or movements. It had been disturbingly near sunrise when Snape's  hind-brain had helpfully pointed out that since the 'Potter-sense' had tingled before the portrait had opened, what he had probably witnessed was actually Potter returning from a nighttime escapade rather than embarking upon one. Which meant he had spent the entire night doing his best impersonation of the wizarding world's own Great White Hunter while the brat had been safely ensconced in his bed. Covers drawn up tightly under his chin while dreaming about innocent lambs. Or something.

Which had in no way endeared said innocent-dreaming brat to the Potions master in any way, shape or form. Not that that had been a possibility, but it had firmly put it on the list of things unlikely to happen in any universe, at any time, ever.

When Snape had tried to stake out Gryffindor's entrance once more he had been somewhat rudely interrupted by the head of that house herself. In all her outraged… outrage.

Which had left him with the method he currently employed. That of staking-out various corridors with his 'Potter-sense' wide open and waiting. However, it was fiendishly difficult trying to stalk someone whom you could not see but who had every chance of seeing you. It was a challenge Snape relished.

And now it was about to pay off.

The anticipation was so much more fulfilling than any crossword the Daily Prophet could conjure.

Just a few more steps and the Potter boy would be safely past him, and Snape could simply reach out unobserved and grab him by the scruff of his soon-to-be-throttled neck. He fought every urge to smirk his satisfaction for fear or alerting his… prey.

Vengeance was sweet.

The tingle that alerted Snape to Potter peaked and then faded, it coincided with the faintest of swishes of air below his nose and a dusty aroma that went right up it. Someone had been a little lax with his cleaning charms of late. Hnnn.

All Snape had to do was reach out, grab and drag.

And that's exactly what he did.

Snape assumed what he had grabbed was a shoulder, so his hand clamped tightly and he hissed his triumph at the successful capture. 'Potter.'

A muffled squeak confirmed what Snape's instincts had assured.

Harry had gone rigid when he felt a heavy hand descend upon his shoulder. His immediate thought had been Oh shit it's Filch. And when the hand had tightened cruelly Harry had sworn his heart had leapt all the way up to hang off that dangly thing at the back of his throat, like some deranged, internal bungy jumper.

Then there had been The Voice. It said his name.

'Potter'.

And all the remaining air was squeezed out of his mouth in a pathetic sounding 'meep' as his lungs seized in sheer, skin-peeling terror.

It was the voice that said things like Our new celebrity, Detention Potter, See me after class, I see the Potter genes are living up to their promised potential, Next time you fall off that broom of yours do try to land on your head – it might improve things, as I fail to see how it could possibly make things worse and Detention Potter. Oh wait, he'd already had that one. 

Fuckohfuckohfuck. It's Snape, Harry thought, but then he couldn't think anymore because the vice on his shoulder had become a vicious wrench which followed through with a gale-force drag factor and it was all the boy could do to keep his feet as he was towed like a recalcitrant ship by something evil and possessed.

Walking backwards was not a skill Harry had often found the leisure time to practice. Especially not walking backwards while wearing a cloak that went all the way down to the ground and trailed about and got nicely tangled around his feet.

Possibly, Harry thought, I should do something about that, as he stumbled and bounced into yet another cold, stone wall. Bloody hell.

Like a snooty debutante who was loath to sully the hem of her gown, Harry did his best to grab some of the folds of his cloak and raise the hem to ankle height. It did make walking backwards at high speed just a little easier. Until they stopped.

A quick glance confirmed what the solid slam of the door had suggested in Harry's mind and the cold dread sat like old, undigested porridge in his stomach. They were in Snape's office. No one else had that many dead things in jars or a door that slammed shut like footfall of a god in seriously heavy sandals.

Harry became petrified, like a piece of ancient wood. Trapped forever and staring down eternity's compassionless path. He could clearly that his own, personal eternity involved cauldrons and an awful lot of scrubbing.

Bugger, shit and hell.

What happened next didn't reassure Harry in the slightest. Snape removed his hand from Harry's rigid shoulder. All the better to throttle me with, was Harry's grim realisation.

I am oh so fucked.

'Well, well, well. I appear to have caught a student out of dorms and after curfew. Tch tch tch. This is a very serious breach of the school's rules.' And a personal best, Snape crowed gleefully inside his own head. I've finally snatched the crawling little brat. Not even Dumbledore can condone his little golden boy being caught breaking the rules. The daft, old coot firmly believes if he doesn't know about it officially then it's perfectly all right. Which is exactly the same tactic they employ at that pitiful excuse of a ministry. They are mentally handicapped ostriches with a sand complex, the lot of them.

Snape gave the patch of invisible student in front of him a cursory glance. The brat's cloak was of exceptional quality – there wasn't even the minutest wrinkle in front of him to suggest a concealed person. Snape wondered yet again as to what other adventures the foolhardy idiot had used his damned father's damned cloak for. Insufferable, the pair of them.

The professor's glance swept up and down in perfunctory manner and landed at Harry's feet, where his gaze paused. Harry was just able to loosen his neck's muscles and ligaments enough from their petrification to tilt his head down to see what had arrested Snape's attention.

Oh.

It was his sock-covered feet sticking out from the bottom of the hiked up invisibility cloak that had caught Snape's eye. In his unadulterated terror, Harry had not released his handfuls of the slippery fabric and his white socks sagged dustily and dispiritedly around an ankle and one calf.

Snape raised his head again, determined to pinpoint where the brat's head would be were it actually visible. He glared ferociously at the seemingly empty air.

Harry could feel every laser-like quality of that glare in every single one of his body's molecules. And they all decided to take that moment to shiver simultaneously. It felt like a tight, concentrated shudder. All over.

'Now,' Snape hissed, 'take that wretched thing off so I can see who you are, Potter.'

Well, there was no harm in maintaining protocol. Besides, it would sound better when he related the series of events to the headmaster, And when I instructed the student to reveal him or herself I was as surprised as you were, headmaster, to discover it was Potter. Yes, that should give the senile bat something to think over. Then again, all history was against him so it probably wouldn't.

History had also prepared Snape to never expect blind obedience from any one bearing the name of Potter, or even any member of the house of Gryffindor. However, he was used to eventual, grudging obedience given in bad grace and accompanied by a fairly repetitive litany of epithets: greasy, sodding, rank-bastard and the like.

So, it did not come as a total surprise that instead of obeying his command directly and without fuss, this Potter in this time took his sweet time and slowly lifted the cloak's cowl to let it slide down his still invisible back.

'So it is you, Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Flaunt-Every-Single-Rule-In-Creation-For-No-Other-Purpose-Than-Because-He-Could. I doubt there is any reason for you to be so far from your bed, your dormitory or the route from either of those towards the headmaster's office. However, in the interest of sportsmanship I willing to give you thirty seconds to convince me otherwise.' Snape counted out the seconds with a tap of an impatient foot on the stone floor of his office. 

Harry swallowed. Every one of the thirty seconds trickled slowly over Harry's scalp and down his spine and raised an army of goosebumps. The words 'I was merely wandering the halls because I was hot, sweaty and horny and my PJs and sheets needed some to dry out actually' twisted themselves into every possible permutation and still came out sounding exactly the same.

And, as much as Harry was disgusted and horrified by turns to admit it, Snape, for once, was right. He was flaunting the rules.

Harry knew that wet dreams were normal. That every single boy in his dorm and throughout the school had them. And Hermione assured him there was a similar (though less sticky) affliction suffered by girls (although she hadn't exactly used the word 'suffered', more like 'enjoyed').

Harry had, throughout the years, had to sneak around at night in order to thwart Voldie's minions, henchmen, henchwomen, impersonators and all around bad guys. His dad's cloak had proved invaluable time and time again. But now…

Now I'm simply using it to wander about the place to waste a bit of time till my sheets dry. It's not even like I can't sleep because I'm tormented by nightmares of past or approaching horrors. I'm tormented by good dreams that I can't remember. Bloody hell. When did I become too good for the common room? I should have known it would only be a matter of time before I got caught.

None of which Harry was ever going to admit to anyone, especially not Snape, not now and certainly not ever. Although, if he could somehow be certain that the sheer unexpectedness of him actually agreeing with Snape would shock the bastard into a coronary it might, just maybe, be worth it. Possibly.

'Time's up, Potter. What, no protestations of injured innocence? No 'Oh but I was merely sleepwalking professor, thank you so much for safely waking me before I fell down a flight of stairs and broke my fool neck'?'

Harry shook his head faintly. He hated this. Snape could never just hand out a detention (or ten) and be done with it. Oh no, like a sadistic cat with a damp, squeaky mouse, he had to play with his food first.

Snape was mildly taken aback. 'I confess I am disappointed, Potter, I had expected much more of a fight from you.'

Bloody bastard's never happy, thought Harry. You rant and rail against him and he hates it, yet you meekly concede with the overbearing prick and he has the nerve to bloody well hate that too! There's no pleasing some people. Not that he'd ever set out to please Snape…

'Well, nevermind. Now, Potter, you know as well as I do that attempting to persuade Headmaster Dumbledore to expel you for your heinous disregard for school propriety and rules is a complete waste of time. You have at previous instances been deprived of every conceivable privilege you possess. None of which seems to have generated any perceptible change in your behaviour.'

Snape stepped closer to Harry, he wanted to ensure that the brat felt every millimetre of his message. And he was going to make sure that he, Snape, enjoyed every second that it took to properly punish the insolent little…

'And so, Potter,' here Snape leaned down a fraction closer to the petrified, upturned face.

'I am,' closer again.

'Going to,' a bit closer.

'Confiscate,' a tad closer once more.

'Your cloak.' The words had a solemn formality to them that was at odds with the glee in Snape's expression.

Harry could feel his world crumble down, stone by stone, around his ears. The cloak was his pride. His joy. His freedom. His father's.

Inside, Snape was jumping up and down. The expression on the brat's face had been worth every sleepless hour he'd spent waiting ever so patiently in draughty, dark corridors. They poor boy looks completely mortified. Hallelujah! I wonder how Dumbledore will take the news? He can't simply give the damn thing back to the boy, after all. Not when he's obviously using it for meaningless, unimportant jaunts around the school after curfew.

Harry knew he must have the dumbest expression on his face. He could feel that his eyes were wide and stare-y, and that his cheeks and lips were pulled and tight. And that a red glow of utter, helpless anger was making its way from his rapidly beating heart up his neck to his face.

And just when Harry thought things could not possibly get any worse, The Voice proved him wrong. It uttered the fateful, final words that spelled Harry Potter's doom and extinction from this plane of existence.

Those words were…

'Take it off.'

I am so fucked.