Title: Split Sole
Author: faynia and stormypups
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: approx. 15,000
Warning: Non-magical AU, THIS PIECE OF FICTION CONTAINS SLASH M/M PAIRING
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Severus Snape belong to JK Rowling, her publishers and the WB. No profit is being made from this piece of fiction.
Summary: Harry's technique was perfect. All he needed was passion.
A/N: Beta'd by lesyeuxverts, joanwilder and rakina, three of the most beautiful women on earth.


Harry hovered outside Snape's office, wishing he had remembered to put his sweatpants back on before wandering down a deserted hallway in nothing more than a pair of tights. He tugged down his white tank top in a weak attempt at modesty, all the while glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming. Light shone beneath the door, telling him that Snape was more than likely in his office at the moment. The only problem was, he had no idea what he wanted to say.

Clearing his throat, Harry knocked on the door and waited for the gruff reply before opening it. Snape was bent over his desk, looking through documents with a scowl. "Yes?" he asked, not bothering to look up.

"You left," Harry blurted out, biting his lip in embarrassment.

Snape's head snapped up, a brief look of surprise on his face. "I had things to do. What are you doing here? Stalking me in my own office now?"

"Course I am, it's only fair since you get to stalk me through the rest of the building."

"Your arrogance is showing." Despite his gruff attitude, there was a note of amusement in his voice. "Sit."

"I'm sure it's not the only thing," Harry muttered, slouching into a chair before Snape's desk.

Snape set down his pen, resting his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. "So you're merely paying a social visit?"

"Only a short one."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, brow arching in question.

"I crave negative attention," Harry said with a wry smile.

"Then you've certainly come to the right place. You were stomping around the stage like some great ape today."

"You left. How would you know how I danced?"

"I saw enough," Snape said shrugging. "Once you had started dancing as you were meant to, there was no reason to stay. It's much more entertaining watching you bumble," he said, smirking.

"Ah, the bad vibes! Better than coffee or tea any day." Harry's eyes flickered to the circular clock behind Snape's head and he frowned. "These breaks are never long enough."

"Lavesoir will be not be pleased if you are late," Snape pointed out, his eyes searching Harry's face, though for what Harry couldn't say.

Harry snorted. "He's rarely pleased, full stop. I keep wondering how he stays married."

"His wife is infinitely patient and he dotes upon her. For the most part, she ignores his tantrums."

Harry grinned. "I'd better get going before they send out a search party and I end up suspended in the harness as punishment."

"An interesting thought…" Snape answered, eyes raking over Harry as he stood.

Harry laughed from the doorway. "You know, for a man who runs such a highbrow business, you're awfully lewd."

"This from the man wearing nothing but a leotard? You shouldn't flaunt yourself if you don't want people to look."

"All part of the job. Have fun filling out that paperwork, sir."

Snape waved his hand dismissively, and grinning, Harry left the office.


"Potter, you're late. Again."

"I was detained," Harry lied smoothly as he hopped up onto the stage, glad that the pit was closed off that afternoon. He didn't fancy falling face first into a pile of bassoons or a drum set. It'd certainly ruin his good mood.

"Probably off shagging that cute stagehand that was flirting with him earlier," Melissa supplied with a sly smile.

Harry scowled, gesturing rudely at her behind his back, before plastering on a fake smile for the director. Lavesoir was looking at him speculatively and Harry merely returned the look, unflappable.


Severus rubbed his eyes beneath his reading glasses as he shoved another stack of forms off to the side. He'd seen enough fine print in the past four hours to earn a break, the short one with Potter notwithstanding. That had been an unexpected interruption and he did not have to hold himself accountable for it.

Rising to his feet he stretched, working out the stiffness in his neck and back. When he left the office, his only intention was to stretch his legs a bit. He had no intention of going to the auditorium to watch practice. And he certainly wasn't going to seek out Potter.

"Severus, what are you doing down at this end of the building?" Pierre exclaimed, unsurprised. "I would have thought you'd be buried under a mountain of paperwork at this hour."

"I needed a break. Have you had any problems with the new lighting system? I've been assured that the equipment is top of the line, but I'll only believe it when I see it on opening night. I take it we're still on schedule?"

"A few minor set-backs, but none that weren't expected. Opening night should be a complete success, barring the fact that the stagehands have no idea where to place the sets."

"And the dancers? Are they up to par?"

"You would know better than I. I have not seen you so interested in a show since we first started our partnership."

"The holiday season always brings in extra revenue, but if the dancers are rubbish, we can kiss that revenue goodbye. I'm merely protecting my investment."

"Of course, and this has nothing to do with a chance encounter with the Potter boy two weeks ago."

Severus' face turned to stone. "What are you implying, old friend?"

"Implying?" Pierre snorted and shook his head. "Severus, I never imply things. I make declarations."

"I have better things to do than moon over one of your dancers."

"If you are not, you'd best set him straight. He's half lovesick most days and embittered the rest."

"He's been embittered since the day I met him, as for the other, I'm sure you're imagining it," Severus answered, a slight scowl marring his features.

"Severus, how long have we known each other?" Pierre asked lightly.

"More years than I'd care to count."

"And in those years, how often have I miscalculated the emotions of my dancers?"

Severus' anger seemed to deflate as he ran a tired hand over his face. "If the boy is lovesick, I assure you it's not over me. There is certainly no lack of willing partners, particularly to one so attractive, and I'm sure he's indulging himself elsewhere."

"Ah, so you've heard those rumours of Potter taking up with our stage manager, then?"

"What?" Severus snapped. "Who? Where on earth did you hear such a ridiculous thing?"

Pierre smirked. "Why should you care? It is none of your concern what those under your employ do in their personal lives."

"You're not the least bit amusing, Pierre," Severus ground out.

"On the contrary, I'm hysterical; you just don't have the right sense of humour to appreciate it."

"Nor are you clever," Severus informed him. "I have work to finish. Don't you have a ballet to produce?" he asked irritably.

"It is ten-thirty. I was coming to make sure you actually left tonight."

Severus sighed. "I'll be leaving shortly; I have a few things that need to be seen to before I can go home."

"If I come in tomorrow and discover you've been here all night, I will call your mother, and you know how Eileen loves me."

"You wouldn't dare."

"We have her on speed dial at home, my friend."

"Bugger off, Pierre," Severus groused, turning on his heel and stalking irritably back to his office.


Harry glanced across the darkened theatre and sighed. It had been a 'mercy' that Lavesoir was letting him use the stage to practice after hours without supervision. He suspected that his director thought him even more of a klutz now than he ever had before, which wasn't much of a stretch. Something had to be wrong with him. People didn't usually go from 'talented' to 'amateur' to 'Neanderthal with two left feet' in a fortnight, not without a serious concussion or amnesia, or a fugue state or something.

Joleen had left over thirty minutes ago, but Harry had continued on without her, trying to sort through whatever issues he was having that were holding him back. It had been remarkably unproductive. Harry had done fine with Joleen, every move he did was perfect, his leg was extended during every leap, his toe was pointed for every slow step, and not once did he trip over imaginary bumps on the stage floor. He lifted Joleen off the floor with little flaw in motion, setting her down gently as if she weighed nothing.

She had frowned at him, running her fingers through his hair in a soothing manner as she searched his face for what was bothering him, and when she found nothing, pecked him on the forehead and left. There was nothing wrong with him when it was just he and she alone on the stage. When no one was laughing at him or purposely tripping him up. The last incident was more of an irritant than the laughter. The laughter faded when the music played, but the 'oops, were you supposed to be there?'s happened whether the music was on or not. And damn it if Snape wasn't mocking him about lack of passion silently in his head the entire time.

This was his life. This was all he'd ever wanted to do since the first time he caught a showing of Midsummer's Night Dream on the telly when his aunt and uncle were out of the house. Now here he was, in the second greatest dance company in London, performing in a beloved Christmas story, and he was dangling precariously close to the edge of madness.

Bending at the waist, Harry bowed low to the ground, stretching out one arm along his pointed leg, miming clutching Joleen's hand. This scene was the worst of all of them, so disorganized in the process, so many people who could bump into him and make it look like his fault, and it wasn't fair in the least. He did what he was supposed to do, he probably knew more about the ballet than others here did, but it didn't seem to matter.

Feeling as though he was getting nowhere, Harry sat on the lip of the stage, staring out at the empty seats of the auditorium. Snape had told him that he wasn't connecting with the people in those seats, that he was lacking in passion. The problem was, Harry had plenty of passion in one form or another when Snape was around, though whether it was anger, irritation or a desire to kiss the man, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that Snape was in his mind and under his skin and he couldn't decide if he hated it or if he was enjoying it.

Harry kicked his feet back and forth, hitting the black felt backdrop of the pit which had been opened not even two days before, staring down at his black split sole shoes. He sighed before lying backwards, pillowing his head on his arms. The catwalk above him was empty, meaning all the technicians, stagehands and prop masters were gone for the night. Melissa's mocking comment about taking up with Brennen was laughable when all he could think about was Snape. God, what was he going to do? Harry closed his eyes, intending only to rest his them for a few moments before heading home.

It took less than three minutes for him to fall to sleep.

"Potter, what are these?"

Harry gazed up at his aunt in confusion. In her hand was the pair of red, jewel-toned ballet slippers that he'd nicked from the local dance studio. They had a basket just lying there full of old shoes, and they had been so pretty he couldn't just leave them there.

"Shoes?" Harry hazarded, trying to play innocent, but he should have known better. Before he could cover his head, one of the shoes was whipped against his face, knocking his head back against his cupboard.

And he was falling,

falling,

falling.

Light shone brightly in his eyes, brighter than the sun and hotter than he'd ever felt a light before to be. It followed him no matter how hard or far he tried to run from it. Harry lost his footing, slipping on the largest strand of hair he'd ever seen, and found himself sprawled spread-eagled on the ground. It was a wooden floor, a scuffed wooden floor. Booming laughter echoed off the sound panels on the walls and Harry found himself staring at a thousand faces, all of them pointing and laughing at him. He struggled to stand, only to find he'd landed on his tail and it was stuck in a hole in the stage.

Toy soldiers lined up, encircling him with disapproving frowns and pointed muskets. On a silent command from the one in front of his face, they began to stab him with the ends of their rifles, cutting his skin like a hundred small paper cuts, and he couldn't escape, he couldn't stand and he cried because he was helpless to do anything. Tied to the stage with thread and stuck in a hole, and no one was going to save him. Why wasn't anyone helping him?

"Fool!" someone murmured, grasping him from behind, hauling him up and... His eyes sprang open. Harry clung to the person holding him as if he were a small child. Horrified, he realized tears were streaming down his cheeks, being rubbed away into a crisp white shirt. Long black hair tickled his cheeks as he inhaled the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon he was coming to identify with Snape. Snape had him cradled in his arms and was rubbing small, uncertain circles over his back.

"Sorry," Harry whispered, trying to pull away, before he could make things worse than they already were, but Snape held him still.

"Drink this." Snape pushed a plastic cup into Harry's hands.

"What is it?" Harry asked, sniffing the small hole in the plastic lid. The warmth from the beverage inside seeped through the foam and into his skin.

"Spiced cider; drink."

Harry gazed up at Snape's face for a few seconds before taking a sip of the cider. It scalded the back of his throat, but the taste and warmth was wonderful as sensation slowly returned to his sore legs. After a few more sips, he set the cup down on the stage, tapping at it with his fingers.

"What time is it?" he asked, hearing voices backstage, followed by the sound of a power saw.

"Five."

Harry groaned, leaning against Snape in embarrassment. "I stayed the whole night?"

"If you've been tossed out of your flat, Potter, you could have slept on the couch in my office."

Harry heard the unspoken word in Snape's voice. Idiot.

"I'll keep that in mind in case I ever purposefully decide to stay here the night," Harry mumbled.

"Get up," Snape said, rising to his feet.

"What?"

"Get up; we're going to my office."

"What? Why?" Harry asked, grasping Snape's outstretched hand as he hauled himself to his feet.

"Because I'll not have this conversation with your... with the stagehands wandering about," Snape groused irritably.

Harry stared at Snape in shock. "My what?"

"My office," Snape ground out, grabbing Harry by the collar and shoving him toward the wings.

They walked in an uncomfortable silence through the empty corridors leading towards the administrative wing of the building. The electric lights above them sizzled and settled into a low hum when Snape flicked the light switch for his office. Harry stood in the doorway, watching as Snape sank down into his chair, pulling a folder forward.

"Stop looming and sit," Snape said, looking up at Harry. "And close the door."

Scowling, Harry closed the door and sat down on Snape's couch, staring at the man in silence.

"Which one is it?" Snape asked, returning his eyes to the folder. "What's his name?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No?"

"No," Harry snapped, folding his arms across his chest, painfully aware of the fact that he hadn't had a chance to shower or change out of his dance clothing. His skin was sweaty and sticky, and he swore his skin was vibrating.

"Your paramour, what's his name?"

"My...do people even use that word anymore?"

Snape looked at Harry in stony silence.

"I haven't got a paramour," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Or a boyfriend, or a fuck buddy, or anything else. I've got you. Happy? Can I go home now?"

"You-- what?"

"Can I go home now?" Harry repeated, face heating up. He couldn't believe he'd just said that. I've got you. He must have hit his head during his nightmare; that was the only explanation. His only hope of salvation would be if Snape let him go.

"No, you may not. Explain yourself."

Harry slunk down low on the leather couch, unable to meet Snape's eyes. "There's no one but you."

"No stagehand, perhaps?" Snape asked coldly.

"What? No! What part of 'no one' are you having trouble grasping? And why does everyone think I'm shagging a stagehand? I haven't even looked twice at one since you kissed me, not that it matters since you've ignored me since then. I'd probably be better off if I did want one of them, at least then I'd have a chance!"

Harry's mouth snapped shut and his eyes went a bit wide as he realized what he'd said.

"I see."

"Can I go now?" Harry asked, staring out the window onto the darkened street below. "Rehearsal starts at seven, and I want to shower."

"No."

"What? It's not like you can keep me here," Harry said, looking incredulous.

Snape pushed back from his desk, his face an inscrutable mask. "Get up," he said when he reached Harry.

"Why?"

"Potter –" Snape growled, his voice dangerously low.

Harry only made it halfway to his feet before Snape was pulling him up and kissing him roughly, all teeth and tongue and need. Once Harry realized what was happening, he did his best to catch up, his tongue darting into Snape's mouth, tasting cider and an underlying flavour of mint. His fingers curled in the loose strands of Snape's hair that had fallen out of the tie at the base of his neck and he pulled himself closer until his hips were snug against Snape's thigh.

Snape's hands moved down to his arse, pulling him tighter against him, rolling his hips and moaning into Harry's mouth. It could have been minutes or hours later when Snape finally pulled back, and Harry couldn't seem to look away from his swollen lips. "That was...yeah," he said breathlessly.

"Now you may go," Snape replied, moving to his desk and sitting down in the chair.

"Bastard," Harry groaned, wishing he could will his pants into existence, seeing how his tights hid nothing. Snape seemed to have noticed this too if the self-satisfied smirk on his face was anything to go by.

"You have an hour to make yourself presentable, Mr. Potter. Use it wisely."

"I think I hate you," Harry muttered as he left the room, hoping he wouldn't run into anyone in the corridors.