Chapter 4—Two Steps Forward

"Pass the sausage, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Oh, certainly, Harry dear," Professor Trelawney murmured, her withered hand trembling slightly from the odd angle of her wand. Effortlessly the platter lifted and floated towards him and with great ease, set itself down beside his empty plate.

The aroma was mesmerizing. The mouthwatering smell of salt, grease and pork wove its way into Harry's senses, causing his stomach to rumble in hunger. It was as if he hadn't eaten in months. Though, could he even remember the last time he had eaten, truly eaten, real food?

"Good morning, Harry." The chipper baritone cut through Harry's delight over the impending sausage-to-mouth interaction. "All right?"

"Nothing a spot of breakfast won't solve," Harry said just before appeasing his desire and stuffing half a link into his mouth. The taste, Merlin's beard! It was better than the smell, if that was at all conceivable. An unconscious sigh escaped his lips. Bite after bite, the taste sensation never faded. Bless that Severus Snape and his Calming-Wit Quick Ended drought whatever-the-such concoction. Worked like a bloody charm! For the first time in months, he finally felt like he was taking two steps forward and it felt fantastic.

"Harry, my boy, something amusing?" Slughorn questioned. Amusing… no, not particularly. Harry felt the muscles in his face relax. He'd been smiling? Wait, did he laugh? Cutting a glance to his left and right, Harry surveyed the table of professors, finding that quite a few were cautiously watching him. Well that would make sense then. When a person laughs aloud regardless of being spoken to or not, it tends to warrant a few odd looks. "Harry, my boy?"

"Oh, nothing, Sir. Just remembering a good joke s'all."

"Ah, well then have you heard the one about the pixie in the pie shop?" Seemingly appeased, Slughorn prattled on with the harrowing tale of one devilish pixie and one furious Muggle pie maker. Thankfully the remainder of the concerned eyes turned back to their own plates, avoiding even the thought of listening to one of Slughorn's absurd stories.

Once again left to his own devices, Harry allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the incredible tastes swirling about his tongue, savoring each delicious bite. A cloudy haze crept over his mind, his thoughts all but vanishing beneath the foggy delight of taste. So this must be it... the food-gasm. Harry remembered Ron speaking of it often during the long hours spent seated at the student tables, much to the chagrin of one Hermoine Granger if memory served. It was always such a ridiculous idea that food could cause any sort of reaction close to that of... well... that. Harry remembered telling Ron such, in not so many words. Not that either one had much to compare it to. Lonely nights spent hiding beneath a Quieting Charm did little more than ease Harry's tension... he figured Ron felt the same.

"What about Ginny?"

"I never, no... not with Ginny," Harry stammered, pulling himself away from the warmth of his food coma. Glancing from left to right, he tried to find the owner of the question at hand. It was then that Bill came into view.

"You never what with Ginny?" The furrowed look of Bill's eyebrows told Harry that an answer to that question was unnecessary. Bill knew full well what had been lingering on Harry's mind. Bugger. Just when things were starting to look up... here came a Weasley.

"Nothing," he murmured, hoping it would suffice.

"As I was saying, what about Ginny? She's leaving today for a lengthy trip and I am fairly certain she would accept you were you to send her off." The persuasive tone of his voice did little to sway Harry. Not that Bill was aware, but Harry had already made up his mind not to see Ginny off today, feeling that it would be best for everyone involved.

"Or if you would prefer, you could stop by my Defense Against the Dark Arts class and show off your teaching skills," Bill said rather slyly. Suddenly seeing Ginny off was sounding much more appealing to Harry… as he suspected Bill knew already. Damn that McGonagall and her ridiculous desire to employ the only Weasley who'd actually managed to perfect the act of sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

"I'll be off then," Harry chimed, surprised by the still chipper sound of his own voice, even in spite of the fact that now he'd have to face Ginny. At least the potion seemed to be playing in his favor, which truly was a relief. With Bill sniffing about, his hawk-like senses at full tilt, Harry truly needed his game to be spot on and with Severus Snape's secret potion in his corner that might actually be achievable.

That secret potion did work quite well. As Harry followed the map inside his mind, twisting and turning around corners into corridor after corridor, his emotions stayed calm and collected. With each passing minute, he found himself that much closer to the one thing he'd been dreading and subsequently avoiding for over a month now and even still his emotions remained the same. Yes, the potion worked quite well on his emotions… but Harry's mind was another story all together.

'No, no I really do not want to do this,' he told himself over and again.

'Nothing good will come of this. Ginny will be hurt and I will certainly feel more guilty than I already do and for what? To say goodbye? And that is the first thing I will have said in a countless number of days? Oh sure, this is just the brightest idea since I don't know when!'

Harry's mind was reeling, churning with fraught, guilt and indecision. Adding to the overwhelming war in his head was the total opposite emotional response. Momentarily, Harry found himself intrigued at the idea that the calming side of Snape's concoction worked directly and only with the emotions of a wizard. Consequently, the quick-witted effect would most likely correspond to only mental acuity.

'Yes, quite fascinating, maybe I should head to my quarters and do a spot of emergency research,' he told himself. 'Undoubtedly that is what I should be doing.'

With his mind made up, Harry stopped mid-stride, yet before he could make a move to turn around, he felt a strange sensation at the small of his back. Warmth, faint but present, pressed against the curve of his lower spine. The feeling spread wide, becoming stronger, more insistent. In mere moments, Harry felt himself being pushed down the corridor. The nudge was gentle, but nonetheless firm. Perplexed, Harry allowed the motion to carry his feet forward.

All the shouting in his head quieted as he tried to focus on what, or who, exactly was casting such a strange incantation. It wasn't long though that his thoughts were yet again distracted, only this time not by something he felt, but by something he saw. From the corner of his eye, Harry caught sight of a long, black robe billowing round the bend to disappear out into the open courtyard.

"Snape?" Harry questioned aloud, unable to stop himself. His reaction was immediate and overwhelming. The warmth at his back was nothing now in comparison to the fire raging in his chest. Verdant eyes dilated, nostrils flared and skin became slick with sweat as all of his senses heightened. It was Snape, it had to have been. There was no mistaking that robe and the way it moved in the wind. Harry of all people would know. After the infinity of hours spent watching in the pensieve, he was practically a Severus Snape expert.

He didn't remember running. In his mind, Harry's steps were excruciatingly slow as he followed in the wake of the inky cloak tail. Time elapsed at a crawling pace as his body refused to move quickly enough and he wanted to scream from the frustration of it all as he finally stepped out onto the open lawn. He'd known before his eyes could register that the cloak, and who ever wore it, was gone. It made sense; after all, rationally Harry knew seeing the pale man in black was truly impossible. To Harry, the time from when he felt the warm nudge to the moment upon the yard where the crushing disappointment of losing Snape all over again threatened to immobilize him seemed as long as hours.

Upon hearing the light falsetto of Ginny's voice, though, Harry realized not nearly enough time had passed as he sharply remembered why he'd tried to turn back in the first place.

"Har…Harry?"

"Um, yeah, all right there, Ginny?" Harry asked, his voice barely a mumble.

Her round eyes lit up, her expression lifting into one of joy and undeniable shock. She looked young, vibrant and alive, just as she had the first moment Harry met her so many years before at the Burrow. No words were needed to convey exactly how happy Ginny was in that moment, the emotion poured out of her like pure, golden sunshine and Harry wanted nothing more than to slink away from the light into the comforting familiarity of shadowed darkness.

"I hoped you would come, but honestly, I thought the idea was truly mad," she whispered. A blush formed on her cheeks, the delicate rose color turning Harry's stomach. He watched as her pink lips moved, words spilling over into the space between their bodies, but the sound fell on deaf ears. His mind reeled at the scene before him: the sweet, tender, beautiful girl of his dreams was there, professing what was surely undoubted devotion and caring words of compassion beneath a vibrant blue sky on a storybook spring afternoon. It was perfect, by any means of measure and yet there was no single piece that felt even remotely right to Harry. Having suspected for quite some time the reason for his avoidance, Harry finally allowed himself to admit the ugly truth- his love for Ginny Weasley had died.

"I think I should be off," he interjected, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"Well, sure, I understand. After all, you are such a busy man, Harry Potter." She smiled coyly as she moved closer. "Like I said, I really am glad you came to see me off. I think we were able to communicate better than we have in ages and maybe, just maybe, fix a bit of that which has gone so awry."

"Oh… well, Gin… I," Harry stammered, unable to find the words.

From the distance, a loud, careening whinny carried along the breeze. The thundering sound of enormous wings echoed off the stone castle walls.

"Looks like I, also, have to be off," she said, ending the phrase in a bubbly giggle as a team of white horses flew overhead. "I'll be home for Christmas holiday, Harry, and we can work everything else out then. I love you."

The sudden weight of Ginny's lips against his caught him completely off guard, as did those three little words. Sure, she'd said them before, and he had even returned the sentiment a time or two but that had been so very long ago.

The sensation of those words and the feel of her lips was nothing like Harry remembered. Even in his darkest moments, he had held firm to those fleeting memories of he and Ginny when they first started going together: the fluttering heartbeats, the stolen glances, the quickening of his pulse whenever they touched. Those were the things that gave him hope, maybe not for he and Ginny but hope that one day, he could feel that way again with someone else.

But with her lips against his, Harry felt nothing at all like that overjoyed, love-sick school boy.

He felt like a cold, distinctly desperate man who would rather never feel again than feel the sickly longing for a true lover's touch that her kiss left in the pit of his stomach.

"Goodbye, Harry," she whispered, her breath hot on his face, the sensation making him that much more uncomfortable. Without another word, she turned and walked off towards the Magical Creatures Paddock where, logic would say, she boarded the carriage and flew off into the deep, blue sky. Sounded perfect, all right.

"Yeah, bloody perfect except for the wanker of a boyfriend she left on the ground," Harry groaned outwardly, kicking himself for having ever decided to see Ginny off. "That's right, Potter, time for another pity party afternoon filled with loathing, self doubt and overwhelming tidal waves of guilt."

Harry's words echoed for a moment, allowing him the chance to hear how miserable he actually sounded. He felt miserable, truly, but how long had it been that apparent in his voice as well? He didn't know, and fuck all, he really didn't care. Misery was his constant companion. It slid across his body when he felt cold and kept company with him in bed at night. Misery was the only truth Harry could find and he held fast to it, lest it slip through his fingers into the fog as everything else already had.

Along the wind, the chiming of the massive bronze bell in the West Tower Owlery signaled the coming of the hour. In just minutes, the courtyard flooded with flocks of students, their black cloaks scattering behind each one in the breeze. Harry's mind immediately conjured the image of the deep black cloak tail disappearing into the courtyard and truly, a part of him still held fast to the idea that it was Snape, no matter how unrealistic the idea might be. Funny how following that tenuous vestige of Snape had led him straight to Ginny, as if somehow on purpose. If that were the case, then in no way, shape or form had that cloak belonged to Severus Snape. Harry knew it would be a cold day in hell before the slender man in black meddled in the idiotic love affairs of his students, especially those belonging to Harry bloody Potter.

"Figment of the imagination, s'all," Harry murmured aloud, catching the eye of a few wary students. For the love of Merlin, can't a man talk to himself now and again without judgmental looks from ache-ridden teenage wizards?! Dragon fire! He couldn't go anywhere or do anything without the attention of at least 50 people unless he did so beneath the shadowed veil of the invisibility cloak and that, of course, was back in his personal quarters.

Oh he could go and get it. The courtyard wasn't too far from the entrance to the dungeons and the trip would allow him to get out of the limelight as it were, but Harry knew what would happen if he disappeared to his room. The pensieve would awaken before he could close the door and in moments, he would find himself falling into the silvery depths of Severus Snape's memories. Any other time, Harry would be intoxicated at the idea of an afternoon spent watching over his most secret of desires, but after his ill-fated run-in with Ginny, he wasn't sure if his psyche could handle any more confusion and disappointment.

At such an early hour, Harry knew of only one place in the entire castle where he could be truly alone, devoid of any interaction with student, professor or semi-ex girlfriend alike.

The fifth floor prefects' bathroom was blissfully quiet.

Ornate Italian marble decorated the expansive floor in deep hues of navy, black and highlights of gold. Heavy silver plumbing snaked here and there, the gleaming faucets hiding their considerable age with no sign of wear or rust. The stone walls that adorned every other part of the castle looked different there; the stained glass windows cascading hundreds of colors and lights upon them to transform the otherwise dull, dark stone into a transcendent theater of life and dance and Harry had the best seat in the house.

"Accio towel," he whispered, catching the fluffy, white bundle just before it hit the water. With a practiced hand, he folded and rolled until it became a tidy little package and with a sigh, he tucked it beneath his head and closed his eyes. "This is exactly what I needed."

No prying eyes and wary glances. No concerned looks, no polite chit chat, no witty banter. No Ginny, no Bill, no Snape… Harry was totally alone. The last thought stung a bit, the absence of his dark muse causing a familiar ache in his chest. It was not a new realization. Every where he went, Harry was reminded that Snape no longer existed outside the realm of dreams and memories. Though not a new sensation, the clawing expanse of loneliness nevertheless made his breath catch.

Breathing deep, Harry allowed the calming scent of vanilla and lavender to wisp around his body and mind, weaving an enchanting spell that, coupled with the still present effects of his Quick-Witted Calming Draught, did just enough to ease that persistent emotional pain.

"No matter what, Mister Potter, do not, by any means, open your eyes." Harry's pulse quickened as a chill ran across his skin, leaving tiny bumps in its wake. His body tightened, his heart rammed against the confines of his chest and all of his blood drained into his pelvis.

"Snape?"

The question was barely a whisper, so quiet that Harry thought for a moment he hadn't managed to speak at all, but just when he opened his mouth to speak again, the voice returned.

"That is Professor Snape to you, Potter. I would hope that what little time I have been gone has not softened your already dim mind to the point where basic manners are out of your conceivable reach."

"Sorry, Professor Snape," he mumbled.

"I see your eloquent mastery of the English language is still remarkable and ever-growing," the voice returned, the sarcasm dripping from each syllable enough so that Harry swore if he reached out he could feel it.

"I am elated to find that you, at least, have remained unchanged, boy." For a moment, the voice softened, becoming much more the timbre Harry enjoyed each time he visited the pensieve. The words were still crisp, the dictation still the same, but it was as if the entire pretense that Snape carried in Harry's days as a student was gone and he was speaking as he did to anyone else or to himself as he did inside the memories… he was speaking as Severus.

"I have changed, though," Harry stated boldly. "I am not a boy anymore."

"Oh well, yes, that it most evident." Snape's voice changed yet again, this time coming with a hiss of something Harry had never heard before… could it be… seduction?

Strong hands found his chest and Harry nearly choked as the shock overcame him, the jolt from his body causing the water to roll wave after wave into his face. He could clearly feel the warm skin, the heavy pressure of large palms and deft fingers gliding across his slick collar bone. He felt every delicious inch of those hands as they traveled from his collar, down his midline to dip below the bath water, kneading the muscles of his abdomen.

"Quite the musculature you have developed, Potter. All those hours on the Quidditch pitch finally paying off?"

"Um, yeah, s…so… ma… many hours…" Harry stammered.

"Ah yes, indeed I believe you have changed considerably, in a many numerous ways," Snape whispered, the sound so close Harry could feel the hot exhale of breath on his ear. How was that even possible? There was no way a dream, hallucination, whatever could cause him to feel anything so how in the world… oh Merlin's beard!

Harry's hips jerked forward as the skilled hands eased lower, stroking gently across his hard length.

"My how much you've grown, Potter! You have certainly become an excellent example of the male physique."

The urge to open his eyes, to see Snape and find those hands was overwhelming, so much so that Harry lifted his head from where it rest, intent on seeing everything first hand. The resulting shove knocked the air from his lungs.

"Now, now, Potter, I just offered you a compliment and there you go, fouling it up with your blatant disregard of the rules. Did I not state in simple and plain words that you were to keep your eyes closed!?"

"Yyye… yes, Professor," Harry answered, catching a bit of his breath as the pressure shifted. Instead of the heavy pressure of a push, he began to feel the comfortable weigth of a body pressed against his own. "Are you ho… holding me down, Professor?"

"Yes."

The hands returned, the gentle touch at once turning insistent, the strokes coming faster and harder with each pass.

"Do you wish me to cease, Potter?"

"No… please don't stop."

A velvet laugh filled the air, the sound odd and ungodly erotic and every fiber of Harry's being screamed for it never to stop and for it all to end right that second because he knew how good it would feel and before he could breathe or speak once more everything fell apart.

"Snape!" He cried out, his body releasing every bit of itself into those talented hands. Again and again he pumped, hips rocking back and forth until he had nothing left. Exhausted, Harry flopped his head back, still mumbling his visitor's name over and over like some devious mantra.

"Merlin's beard, that was incredible, Professor Snape."

Silence met his words, the slight echo telling him the room was completely empty.

"Snape?" Harry questioned, daring to open his eyes.

The bathroom looked just as it had when he had climbed into the large tub, not a towel or stone disturbed. Quiet steam rose from the slightly undulating water as fresh soap trickled from the hundreds of shining faucets. Nothing was different, nothing had changed.

Looking down, Harry noted that at least one thing had changed: his own hand held a drastically less impressive part of himself.

"My own hand, huh?" Of course, what else did he expect? Severus Snape, naked and smooshed against his body like some wanton, sex-crazed adolescent… no, that was absurd. What happened was nothing more than a dream. Another figment of his potion-fueled imagination.

Harry assured himself with that explanation again as he used a fresh towel to dry his still quivering limbs. Surely it was the potion. That was the only rational reasoning for the vivid daydream.

"No matter how real it seemed, or how bloody good it felt, it just wasn't real Potter so snap out of it!" Harry shouted, hoping that hearing the words aloud would help cement the truth in his mind. His voiced echoed around the room, the sound eerie and distant, just as Snape's voice had been earlier. True, he could tell himself, shout it out loud, that it was all a dream and most parts of him would believe it so. But deep down, as Harry gave one last look back before leaving the now dark bathroom, he had a distinct feeling that what just happened was far from a dream and vastly beyond his ability to reason it away.

Harry was Alice and he would follow his little black rabbit as far down the hole as it took to catch him.

"Two steps back," he said, shaking his head as he closed the heavy door behind him.