December 25, 1996: Harry
Harry woke up Christmas morning keenly aware that he was alone. It would not do to be feeling sorry for himself on a day he was supposed to by so happy. He shed the feeling with a shrug, like it was a cloak around his shoulders. So Hermione had gone home to see her parents and Ron was at the Burrow surrounded by multitudes of Weasleys. So Harry hadn't been allowed to go because of security concerns. So what?
He turned to the small mound of presents piled on the floor at the foot of his bed. If there was anything that made him feel like he had people who cared about him, it was actually getting gifts at Christmas.
He quickly identified the traditional Weasley jumper—navy blue this year—and put it on over his pajamas. There was also something explosive from the twins, something inedible from Hagrid, something that looked suspiciously like a bracelet from Ginny (he would never understand girls, never), a t-shirt that said 'The Snitch is my Bitch' from Ron (that was somewhat unexpected, but cool), and (wonder of wonders) a book from Hermione.
The book was clearly ancient, and he couldn't quite make out the title. He gingerly opened the front cover and a note from Hermione fell out.
Happy Christmas, Harry!
I was so excited when I found this book, and of course I immediately thought of you. It's actually written in parseltongue, if you can believe it! The shopkeeper told me the title was Spells and Such in the Language of Snakes, but I'm not sure if I quite believe him. This book has to be worth a fortune, and he obviously had no idea. He seemed happy just to be rid of it, in fact. His shop is the type that generally only attracts customers who won't buy what they can't read, no matter the historical significance.
I miss you terribly and I feel so awful that you have to stay there all by yourself for the whole break. Practicing Quidditch is all good and well, but do please use at least some of your time to keep up with your studies.
See you soon!
Hermione
A book written in parseltongue? He never even knew the language could be written down. This was possibly the most awesome gift ever, assuming he could actually read it.
He flipped to what he assumed was the table of contents—it was shaped right for it, anyway—and stared at the writing on the page. Unfortunately, it all just looked liked a bunch of squiggles, and they were starting to swim. He was just about to close his eyes to keep from getting sick, when he thought he recognized something.
Some of the squiggles at the top of the page had shifted, and now formed the English phrase 'Contained Herein'. So it was the table of contents, after all. He slowly moved down the page, and eventually made out the names of all the major sections, including Hexes for Hissers, Potions for Parselmouths, Dark Spells for Devious Serpents, and Charms for the Charmed.
'Yes,' he thought, 'this is definitely the coolest,' and settled in to read his new book.
Later that evening, after the obligatory Feast of Overflowing Cheerfulness had been endured, he grabbed his invisibility cloak and his new book and headed off to find a different place to be. It was just too empty in the Tower—six other students had stayed for break, but none of them were Gryffindors. Harry loved Hogwarts, of course, and ninety percent of the time he was fine being alone. But not at Christmas.
He sat down on a third-floor window seat that was just above the main entry hall. He'd got through another two pages, which took rather longer than it would have it it'd been in English, when he saw movement out on the grounds.
He peered out the window to see Snape walking with purpose toward the gates. For about half a second, he disingenuously entertained the thought, 'Gee, I wonder what he's up to.' Who was he kidding? He knew exactly what Snape was up to. Without taking the time to wonder exactly why he was so interested in seeing it again, he secured his cloak and ran for Roscoff's portrait, shrinking his book and stowing it in his pocket on the way.
December 25, 1996: SnapeThe man followed Snape out the back entrance of the pub, just as Snape had known he would. He could always pick out the ones who were the type to go in for this sort of thing. They fell into three basic categories—young and naïve, older and somewhat masochistic, or unattractive enough to take whatever they could get. The man behind him fell rather decidedly into the second group.
It was not as if Snape did this kind of thing regularly. He had done it a few times, 'several' at most. And he refused to feel guilty about it. He always made damn sure his partner knew what he was getting himself in for.
And besides, sometimes he just needed the release. Not that it was much of a sexual release—no, if sex were his main objective, there were certainly more pleasant ways to go about it. But he needed an outlet for the searing anger, the self-loathing, the hatred balled up tight in his gut. Otherwise, he was liable to start randomly hexing students. Or himself.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Snape spun the other man—Snape was fairly sure he'd introduced himself at some point, but he was at a loss for a name—and pressed his back against the wall.
"Be certain this is really what you want. It's going to hurt," Snape whispered in his ear.
The man moaned. "No mercy," he said and turned to face the wall. The two made short work of their trouser fastenings and Snape thrust into the other man with no warning.
And it burned, oh how it burned. He never used any lubrication in these brief encounters, of course, and his cock felt like it was on fire. Not it a good way, either. Instead of allowing himself time to adjust, he forced himself to start thrusting, deep and hard.
A few moments later, he heard, "Oh—ah!—yes," and felt a distinctive shudder from his companion. Snape came shortly after, almost in spite of himself.
He muttered a cleaning charm, straightened his clothing, and leaned against the wall, waiting for the other man to go back into the pub. He had other business in this alley tonight.
When the man had gone, he took a few steps to his right, which left him standing directly in front of whoever had rendered him or herself invisible. He did not readily detect any concealment spells—a cloak, perhaps?
He leaned as close as he dared without chancing touching the person and lowered his voice to a seductive purr. "Do you like what you see?"
He heard a satisfyingly shuddering breath being released under the cloak. Snape smirked, then suddenly reached up and pulled the cloak away.
When he saw who had been under it, he could actually feel the blood drain from his face. For some completely inexplicable reason, his first thought was, 'He'll hate me now.' How ridiculous! As if Potter did not already hate him with every one in his body.
Snape looked reluctantly into his eyes, dreading the loathing, the revulsion, the mockery he would inevitably find there. It was no less than he deserved, of course. What he saw instead was, unmistakably, ill-concealed lust. He heard himself draw in a sharp breath (he refused to think he had actually gasped) and saw himself raise a hand, as if to touch the young man's cheek. Fortunately, he stopped himself in time and took a sizable step back.
"Return to the castle this instant! You are not safe here," he said with as much venom as he could manage, which was not much given present circumstances, and promptly stalked out of the alley.
As soon as he was well out of sight, he leaned against a wall and hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of all the people who could possibly find him like that, see him in that decidedly stupid situation, it had to be him. At the moment, Snape could not imagine how he could possibly live with this.
It just had to be Harry.