Chapter Twenty-One: Instead of Dying from It, You Seem to Thrive on Curiosity, Kitten

How strange, Harry thinks, that he knows this man intimately, that the taste of his kisses are etched into his veins, that he remembers the serpent tongue shaped scar on the man's abdomen, just as he does its texture, too. He has memorised the touch of his fingertips on his own skin, and he can recall the deep rumble of his voice as easily as if it echoed in him continuously, a never-ending sound imprinted into his heartbeat – and yet, he does not know what Snape sleeps in.

The only time Harry has seen Snape sleep, he was wearing his black pants and his white shirt, parts of his wardrobe with which Harry, yet again, is rather closely acquainted, and now as he sits on his bed, he wonders if he's going to see them again.

He would understand it, of course, if that were the case. The reason behind it is simple enough. Not comfort, or even simplicity, but distance. That night, weeks ago, when Snape had fallen asleep next to him it was an accident, nothing more. Changing into sleepwear, into anything else would have suggested purpose, a rational decision.

Tonight is different, ought to be different at least. Harry himself has put on a shirt and his usual boxers, and now sits on the edge of the bed, bare feet rubbing together anxiously. Part of him wants to get under the covers and pretend to be asleep by the time Snape comes back from his shower, the other part… the other part thinks Snape is taking so long because he himself hopes for the same.

Harry hears the bathroom door open and close. The footsteps on the corridor are light but audible. Snape walks to his own room and for a moment, just one dreadful long second, Harry thinks he won't come. Snape believes him to be asleep already and doesn't want to disturb him, or never intended to come in here in the first place.

His heartbeat picks up and he almost stands, but then the footsteps sound up again, coming closer, closer.

Harry has left the door open and now the slim, dark figure slips in not more than a shadow.

The fire burns low and its light is not enough to bring brightness to the whole room. Snape shifts, moves from a spot of darkness to another like a Lethifold, existing only in spaces without light. His footsteps are quiet, bare feet on hardwood floor barely make a sound.

Harry watches him, eyes set on the drifting shadow until he stands there in front of him.

The sight is surprising. It's… simple. Snape wears old pyjama pants, charcoal grey and a white t-shirt, spotless, unwrinkled, but clearly not worn for the first time. Gnarly toes descend in neat order, pale white feet, and protruding veins, down there too, of course. His long arms look strangely indecent as if rolled up sleeves and t-shirts would be such a difference. Yet they are. It's wildly different somehow, but Harry can't exactly tell why.

Harry has seen Snape more naked, but never so bare.

Fingers tense around a black wand as if Snape felt the investigative gaze slide up and down on his body, observing every previously unseen inch, and reacquainting with everything that's already familiar.

"I would prefer to stay closer to the door," he says softly and Harry shivers. The words shatter the dreamlike quality of the moment and it suddenly dawns on him that this is real, happening right now and not just a daydream, a hallucination.

"Oh, sure," he says, then scoots back to the other side of the bed.

Instead of lying down, Snape lifts his wand and starts casting. The protective spells wash over the whole house strengthening the magic already there. Harry has never felt it before, not really, but now as he watches the magic form and settle, he can tell it's always been there.

Once done with that, Snape points his wand at the dying fire and it dims even more. Nothing but glowing orange ambers light up the room – those and the moon outside.

Harry sits on the bed, legs crossed and watches Snape as he lifts the blanket and sits down. He places his wand next to his pillow to reach easier if something happens, then leans against the headrest, one hand across his stomach, the other one on his tugged up leg.

"That must be a rather uncomfortable sleeping position," he notes quietly, motioning with nothing but a mere glance at Harry's situation. He himself still has a leg on the ground as if he was ready to bolt any minute.

Anxiety crawls on Harry's spine, as with a small sigh, he climbs under the blanket too and lies down on his back. He pulls the covers up to his chin and takes off his glasses, placing them on the nightstand.

Snape stirs too, slowly, shifts down on the bed, puts both legs under the cover like how a dog sneaks inside the house: just one paw at a time, just a nose over the threshold, maybe they won't notice, until he's just there, lying on an old rug in front of the fire.

The distance between them feels at least a mile long and Harry is certain Snape's balancing on the edge of the bed, even though it should be large enough for two adults to fit comfortably.

He wants to reach out, dies to grasp that white shirt and pull Snape closer but he doesn't dare. He ignores the itching in his palm, in the tips of his fingers and forces his eyes shut. He evens his breathing and hopes to fall asleep sooner rather than later, even though he suspects that is not likely to happen.

Minutes pass; ten, twenty, half an hour, maybe a full hour even, Harry cannot tell. He lies there in the dark, drifting in and out of sleep, there one second just to be woken up by his own breathing the next.

Why was it so easy the first time? Why did it feel so normal to take Snape's hand in his and touch him and caress him and kiss his palm and then fall asleep on his shoulder? They are closer now, and yet the distance between them seems to grow exponentially with every passing second in this darkness.

"You cannot sleep." It's not a question, although Harry's motionless body shouldn't have given him away. Was it his breathing, his panicked thoughts?

"No, I can't," he tells the ceiling, where distorted shadows dance.

Snape stirs, rolls on his back. Harry doesn't turn his way, yet he still knows. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell exactly how the man beside him lies, how his limbs are placed across his abdomen, as if he was laid down for his final rest.

There's another long moment of silence that hoovers around them thick like tar. Harry gets lost in the shadows, dances with them, and allows them to pull him deep down.

Whispered words drag him back out, yank him to the surface. "Do you want me closer?

Closer? A choked sound breaks out of Harry. I want you under my skin. I want you in the marrow of my bones, carved into the walls of my arteries.

"Yes." The word tumbles out of him, then Harry snaps his mouth shut before others would follow, too.

Snape turns then, moves closer, just inches away from the edge. The distance between them shrinks from universes to mere galaxies apart. For a moment Harry wonders if there is a state close enough even, if they could ever reach it.

"Better?" Comes a deep rumble, and Harry wants to laugh. As if that would be enough. The miles between them still gape empty like a dark hole and Harry feels himself falling, being pulled down into that endless divide.

"Closer," he says softly and turns his back to Snape, who moves again, slithers under the covers like a snake, silent, careful, until Harry suddenly seems to feel the heat of his body, there behind him. Not yet touching, just a pressure of air, a phantom touch, achingly sweet.

"Closer," he says again, more demanding. Close enough to suffocate me.

An arm twines around him and pulls him back. The body behind him presses against him tightly, tight enough that he feels bones firm and jutting, bare skin where Snape's shirt has ridden up, and heat, wilder than ever.

Snape's hand slides from his hip up onto his side, then down across chest, palm nestles against his beating heart, fingertips gently stroking his bare skin over the neck of his shirt. Harry lifts his head and waits until an arm slips underneath it. He presses his nose into Snape's skin and inhales him. He can smell the clean scent of soap and of Snape's body, of earth and moss and forest, too.

He curls up like a child and Snape comes with him, coiling around him, tight and snug like a living, breathing blanket.

Harry sighs when he feels a hot breath on his ear, a kiss placed gently right behind it.

"Close enough?" Snape asks, voice quiet, but Harry can hear the light teasing and he smiles as he burrows himself more into those arms.

He twines their fingers together against his chest, then whispers, "Almost."

o.O.o

Morning greets Harry alone in the bed. He turns around, but the spot behind him that still holds Snape's shape is cold now. He lies on his back for a few more minutes and basks in the memories of last night. Not just the arms around him, but the scene in the library enfolds in front of his mind's eyes with strange clarity, too, crystal sharp like a vivid memory in a Pensive.

He gets red in the face not just because of Snape's words, but because of what he himself had said, what he begged for. When his cock starts to stir awake, he decides it's time to get up.

By the time he walks down to the kitchen, the colour of his face has returned to normal, yet he still gulps when he notices Snape sitting at the table with a cup of tea and the Prophet.

"Morning," he calls, trying to squish the stupid grin that wants to settle on his face and nearly even manages.

He's surprised to catch an answering twitch at the corner of thin lips.

"Good morning," Snape says to him, too.

As he passes him, Harry allows himself a gentle touch, just fingertips skimming over shoulders, nothing too conspicuous, but just as he would step away, a hand shoots out and snatches him by the wrist.

"Whoa!" The cry barely breaks out of him, when he's gently tugged closer and silenced with a kiss. It's short and sweet, tasting of Earl Grey; more just a greeting than a sign of passion, even if it still curls Harry's toes.

He's let go the next moment and by the time his eyes open, Snape's back to reading the papers as if the previous incident hasn't even happened. Harry wants to laugh and this time, not even his great effort is enough to stop the smile from tugging on his lips.

He pours himself tea and sets out making breakfast.

"What's going on out there?" He asks as he whisks the eggs.

"According to the Prophet? Nothing. We're living in peace, prosperity and freedom." Snape sneers, then fishes out a letter from underneath that garbage of a newspaper. "Albus says otherwise, unfortunately. There are riots all over the country. People missing is as regular an occurrence now as it was twenty years ago. Professor Slughorn, my substitute this year, received several threatening letters suggesting to him to side with the Dark Lord or bear the consequences, so Albus has hid him – for how long he'll be safe, I wouldn't know, but not long is my guess."

"Who's teaching Potions now, then?"

"No one, probably, but that is among the least of the school's problems. Dementors roam the perimeter day and night now. Death Eaters show up the moment someone appears outside of the castle. The Dark Lord has never been so brazen. It's like he's taunting Albus to attack."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"About the Horcruxes. That you destroyed all of them."

"Not all," Snape says quietly. "The snake is still there."

"And me…" Harry notes as he divides the scrambled eggs onto two plates then adds the crispy bacon.

"He must know of a few at least. There were battles after all. Haven't you… felt something?"

"Not since then," Harry shakes his head as he places the plates down and sits opposite Snape. "He must know they are all gone. Five pieces of his soul are destroyed, one has to notice that, surely."

Snape lets out a noncommittal huff. "I highly doubt that when your soul is in eight pieces you're left to feel anything at all."

"True," Harry chuckles, then they start eating.

The food is almost gone when Harry speaks again. "I can't help but wish for the war to be over."

Snape sighs, moves some eggs around, but then places down his cutlery and pushes his plate away. "Don't say that," he asks, not looking up. "Please, don't say that, not to me." He drives five fingers through his hair then leans back in his chair. He looks suddenly defeated.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "But I hate tiptoeing around it. I'll have to die; we both know it, and the sooner that happens, the sooner Riddle will be killed."

Sharp black eyes are suddenly on him. "Don't," Snape warns, jaw tense. "I am not ready to talk about this."

"When will you be ready?"

Snape shakes his head. "Never."

Harry reaches across the table and holds a hand out. Snape takes it without hesitation. "I hate this," he admits. "I don't even dare think about what this will do to you in the end."

"Then don't." Snape suggests. "Don't think about the war, don't even mention it. If you lo-" he stops himself, bites his lower lip, then goes on, slower, more conscious of his words, "If you care about me at all, you will not talk to me about this. You will allow me to be comforted by my fantasies until the time comes when I have to face reality, but not a second sooner am I willing to entertain the thought of your death, do you understand?"

Harry nods, then his fingers tighten around Snape's. "Yes," he allows a little smile as he adds, "We live in peace, prosperity and freedom."

Snape huffs, but his lips twitch as he says, "We do, indeed."

They stay there in the kitchen for a while. Harry takes the Daily Prophet and reads up on the lies and the inane articles on magical cleaning supplies nearly manage to make him believe that indeed there is no war, no Voldemort and life is rather simple.

His eyes wander around aimlessly and his thoughts even more so.

If you love me…

Isn't that what Snape nearly said? Why did he stop himself? Does he not believe it? Would that be such an outrageous idea? Love? Between the two of them? Surely in a world where unicorns exist, where magic is an everyday business, it's not such an outlandish proposal.

I do, I do love you, Severus.

He watches the man and the words almost slip out. There in the kitchen, where everything started, he almost says those three little words.

I love you.

It seems so easy to say them yet he doesn't dare open his mouth. So many things had been said between them, so many indecent, wicked sentences and this is what causes trouble? How so? Why? Would it really be so hard to believe?

Snape summons some ink and a parchment and starts scribbling a letter. Harry doesn't ask to whom it will be, but he watches Snape write instead of reading the paper in his hand. The lies the Prophet shouts cannot hold his attention any longer, when slim fingers twined around a long black quill are there to entice him yet again.

He still doesn't quite understand his fascination with that hand, why those gnarly fingers make his stomach twist with need and yet, even now, just looking at them is enough to feel his spine tingle.

He doesn't need to imagine them on his body anymore, he has memories, plenty of them. He knows what they feel like on his naked skin, how their light touch can summon goose bumps on his arms. Soft palm and calloused fingertips, a tight grip… he doesn't have to fantasise anymore like during that first night so long ago.

He knows how their grip feels in his hair, tugging him closer, he knows what enticing sounds they can make him utter, knows the pleasure they can wring from his body. He knows many things, except one.

What would they feel like moving inside him? Would it be strange, weird, alien? Or perhaps, once more, Harry is to face something he would quite like and would find nothing strange about it?

His cock stirs, interested already. A few more minutes of similar thoughts and he'll have another awkward moment in this kitchen.

The parchment rolls up on the bottom but Snape slides his palm across it, and it straightens. Harry feels that touch on his chest, skimming his bare skin. Hand against his ribcage, over his abdomen.

The quill screeches on the paper as Snape signs the letter, then a tap of his wand has it rolled up tightly.

Harry can't look away from the elegant way Snape holds that black wood. His grip isn't tight, but the wand couldn't slip from his fingers no matter what. His touch is light, yet his wand obeys easily, willingly, eager to produce magic.

Everything turns eager it seems between those skilled hands, assisted by those long, slim fingers.

"Fawkes," Snape calls out and Harry looks up surprised when the fiery red bird appears in their kitchen.

"Take this to Albus, please," he tells the phoenix as he hands him the letter. Fawkes picks it up with his claws and lets out a reassuring trill as he looks at Harry then back at Snape. The next moment, he's gone and there's nothing left behind him, just the scent of fire and some heat to the air.

"You can just summon him?" Harry gapes.

The expression on Snape's face turns smug. "Apparently, when called for, he comes readily to people most loyal to Dumbledore."

Harry laughs at that, feeling pride swell in him, when he looks at Snape. Not many can call themselves Albus Dumbledore's right hand man.

Snape pours himself some more tea and when his hand twines around the mug, Harry feels lost again. This fascination, this mindless obsession is ludicrous and yet he cannot look away. The way tendons move and veins tense and Snape's hold tightens then loosens up is all but mesmerizing to watch.

When his middle finger circles the rim of the mug, Harry nearly grunts out loud. How can such a mundane motion feel indecent enough that his cock reacts to it and hardens almost immediately?

His blood rushes south, but there's enough left that his cheeks start burning as he recalls two fingers at his bum, the little pressure, careful, gentle, but insistent.

His heartbeat picks up. Snape lifts the mug to his mouth, but Harry can't look away. Not even when he notices those lips pull into a smug smile. His face only heats up even more, when his gaze meets black eyes.

"What could possibly be so interesting about my hands that you keep staring at them all morning?" Snape drawls.

Harry swallows, but then blurts out, "How does it work?"

Snape frowns for a moment. "What?"

The heat in his face must take his mind away, because quietly, Harry asks "How many do you have to fit in me before…"

He doesn't look away from Snape so he sees those intense black eyes widen slightly in surprise, then narrow as Snape's expression darkens, too. Even his voice seems suddenly deeper, coarser as if the tea has dried his throat.

"Is that what you've been thinking of for the last hour?"

Harry nods, "Yes…"

Snape leans back in the chair, crosses one leg over his knee and folds his hands in his lap. Harry would almost pity the loss of the sight of those fingers if he could break away from the spell of Snape's gaze for even a second.

"Does it excite you? The mere thought of it?" The question is spoken in a reserved but dark tone and Harry feels it crawl up his spine. Hooked claws scrape along his vertebra and he straightens, fidgeting, trying to quell the heat inside him.

He's flushed, cheeks burning, and he almost, almost regrets bringing this up, but the excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach makes it worth it. "Yes," he says again, winded.

Snape slowly lifts a hand. His three fingers in the middle are outstretched, while the other two are tucked in.

Harry swallows, nearly chokes on his own spit, too. "Good god... How the hell would that even fit?"

Snape takes a deep breath, lowers his hand back in his lap. For a second Harry wonders if he feels the same thrill, if he, too, is starting to get hard just by talking about this. That's probably the case and the mere thought has desire sing in Harry's veins.

"You would be surprised. You could take two easily," he says calmly. "But you have nothing to worry about. Nothing needs to happen unless you feel like it and if you decide you want to try it out, I can promise to be very gentle."

Harry's quiet for a moment. Something buzzes in him, curiosity, lust, a mix of both. "Is it good?"

Thin lips twitch and eyes light up. "Yes," comes the simple answer.

"It is?"

"It is rather enjoyable indeed… with proper precaution of course." Snape watches him, and Harry feels like a bug pinned to the table. He doesn't dare look away, or even move. He just stares back trying to still his pounding heart. "Are you intrigued?

"Yes," Harry swallows thickly. "I think, I am."

Snape's taking controlled breaths but Harry can tell, there's a storm beneath the surface. He's not unaffected by this conversation at all.

"Are you?" he asks the man.

The corner of Snape's lips twitches, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he stands up and carries his mug to the sink. He rinses it out, then heads towards the door.

He stops behind Harry, who feels his stomach summersault straight away. He can feel Snape's presence right behind him, the heat of his body, his magic. Electricity runs up his spine and when a pale hand slowly descends on the table and another twines around his throat to keep him still, it only gets worse.

He's so excited, his stomach clenches and his cock stirs, tenses against his boxer shorts.

Then Snape says slowly, in a dark voice, "I would have fucked you right on this very table the first night you appeared in front of me hard. So yes, Potter, I'm intrigued. You know I am."

Harry takes his hand from his throat, draws it down between his legs. He presses his hardness against Snape's palm, rolls his hips forward as he says quietly, tone pleading, "Do it now… Do it with your fingers…"

Snape growls, his palm against Harry's hardness moves, shifts up and down, grip tight.

"Unfortunately for us, I have to finish a potion for Professor Dumbledore right now…"

"Tonight then?" Harry asks, gasping for air.

Snape drags his lips against his ear and Harry's whole body shudders. "You think you're ready?"

"Yes?"

When Snape pulls away, he nearly cries out at the loss.

"Stand up and turn around!" Snape tells him softly. "Look me in the eyes and ask for it."

With shaking legs, Harry stands. His motions are tentative but he does face Snape even if it takes him an eternity.

Snape hasn't moved away and his closeness is rattling. Harry looks into expectant black eyes but not even a word manages to slip past his clenched throat.

"So, what would you like tonight, Harry?"

He barely hears the question. His heart beats in his ears like drums. His muscles vibrate, his skin prickles but the words still do not come forward. When he can bear it no longer his eyes drop to the ground, but almost immediately, a hand on his chin makes him turn back towards Snape.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, don't apologise. I told you, nothing needs to happen."

"I want it, it's just…"

"Hush…" Snape says then kisses him softly. "You have concerns. You're apprehensive. It's normal. Besides, not everyone likes it, anyway. There are many other things you could try."

Harry looks up. The understanding he sees in the black gaze eases something in him. "I am interested…"

Thin lips twist, tug in one corner. "How about a demonstration first?" Snape suggests.

"A demonstration…?"

"I could show you how it works… how it fits," Snape smirks as he says the last word and Harry's stomach makes another tumble. "I thought you would ask for it the moment you had the chance, but you've been silent, mentioned it not once. I'm surprised. Aren't you curious?"

"Curious?" Harry asks back. "What about?"

"Oh, don't tell me you are going to make me spell this out for you, as well?" Snape drawls, sweetly.

Harry looks from one glimmering dark eye to the other. "What?"

Snape frowns, and for a second, he seems to contemplate Harry's confusion. "Are you joking…? Or do you just want me to say it?"

Harry takes the man's hand, and places it back over his cock. "Listen Severus, all my blood is down here, I can't think like this. Spell it out."

A smile flickers across Snape's mouth, sharp and dangerous. His teeth flash as he hisses, "Gods, how much I love your innocence. There's only one thing I love more: taking it."

"Severus what…?"

Snape doesn't look away as he moves closer and asks, voice low, keen. "Harry, would you like to fuck me?"

The world turns with Harry but his body's reaction is undeniable. The moment his brain understands the question, his cock twitches against Snape's hold, clearly interested.

Obviously, Snape becomes aware of it right away, too. His smile widens as he leans to Harry's ear, fingers moving slowly on his member. "Oh, I think that's answer enough," he chuckles, then he turns to leave.

Harry watches him walk out of the kitchen, speechless.