Pratter:

Something was amiss when I saw my ff.net account today. I got more than one review for the first chapter.

I am absolutely overwhelmed by the positive response to this story. I thought that I was the only one who would like it! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed.

Note:

Some of the places I will be mentioning in this story are fictional, but many are real. I have visited New York City a year ago, so I expect that many things have changed. If you see something that is not quite factual, feel free to contact me.

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New York, New York

by Galae

"Oh great gods," Snape proclaimed. "Voldemort must have assigned us to this hellhole."

"C'mon, Professor, it's not all that bad," Harry said. He looked infuriatingly optimistic in the midst of all the chaos they called New York City.

"Bad!" Snape looked like he just swallowed a mouthful of acid. "Potter, your lack of vocabulary fails to term this place as nothing other than 'execrable.'"

"Professor . . ."

"Now, where is that stupid place we're staying at?"

"It's called the Waldorf-Astoria, Professor."

"The Walrus-what?"

"Waldorf-Astoria. It's a hotel."

"And where in Merlin's great name is that?"

Harry consulted the map. "301 Park Avenue. It's in Manhattan. So we should take a taxi."

"A what?"

"Taxi. It's what they call these cars." Harry flicked a finger at the yellow Crown Victorias streaming by.

"Oh, I see," Snape sneered. "They have such a poor feeling for conciseness they need eighteen different names for one thing. No wonder Muggles never get anything done. They're too busy trying to figure out what they're talking about to do anything."

"Sir . . . They do need another name for these. Taxis are cars that you have to pay to ride on. As opposed to normal cars that you just pay to fix." At Snape's arched eyebrows, he stopped talking. Instead, Harry held up a hand to hail a taxi.

It was then that Harry noticed Snape had a nervous habit. It wasn't very apparent to him at the beginning, but Snape did it every half an hour. He would reach in his pocket and grasp something small and silver, and then put it back. It was as if Snape lived in fear of losing it.

They actually made it to the Waldorf-Astoria without any great mishap. Well, Snape did try to place a curse on the driver, but Harry wrenched him away before he could get to his wand.

"Professor!"

"That man was trying to cheat us!"

"What happened to no magic in the Muggle world?"

"He would have deserved it," Snape muttered. Being in a crowded foreign city with Potter by his side and no dungeon around is not the way to be logical.

The Waldorf-Astoria was a remarkably beautiful hotel. Harry, who had seen it many times in movies, walked inside with relative ease. Snape, who had never set foot in a Muggle hotel in his life and had never wanted to, tried to set a charm on the revolving door. Thankfully, Harry had confiscated his wand.

"Give it back," he hissed. He felt like a walking target without it.

"Not until you're sane enough not to do anything suicidal," Harry muttered back. "Just follow the door. It's not that hard."

No, not really. Once Snape realized that he didn't want his legs amputated, it was easy work.

They signed in, received two electronic keys, got to their room and found . . .

There was only one bed.

"Damn Albus!" Snape exploded. "I suppose arranging a decent Muggle room for the teacher he coerced into going is too much for his addled brain."

"We'll got a cot," Harry said coaxingly. He called housekeeping and was informed that one would cost fifteen dollars per night and, due to the hour, they would only be able to get one the next morning. Harry repeated the information to Snape, who looked like he's going to be fed to Aragog.

"It's just one night." Stony glare. "Professor, do you think I'm any more pleased about this than you are?"

"What time is it?" Snape finally asked.

"It's eight, New York time. That's one in the morning, London time." Harry answered. He was tired. Jet lag was kicking in, major time, and reminded him that he hadn't had any sleep for about twenty hours.

"I guess we'll go to bed, then," Snape said, a little awkwardly. "Potter, I am correct in my assumption that you brought clean bedclothes?"

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was sitting in the (very large, admittedly) bed, reading an American magazine. Even though the article was very absorbing, he looked up as the bathroom door opened and Snape emerged.

He didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe a heavy black woolen robe or something similar to what Snape wore everyday to class. But definitely not this. Snape was in a robe, yes, but it wasn't quite as long and it was a very dark green in color. It was cotton, not wool. And even Harry had to admit that he looked . . . human.

It was a very scary thought.

He licked his lips unconsciously. And then another scarier thought hit him. This was what Snape looked like, going to bed everyday. And Harry was staring at him like he's expecting him to Apparate at any minute. He didn't realize this until Snape's upper lip curled a little and he sneered:

"Are you done staring, Potter, or have I transfigured into a museum exhibit?"

"So-sorry," Harry stammered, forcing his eyes back to the magazine.

But his attention refused to stay. He was very well aware of the fact that Snape had crossed the room, and that the bed was shifting. A weight settled in next to him. In all his seventeen years, Harry had never felt anything like that. Someone climbing in bed with him.

Nonononono. That was definitely a very, very bad thought.

He's a teacher, his mind thought frantically. Just a teacher doing his duty. It's not like you were in Hogwarts or anything. You're in New York. Right. This is a trip, just a trip, and Snape is not doing this voluntarily.

Then why was his skin tingling?

"Good night, Potter."

What? Oh. "Good night—Professor."

Harry went to sleep.

~*~*~

"Right through the very heart of it

New York, New York"

When Harry woke up the next morning, Snape had already eaten. Harry brushed his teeth, and went on the telephone to order his breakfast. And the cot.

Although. Last night wasn't so bad. He and Snape largely kept to themselves (thankfully), although there was this one awkward moment when they both woke up and climbed off to go to the bathroom. Snape had muttered something like, "Go ahead" and Harry had to stumble out of the room.

But the man was dressed at seven o'clock in the morning, wearing another set of Muggle clothes. When Harry entered the front room, he stared at him a little, then took his eyes away. He was definitely not going to get used to this.

They didn't explore New York that day. Dumbledore set that for the second week. Instead, Harry and Snape went to The Chandle School of Magic.

It was set about an hour north from New York. As directed, they boarded the Chandle Train, their version of the Hogwarts Express. Instead of the King's Cross, the station was one of New York's many subway stations (it was 33rd Street, which was a stop on the New Jersey-New York subway system). Instead of the barrier, there was a wall, and since so many people flurried back and forth their exit was not noticed.

The Chandle School was not a castle. In fact, it was a huge limestone building designed in the Grecian style, with Corinthian columns on a huge portico and a massive dome. Inside, there wasn't any of Hogwart's comfortable brick, but wallpapered and painted walls. It was certainly impressive. But it was definitely American.

The headmaster of Chandle was Mr. George Ekleson. Harry didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't that.

The Chandle School put a lot more emphasis on fitting in with Muggles. That made sense, since most of its graduates will be working outside in their world. Their uniforms were just slacks and shirts. Girls were not required to wear skirts, because the Chandle trustees believed that to be gender discrimination. In addition to Charms, Potions, DADA, Herbology and all the basic Hogwarts subjects, Chandle students were required to take Muggle Studies. Passing by a group of fifth-years, Harry would hear them debating the merits of Dwight Eisenhower.

Snape fared all right, despite his firm belief that all the Americanism would swallow him alive. Ekleson thought that he was humorous, a belief that made Harry laugh and Snape choke.

So their first day went by without major accidents. On the second day, Harry "shadowed" a Chandle student and Snape helped teach Potions. Harry impressed them all with his disarming skills, and the teachers seemed to like him. But something felt amiss until he stepped into Potions and saw Snape standing there, one elbow on the teacher's desk, looking like he already belonged in that classroom. It seemed that strangers did nothing to curb Snape's tongue. There was a lot of dressing down that particular day.

But all the students liked him. It was a weird sensation, to hear that the rest of his classmates appreciated Snape. Maybe it's the fact that Snape had no House loyalties in Chandle (Chandle had no Houses, period), or maybe it's the fact that Americans were more used to Potions, but they all thought that Snape was really funny. Go figure.

Third day. That day, Harry and Snape performed their usual banter for the entire Potions class without even realizing it, until the students applauded them.

The girls sitting behind Harry were . . . well. They were certainly paying attention, though not to the class. Harry nearly chopped off his own finger when one of them said, "Gret thinks that both of them are just so cute. Well, Harry Potter's just adorable, but Severus is like, a man. He is gorgeous, isn't he?"

"That man just reeks of sex," said the other girl, giggling. "Wonder if he's got a girlfriend? He definitely isn't the marrying type."

That was when Harry's cauldron blew up and endeared him to the rest of the Chandle students forever.

Fourth day. Snape was rapidly becoming one of the most popular teachers in the school. Snape dealt with this unknown situation by becoming more scathing than ever. He forced one of the students, a burly, sour-looking boy, to take his own potion since he was goofing off the entire class. The boy turned into a Cornish pixie with Mandrake leaves sprouting out of his head. Mark, the boy Harry was shadowing, asked him if Snape ever thought about becoming a comedian. "I'm thinkin', like, Chris Rock. He'd be sooo good hosting the Grammys or somethin'. Wait 'til I tell Mom what he said to Dexter! He's just like that guy on American Idol—Simon Cowell. I think that Ekleson's going to try to recruit him here . . ."

Harry said something not very generous, but secretly he felt—a little proud? That was definitely weird.

Fifth day. The Chandle School got up a feast in honor of Harry and Snape. Apparently Mark wasn't the only one with enough lunacy to suggest Snape should be a comedian. One of the fourth-years actually slipped him a piece of paper with the phone number of his uncle, a Hollywood agent, telling him to give it to Snape if he ever needed a job. Harry snorted but kept the paper anyways. Ekleson made a nice little speech about how much Harry and Snape contributed to Chandle. Harry-and-Snape. It was almost like a single noun now, in Chandle. Harry would have laughed had it not been so disturbing.

~*~*~

Sixth and last day at Chandle. Harry watched the American form of Quidditch. Except, theirs was more like a form of cricket and there was a lot more hurtling balls and smashing brooms. Oh, yes, and their bats were a lot bigger too, and every player carried one. That might be because there were five Bludgers out. Harry wondered how a sane Seeker could catch the Snitch with one hand on the broom and the other on his bat. But it turned out that the bat was able to push out a net-like device. The results stood at 240 points for the winning team, 210 for the losing, five injuries, and two broken brooms. The Dream Team won.

That night, they went back to the hotel, utterly exhausted. Harry plopped down on the sofa and turned on the television set. Amazingly, Snape sat down next to him. Neither said anything for fifteen minutes, even though the program was as boring as a class with Binns.

"So," Snape said, voice cool. He waved his hand at the black object in front of him. "What do they call this . . . archaic device?"

"It's a telly," answered Harry softly.

"It is like a picture. A wizarding picture, that is." Snape said. There was something about that artificial, solitary darkness that made him quiet. "And what would they call these miniature programs that are bloody boring?"

"Ads, Professor."

"And why the hell is that woman doing outside in the woods at midnight? Does she want to get killed?"

"It's a late-night movie, Professor. These aren't really made with quality in mind."

"Oh."

He said nothing more. Harry turned and stared at him. With a slip of the weak city moonlight wavering into the room, his professor's head was framed in a perfect silhouette. It was a strong profile, he thought idly, staring at the man. An intelligent eye, a firm eyebrow, a hardened nose whose slope gave way to a pair of lips as stiff as if they were carved from stone. In a flash of insanity, Harry wondered what Snape would have looked like before—all that. The thought was so strange that Harry quickly turned away and watched the television dumbly.

Of course, Harry was no longer young. He was at the age when he was able to realize that adults, too, carried lives of their own. That they were young, once—that they were teenagers. But it was hard to imagine Snape being anything but the cold, sneering man he was, dressing him down everyday. Was he once young? Harry pondered. After what he heard in Potions class that day—gosh, did Snape ever have a girlfriend? It was difficult, to say the least, to imagine his greasy old Potions Master arm-in-arm with a girl. Even more so to think of him kissing anybody, or doing anything beyond that.

Oh, Harry knew that Snape was not prudish. Death Eaters did . . . things. Snape must know of sex and stuff. But still, Harry could imagine Snape shagging anyone. It was just too scary.

"Potter. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm sorry?" Harry shook himself out of his thoughts.

"My, my, what have we been thinking of that could possibly make the great Harry Potter blush?" Snape said mockingly, thin lips twisted into some resemblance of a smile. "Was it some dark lusty thoughts about the various prostitutes lurking around this blasted city?"

"Oh, no, Professor," Harry said sweetly. "I am not desperate."

"Are you implying something, Potter?"

"Not at all."

"In that case, I still suggest that you keep your thoughts to yourself."

"I am not the one that wanted to know," Harry replied. Even to himself the old banter seemed worn, and it sounded more like a obstructive wall than real emotion.

Wall . . . what could he possibly be hiding? What happened to all his hatred of Snape? Immediately, he panicked. Harry searched inside himself for something—something to guarantee that it was still the same. Think, he reprimanded himself. Think of Snape making fun of Neville. Of him taking off fifty points from Gryffindor. Of him making fun of Harry endlessly in front of Draco and all the Slytherins.

But it was gone, for good. The deep loathing he had started out this trip with was now replaced by a deeper, calmer sense of serenity. He didn't hate Snape anymore. It was as simple as that. Somewhere, in the course of the last week, Harry had come to respect Severus Snape.

It was a chilling thought.

"Professor . . ."

"If you have something to say, Potter, I suggest you spit it out."

"I . . ."

"What is it, Potter?"

Harry sighed. "I've just had a thought."

"Happy happy joy joy," Snape sneered. "Shall I send you a card to commemorate the occasion?"

"Admit it, Professor. You could have come up with a better retort than that," Harry said, leaning back to stare at him.

"Excuse me, Potter?"

"A week ago," Harry stated. "You would have just tore my ears off. But you've lost it, Snape. Admit it. You've gone mellow."

"I have not."

"See? Before, you would have added that I was the stupidest person alive, with the possible exception of Neville." Harry pointed out triumphantly.

"So my tongue no longer feels the need to exercise so much. Does that bother you, Potter?" Snape said, eyes boring into him.

Tongue. Exercise. Gods! Out of the gutter! Now! "No-o," Harry stammered, despite his wishes to speak otherwise. "It's nicer. Actually. We've both loosened our standards, haven't we? I like it better this way," he admitted. "It is easier to think of each other as less of a git."

"Perhaps for you," said Snape frostily.

Short days ago, that would have peeved him for hours on end. But now, Harry simply smiled. "Confess, Professor. You've grown fond of me."

"Why don't you go for a swim in Lake Me, Potter," Snape scoffed. He fished out the mysterious silver thing again, and then pushed it back into his pocket without Harry even seeing that it was. "'Fond' is entirely too absurd a word. I tolerate you, yes, but don't push your luck. As you see—"

"Professor," said Harry evenly, "have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"—I—what?"

"Have you ever had a girlfriend?"

"A girlfriend?"

"Yes." Harry scooted over so that Snape could see him mouth every word. "Girl. Friend. You know. A girl you take out on dates. A girl you kiss. And shag."

"I assure you that my personal life is none of your business, Potter!"

"So you haven't had one?"

"What makes you so sure?" Snape mocked. "Of course, only the great Harry Potter could have girls hanging all over him. Well, I am sorry to burst that bubble of egotism, Potter, but when I was in Hogwarts as a student, I have stolen girls from your sainted godfather. Three, as a matter of a fact."

Harry simply sat there, gaping at him.

"Of course, Black never told you that, now, had he? How typical of the bastard. Nobody ever shows up Sirius Black. He was the god of Gryffindor. He was the great one. His blasted self-centeredness almost matches yours, Potter, but not quite." Snape gave a barking laugh. "Of course, Felicia was such a pretty girl. And so vulnerable when she's mad. Sailed right into my arms, she did, and your godfather hated me ever since."

"I don't believe it."

"That's your decision," Snape smirked. Those three works just said everything.

Harry gazed at him. It was almost the closest thing he's ever seen to a smile on Snape's face. He liked it. He also realized that Snape's eyes were softening, no longer the dark, intense stare that frightened him so much for the last seven or eight years.

"Do you find anything fascinating, Potter?" Snape asked, with only a hint of disparagement.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well, it is either me or something behind me. Might it be the lovely curtains?"

"They're not lovely and you know it."

Snape's eyes intensified at Harry's fierce tone. "What are you saying, Potter?" he asked quietly.

Harry stared at him back. But then he smiled softly. "You're not . . . half as boring as I thought you were."

He didn't know what it was. It might have been the soft moonlight filtering in the windows, or the fact that he suddenly realized he didn't hate Snape anymore—if he ever did, or maybe it was just that he was sitting in a hotel room, on a sofa, watching a bad late-night movie with him and actually hearing, for once, that he had a past and a personality.

But whatever it was, Harry reached up and touched him.

It was just a soft caress, fingers grazing the skin idly, dreamily, as he tucked that loose strand of hair back in its place. Snape's eyes widened. Truth be told, Harry didn't even know what he was doing until . . .

"Potter. What are you doing?"

"Ah—I—"

He bolted.

The first thought that Snape had was that Harry had gone extraordinarily nuts. Maybe he had snuck some kind of a drink while watching the movie. And the second thought was that Harry's finger was also extraordinarily soft.

Snape nearly slapped himself. Of course. He had seen. That's why Harry ran. Who'd want to touch their greasy bastard of a Potions teacher . . . and see that he didn't leap to the other side of the room?

Oh Merlin oh Merlin oh Merlin. This was not good. He was not having thoughts about Harry Potter. He was not. Because of all the things Severus Snape was, he was not a sick git of a man having a relationship with a boy half his age.

Harry was curled up on the bed. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He was hard and wanting and he felt like he had just been dumped in a roller coaster for fourteen hours. Was he totally out of his mind? The last fifteen minutes kept on replaying themselves over and over in blurred slow motion. Guiltily, Harry tried to remember every aspect of it—the way his hand reached up, just like that, the warmth of Snape's skin under his fingers, the way his eyes widened . . .

And then nothing.

Oh no. He was not getting hard thinking about Snape. Harry moaned quietly as he fought that urgent arousal with difficulty. There was no way that he could jerk off now. No. Then Sna—he would be in serious trouble.

The door . . . bloody hell. Harry simply lay there, hoping that Snape would have enough sense not to come in. He didn't come. And Harry sighed and struggled to sleep.

But somewhere, in the cavern of his mind, he asked himself whether he was relieved or disappointed that Snape did not open the door.

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Complexities compound the horizon. One week had passed. What of the next?

I have to apologize for all the various places I snitched phrases from. Including Full Frontal, Confirmed Bachelor and Anne of Green Gables.

Please review. I don't get paid for spending twenty hours writing this, all my gratification comes from your commentary.