Okay. Now that was that. He was free at last. Free to go and do whatever he would. An adult. Never had to go back to these people he had to call relatives. Harry snorted. Ron shot him a lopsided grin. Yes, he was a good friend, even if he didn't understand one bit of what was really important. But did he?
Harry still felt a little strange. A stranger to himself, he had read that somewhere. Or Hermione had and had told him, didn't really matter.
That last potions class. THE KISS. Harry had spent the rest of the week with convincing himself that it had not been erotic. And that he had not been envious. And that he did not want Snape. No. Every night. Numerous times. He had a good practice of silencing charms by now. He was a teenager, after all. But he couldn't remember having it that bad. Harry shivered. It was not only the remembrance of the kiss, or the wet spot the kiss had induced (One kiss! Just think of it! the boys had whispered in their room, while Seamus behind his own silencing charm had undoubtedly cried himself to sleep with embarrassment), Harry found that his brain had assembled loads of loads of images of Snape over the years, images that used to make him angry, images that now – well, lead to sheet wetting and knuckle biting. Harry was ashamed, embarrassed and not a bit angry. It had not gone away. If anything, it had become stronger. Whatever it was, it was behind his breast bone as in his groin and it roared up now when he looked at the teacher's table to see the face he was so convinced he had hated for most of his life.
He hadn't seen Snape again. Neither had Seamus – or so he hoped. It had been the last class after all, and today was the parting feast. There had been rumours of Snape resigning, of Dumbledore sacking Snape, even of Seamus going to that holy mountain in Greece to live there as a monk for the rest of his life – Harry didn't know, he hadn't talked to either of the three. How could he? Seamus didn't talk to anyone. Dumbledore was Dumbledore, and you just didn't meet him accidentally and asked him: "Oh, by the way, did you hear that Snape kissed Seamus Finnigan and made him wet his pants in front of the whole class? Surely you can't just tolerate that?" No. One surely didn't do that, or at least Harry Potter didn't do that. He was not a traitor, and he was not so great a hypocrite as to feign moral outrage when all he really felt was arousal. And envy.
That left Snape. Snape. Snape. Snape. Harry hadn't yet come to terms with his fatal attraction. He scolded himself continuously – when he was not busy succumbing to the images that tortured his brain, and led to – other things. He didn't want Snape, that simply wasn't possible, he wanted him, badly, but that was only sexual (he was a young man of 18, and who ever heard of someone that age not being fascinated by someone who could make another one come in his pants with just a kiss?), he was an idiot and Snape hated him, always had, and he had no chance whatsoever with him, even if he had the guts to try, no he didn't want Snape, etc etc. He had his whole life in front of him, the whole world was his to conquer and he wouldn't throw that away just to delve into a morbid fascination with his (former) Potions professor. No. Simply wouldn't. Harry licked his lips inadvertently and just caught his hand in time before it went into his trousers just at the sight of Snape showing his most evil smirk at something Dumbledore said.
He felt Ron's eyes on him. Shit. There was no use pretending. They had talked about this. THE KISS. Of course they had. They all had. At great length. They even had – well, succumbed to the fascination together. Harry felt his ears turn red. Yes, they were young and reckless and driven by hormones and all that. Everybody said so. But Ron had looked at him in his special completely clueless way when Harry had asked him, in the dead of the night and in private, if Ron also thought about how it would be, you know, with Snape? In bed? He had looked clueless and slightly ill afterwards. Of course not, was what he said. Wouldn't dream of touching the greasy git. Too queer to even think about it. Had been quite arousing, this much he conceded, watching the kiss and Seamus humping helplessly, but it was as funny as it was arousing and most of all it was atrocious. So much for Ron.
Snape. No. He simply wouldn't. He couldn't. Well, of course he could. But he wouldn't. No. He had a life to lead, he wanted to travel, see the world and there would sure be better sights, even more arousing, interesting, fascinating than the dour old Potions master. Yes. Wouldn't.
