Well, I'm afraid, this – is – it. For now. I've already started on a sequel *hemhem*.
I hate to say it, but I'm not too pleased with this part. It came about mostly in a fit of depression, and I made poor Harry suffer for it. Now he'll make you suffer. The rating is for bad words and a few reminiscences only, here. It had to be done, to get going for the "relationship part", but as I feel now, it is only wobbly psychological babble.
Erm, whoever still wants to read it, do! By all means:-) (And yes, there is a pic, for the reminiscence part [Sev, in bed, naked, courtesy of Lorelei]). So, if you manage to read this blabber, and are awake enough to review, you just might drop me a line, and will receive something to wake you up).
And no, this is not fishing for compliments. How would I?!:-)
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"For once in your life, think, Potter." The voice of the Potions master rang in Harry's ears when he sneaked back in his dormitory the morning after. If he had thought that the night with Snape had earned him a better treatment, he would have been thoroughly miffed. Snape had been up and completely, formally, dressed before he had woken Harry with a grip on his shoulder that was none too gentle.
Harry never was on his best form in the morning, much less so after a night like this. So he didn't even put up a fight when he was thrown out of the dungeons quite unceremoniously. He had tried to get something out of Snape, a rise, if nothing else. Something that told him that he had gotten to the other man, somehow. But Snape had seemed as haughty and detached as always. He had thrown some clothes on the bed – Harry never knew where he had gotten them from, but they were his own clothes, those of Snape wouldn't have fitted him in the least – and when Harry tried to get close, to perhaps even kiss him, or just touch him ,or – something – Snape had retreated against the wall, put on his stoniest glare and spoken the words that haunted Harry now.
Think? What should he think? That bastard. He had thought, thank you very much, and it had led him exactly where he wanted to be. To Snape. Damn. Perhaps Snape had a point. What – now?
Harry thought about it the whole day. He walked through it like in a dream, and a dream it was. They were all leaving, today or tomorrow, but he had not yet decided what to do. He had nothing planned, he realized with wonder. Well, he had been planning to go on a trip around the world, be free at last, but he hadn't made any commitments. That had been cancelled by his planning of last week, the one that had led him into Snape's chambers, at night and naked. Harry gulped.
It was too early, something in him cried out. I can't just leave now, can I? His friends looked at him in a strange way, but he didn't give a damn. He didn't want to kill them on the spot because he wasn't completely sure after all, if Snape's fit of words had been true, but he didn't trust anyone anymore.
Had they all accosted his Snape? His Snape. Harry's fork fell to the floor without him noticing it. That was the question, wasn't it? Was it really his Snape, and if, did he want it? All of it, always? Harry gulped and left the great hall, mumbling something to the red head beside him who looked clueless like always. Arsehole, Harry thought before he realised he was thinking about his best friend. He couldn't help it. When he left the hall, his eyes wandered to the teacher's table against his will. Snape did not look at him, but he didn't need to, either. Harry felt his eyes and hands and whole body all over him. Damn.
He needed air. He left the castle to stroll around the lake, watched the clouds in the sky, the waves in the lake, the trees in the forbidden forest. Like a moonstruck cow. Oh my god, he thought hopelessly. Is this really it? Have I done myself in, after all? All these years of loathing leads to – this? He couldn't stand it.
He longed to see Snape. See him, feel him, touch him. Make love to him. The way Snape had done last night. And any other conceivable way. They had fallen asleep completely exhausted, after having done it numerous times, and still Harry ached to do it again, had fought against sleep, without success, the sleep that had been so elusive at other times. He ached now, again, even when his bum felt like he could never again use the restroom in a normal way. Not only his behind, his front, too, come to think of it. His cock felt like it had been mangled. And yet, only the thought of Snape, of the black and piercing eyes, of those hands, was enough to bring him to attention yet again. It really hurt. And it got worse when the images of what Snape had done with this incredible body of his, with the voice and his mouth and his cock came flowing around in his brain like the Hogwarts ghosts in the great hall. Harry whimpered.
He had to adjust his trousers. Gods! He would have thought there had been enough to satisfy his curiosity and his hormones last night. Seemed like it hadn't. Harry felt as afraid as never before in his life, and that meant something. He really couldn't be in love with Snape, now could he? He gasped at the thought. The thought didn't mind and stayed.
But he is evil, snaky, has bad manners, greasy hair and all of that, his mind conveyed feverish thoughts to fight the abomination of the idea of Harry Potter being in love with Severus Snape. Snape was his teacher, he was older, he was a man. Well, yes. Harry walked on furiously.
Had been his teacher. Damn. Harry realised that all his fellow students would have left by now and he hadn't said his good-byes to them. He felt awful. And to his dismay – free. He didn't want to talk to them. They wouldn't understand. He didn't trust them. They had had a wonderful time together, fought evil and worse, had fun, but now it was over. He felt wild and reckless and completely in a limbo. Great. Just great. He should send himself in to St. Mungo's after all. Perhaps they would know what to do with his head. He simply didn't.
He walked back to the deserted castle. Yes, he was completely alone now. Alone with his thoughts. His whole life to lead on his own. Eventually. After all, the Dursley tragedy was over. What now? What to do? He had the ridiculous thought to go to Dumbledore to talk with him. He laughed at himself. What should he say: "Excuse me, Professor. I was wondering if you could give me advice as to how I could get Professor Snape to bugger me again?" Well, rather not.
And that was not the problem, was it? The buggering? It was more like: "Please tell me I'm not mad. Please tell me it is okay to be in love with someone I have hated for half my life. Please tell me you will let me stay here and lounge around Professor Snape, making puppy eyes at him and generally make a nuisance out of myself, which will surely drive my beloved to new heights of venom against unsuspecting innocent students." No rather not. No use to go to Daddy crying. He was a grown-up now. Even if he felt less grown-up than ever before just now. He had thought being an adult meant that you knew what to do in every given moment. He began to wonder. What did being adult mean? He felt as clueless as before, or even more so.
Even if he came to a conclusion as to his feelings for Snape – what would that help him? He had no idea how Snape felt – and he would rather die than ask him. He had pressed himself onto the man, one could say, and the other man had reacted – after putting up a good fight. That didn't mean a thing. Could Snape want him – to stay? For however long it lasted? Whatever it was? Oh hell. Harry ran straight through Nearly headless Nick without even noticing. The Gryffindor ghost was about to utter some of his supremely friendly nonsense, but didn't, after one look on young Potter's face. He just didn't look the same. And what was he doing here anyway? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington decided it was advisable to not get too deep into things, even at his age and status. Especially not as the bloody Baron winked at him from down the stairs in a way that was extremely suspicious.
Harry reached his soon to be former dormitory in a state of utter moroseness. There had been a moment the night before, where it had seemed as if Snape were waiting for him to say something, anything, about the matter. He had been lying on the bed, one arm and leg outstretched, the other arm behind his head under the pillow, the other leg drawn up. The crumpled and soiled bed sheet was placed strategically between his legs and Harry, coming just from the bathroom and being dead-tired and exhausted after at least five overwhelming orgasms for the night, had been rather intrigued by the sight. Again. He was enraptured by the look on Snape's face. Lips and eyes were set in the usual grim scowl, but together with the smooth naked flesh and the posture of leisurely abandon he looked – edible. Thoughtful, though.
Harry had crawled into the bed on the other side, meaning to talk to the man, to say something, touch him, even, not necessarily in a sexual way, but he had been to timid, too awed by the dreamy mood Snape seemed to be in all on his own, and was felled by a sudden exhaustion. Well, and then he had been woken up by a Snape who had been as unreachable as the moon.
There was a note lying on his bed. Harry's heart thundered. He gazed at Hedwig who was sitting on the window sill and ignored him. He heaved a sigh. Okay. He could do this. Open it. Read it.
"You should not deny your inner Slytherin".
Harry stared down at the note. What the fuck did that mean? What did Snape – and it could only have come from him, Harry knew that spidery crawl by heart – want to tell him by that enigmatic sentence? How very much like Snape. Couldn't the man be straightforward for once? Why couldn't he write him a letter like: "I love you. Come to me and stay with me and I will make you happy for the rest of your life. No exception". Oh okay. Or even: "Piss off, Potter. Take your sorry remains out of my castle. I'm through with you. It was nice, but now it's over. Thank you and go molest someone else." No such luck. "You should not deny your inner Slytherin". He still didn't know what that meant. Harry sighed and touched the fine paper reverently with his finger tips. Bastard sir, he thought lovingly and caught himself just in time before he kissed the creamy white hand-made paper that so reminded him of Sev's skin. Oh gods, how deep could he fall?
Harry thought hard. Thought about all the things that happened since he came to Hogwarts in first year. He didn't go to bed that night. He was sitting on the window sill, Hedwig near him, and looked about the snowy landscape. Not long and he would leave Hogwarts forever. Where should he go? Where did he want to go? Did he feel up to it? To face the world after what he had seen already? What did the world have to give him? Oh right. What did he have to give to the world which he hadn't already given? He had defeated The Stubborn Bastard Who Refused To Get Lost and Let Decent People Lead a Decent Life numerous times. The last one had landed him in St. Mungo's broken in more ways than just one. And still – he didn't want to go into the world. All the things he had longed to do when he was younger just didn't seem right any more. Quidditch, what a shallow sport. Invigorating, exhilarating, but hey, he didn't want to spend his life chasing after a little golden ball that seemed to be just out of reach and made him frantic to catch it. Travelling – wouldn't he always ever meet himself? Training to become an auror? Well, after all he had experienced, the aurors weren't any better people than the others. Their job was dangerous which would have appealed to him earlier, but somehow didn't anymore.
Was that what the doctor had talked about? That – depression thingy? He could be simply mad, whatever the doctor meant. Post Trauma – something. Leading to panic disorder. Yes he knew, Madam Pomfrey had watched him like a lynx. They all had. He had been very aware of it. But he couldn't, wouldn't talk about it. With no one.
Yes, he had been in a stupor, he only realised now. THE KISS had awaken him back to life. He had come out of his shell, after all, his self-induced shell that should have saved him from being hurt ever again. Now he hurt in ways he wouldn't have thought possible, his mind was a mess, but he was alive. So very alive. So eager to live. And to whom did he owe that? To one person. Harry sneered and was taken aback. Did the man already rub off on him?
Snape had made him talk. Talk and think. Think and really see. Himself. As he was. As he had become. And he didn't like it. He wasn't the good boy. No. He had saved the world but he didn't want to be a hero for the rest of his life. He didn't want to be after things to become perfect. The golden Snitch - forever tantalizingly out of reach and forever he was after it. Peace, harmony, perfection.
Snape hadn't let him. There were deeper urges inside. Under the calm exterior that was nothing but depression and fear, Harry had been atrociously angry. Angry and greedy and fearful again. He didn't know what he wanted. He knew what he should want and what not. Snape belonged clearly to the latter. So very clearly.
But the allure of the forbidden was stronger and Harry couldn't resist. His conscience wouldn't have it and so he found himself naked in Snape's room without really knowing how he came here. The brain was a fickle friend, really. His brain, specially.
And look what it had gotten him. A grin spread over Harry's face just as the early morning light came vaguely across the horizon.
Snape wanted to make him trust his feelings and show them, let them loose. He had incarcerated himself after Voldemort had - whatever - him. Everyone had tried to make him talk but he didn't. He played the good boy, like he used to do, but wasn't happy anymore. Snape wanted to help him to break out of his shell. His manner wasn't the most considerate, but help he wanted, like he had always done, really. Harry gulped. That torn and broken creature had spoken to him in a way nobody else could. Nobody else dared. And Snape had reached him. And made him, Harry Potter, reach out to the one thing he really needed and wanted, against his childish notions of what one did do and what not.
No, that wasn't depression. That was something completely different. He wanted to stay in Hogwarts not out of fear of the world. Nope. He wanted to stay here to pay back in kind. At last. Snape had been right. He had been spoiled here, people had had to come to his rescue. Yes. He had saved the world as they knew it. But there was still one person he owed a debt. Someone who hadn't been free. Just like he wasn't. Someone who could really profit from a bit of logic, psycho- or otherwise.
Merlin help me, Harry thought helplessly. The greasy git rules my life. I'm lost. It didn't feel that bad.
He would have to send flowers to Seamus.
The end, for now
