Author's note: I am deeply impressed with the erudition of the people who have responded to my challenge about chapter headings. Alas, not one person got the provenance of the previous chapter's title. "King Lear" is close, but the actual source is Pogo. g No, I'm not deranged. Walt Kelly mangled the Lear quote into "How sharper than a serpent's tooth is a fangless child."
I am now going to retire to a rocking chair and ponder how old I must now be...
I must also thank Ness for her invaluable and well-educated suggestions for chapter headings. English majors know the best dirty poetry!
JiM
* * * Hold Your Tongue and Let Me Love * * *
Brewing the Headmaster's request took several hours and calmed him considerably. This variation required just enough attention and skill to put him into a pleasant conceit with himself and his abilities again. Curing Potter had been a triumph of mastery, but he had been too exhausted and worried to actually enjoy the process. Whereas he was positively humming as he added the last ingredient to the Veritaserum Obliviosus -- three drops of oil of bergamot would make it blend perfectly and undetectably into a pot of Earl Grey tea.
It was just as he was bottling the draft that he realized that it had been many hours since his aborted breakfast and he was feeling a healthy hunger for food and fire and -- well, companionship no longer looked like it was an option, if Potter's snit was still in force. Summoning a house elf, he politely requested that a meal be served to him in his quarters as soon as the serum was delivered to the Headmaster's office. Snape was unfailingly polite to house elves, knowing full well the awesome annoyances they could be if they took it into their heads to dislike a person.
So, while he had no real expectations, he felt a peculiar lack of surprise when he entered his sitting room and found a small table drawn up in front of a cheerful blaze and Harry Potter moodily tearing a muffin to bits.
Potter looked up quickly, then dropped his eyes back to the pastry he was mangling. At least the man had shaved and cleaned himself up. With the Hangover Helper at work, he probably felt no effects from the previous night's overindulgence. A small mercy, Snape supposed. The memory ought to be enough to make him cringe for years.
Snape said nothing as he took off his robe and laid it over the back of a chair before taking his place across the table from Potter. It was mistake, he realized, reaching for the cup of tea Potter handed him. Without the crisp folds of dark cloth, he felt unarmored and exposed. Rather the way Potter looked without his glasses, now that he thought of it.
Neither of them spoke. Snape ate his belated lunch quietly and with fair appetite, considering the pregnant silence; it was enough to hatch a basilisk. Potter stared into the fire and jiggled his left foot steadily in a way that would have made Snape drip acid on it only ten years previously. When Snape finally put his drained cup down on his emptied plate, Potter spoke.
"You're still a bastard."
"But an honest one."
Green eyes met his frankly and with a surprising calm in them. "Yes." Then, even more surprising, the Potter smile, open and just a touch wry. "In a few days, I'll probably even thank you for it."
"Spare me your gushing gratitude, I beg you," Snape said dryly.
Potter grinned and they lapsed into a friendly kind of silence. Snape let himself relax into it enough to play a game with himself. He won - it was still twenty seconds short of the four minute limit he had mentally set for Potter's silent reverie to last.
"So, since becoming an Evil Overlord doesn't seem to be on the list any more, do you have any suggestions for what I ought to do with my life?"
"I think Headmaster Dumbledore would be a better person to guide you in this area, Harry."
Potter was watching him with a disturbing intensity now. It was disquieting enough that Snape felt the need to get up and lean against the mantel, turning his back on his companion and staring into the fire. "He said I should ask you."
Of course he had. Dumbledore was always convinced he was right, no matter how far-fetched or disastrous the situation ultimately became. Snape gritted his teeth over that and meditated on Dumbledore's more irritating habits for a time, before he became aware that Potter was speaking.
"Do you think you could touch me without my being drunk, dying or temporarily insane?"
"What are you babbling about?"
"I said," Harry said carefully, "do you think we could be lovers?"
Snape turned around and stared. "THAT is not what you said."
"It's what I meant." The irritating git shrugged his shoulders in a way that brought the boy he'd been forcefully to mind.
"I am not having this conversation with you, Potter." Snape turned away abruptly, heart hammering painfully.
"All right, " Potter said agreeably. Then Snape felt an iron grip on his shoulder just before he was roughly spun around and shoved back against the mantel. His head bounced against the stone and he was actually surprised at how much it hurt.
As first kisses go, it was messy. Clumsy. His lips felt bruised, his head definitely was and Potter was trying to save the situation with guts and enthusiasm, as usual. Well, it wasn't going to work this time, Snape thought irritably. He got his hand between them and shoved until Potter's mouth left his and the younger man stood before him, panting and looking remarkably unrepentant.
"Subtlety really isn't your strong point, is it, Harry?"
"I never could get the hang of it," Potter admitted, voice rising to a breathless squeak as Snape pulled him back into his arms. Long, strong fingers tipped Potter's sharp jaw to the proper angle for kissing Snape without putting a crick in either of their necks. Much better the second time, he thought muzzily. And the third...
* * *
I am now going to retire to a rocking chair and ponder how old I must now be...
I must also thank Ness for her invaluable and well-educated suggestions for chapter headings. English majors know the best dirty poetry!
JiM
* * * Hold Your Tongue and Let Me Love * * *
Brewing the Headmaster's request took several hours and calmed him considerably. This variation required just enough attention and skill to put him into a pleasant conceit with himself and his abilities again. Curing Potter had been a triumph of mastery, but he had been too exhausted and worried to actually enjoy the process. Whereas he was positively humming as he added the last ingredient to the Veritaserum Obliviosus -- three drops of oil of bergamot would make it blend perfectly and undetectably into a pot of Earl Grey tea.
It was just as he was bottling the draft that he realized that it had been many hours since his aborted breakfast and he was feeling a healthy hunger for food and fire and -- well, companionship no longer looked like it was an option, if Potter's snit was still in force. Summoning a house elf, he politely requested that a meal be served to him in his quarters as soon as the serum was delivered to the Headmaster's office. Snape was unfailingly polite to house elves, knowing full well the awesome annoyances they could be if they took it into their heads to dislike a person.
So, while he had no real expectations, he felt a peculiar lack of surprise when he entered his sitting room and found a small table drawn up in front of a cheerful blaze and Harry Potter moodily tearing a muffin to bits.
Potter looked up quickly, then dropped his eyes back to the pastry he was mangling. At least the man had shaved and cleaned himself up. With the Hangover Helper at work, he probably felt no effects from the previous night's overindulgence. A small mercy, Snape supposed. The memory ought to be enough to make him cringe for years.
Snape said nothing as he took off his robe and laid it over the back of a chair before taking his place across the table from Potter. It was mistake, he realized, reaching for the cup of tea Potter handed him. Without the crisp folds of dark cloth, he felt unarmored and exposed. Rather the way Potter looked without his glasses, now that he thought of it.
Neither of them spoke. Snape ate his belated lunch quietly and with fair appetite, considering the pregnant silence; it was enough to hatch a basilisk. Potter stared into the fire and jiggled his left foot steadily in a way that would have made Snape drip acid on it only ten years previously. When Snape finally put his drained cup down on his emptied plate, Potter spoke.
"You're still a bastard."
"But an honest one."
Green eyes met his frankly and with a surprising calm in them. "Yes." Then, even more surprising, the Potter smile, open and just a touch wry. "In a few days, I'll probably even thank you for it."
"Spare me your gushing gratitude, I beg you," Snape said dryly.
Potter grinned and they lapsed into a friendly kind of silence. Snape let himself relax into it enough to play a game with himself. He won - it was still twenty seconds short of the four minute limit he had mentally set for Potter's silent reverie to last.
"So, since becoming an Evil Overlord doesn't seem to be on the list any more, do you have any suggestions for what I ought to do with my life?"
"I think Headmaster Dumbledore would be a better person to guide you in this area, Harry."
Potter was watching him with a disturbing intensity now. It was disquieting enough that Snape felt the need to get up and lean against the mantel, turning his back on his companion and staring into the fire. "He said I should ask you."
Of course he had. Dumbledore was always convinced he was right, no matter how far-fetched or disastrous the situation ultimately became. Snape gritted his teeth over that and meditated on Dumbledore's more irritating habits for a time, before he became aware that Potter was speaking.
"Do you think you could touch me without my being drunk, dying or temporarily insane?"
"What are you babbling about?"
"I said," Harry said carefully, "do you think we could be lovers?"
Snape turned around and stared. "THAT is not what you said."
"It's what I meant." The irritating git shrugged his shoulders in a way that brought the boy he'd been forcefully to mind.
"I am not having this conversation with you, Potter." Snape turned away abruptly, heart hammering painfully.
"All right, " Potter said agreeably. Then Snape felt an iron grip on his shoulder just before he was roughly spun around and shoved back against the mantel. His head bounced against the stone and he was actually surprised at how much it hurt.
As first kisses go, it was messy. Clumsy. His lips felt bruised, his head definitely was and Potter was trying to save the situation with guts and enthusiasm, as usual. Well, it wasn't going to work this time, Snape thought irritably. He got his hand between them and shoved until Potter's mouth left his and the younger man stood before him, panting and looking remarkably unrepentant.
"Subtlety really isn't your strong point, is it, Harry?"
"I never could get the hang of it," Potter admitted, voice rising to a breathless squeak as Snape pulled him back into his arms. Long, strong fingers tipped Potter's sharp jaw to the proper angle for kissing Snape without putting a crick in either of their necks. Much better the second time, he thought muzzily. And the third...
* * *