Snape's tongue scrapes along the back of his teeth. "You've never done this before."
"Yes I have," Harry replies. His righteous indignation flutters for a moment. "Just… not with anyone who could tell me if I was doing it wrong. If you want—something else. Tell me. I can—I'm open to suggestions."
Without the glasses, Harry looks older and younger at the same time. If he looks hard enough, Snape can see the shadow of James Potter there. Lily. Cedric Diggory. Sirius Black. A dozen shadows, each darker than the last. "What do you want, Potter? What are you playing at?"
"Goddamn it, Snape!" Harry snarls, rearing back like a serpent. "You want to know what I want? What I want, all right, what I really want is to stop feeling like a prisoner for five fucking minutes. That's all. I want to feel good—not just not bad, but good—there's a difference. Just for a little while," he pleads. "I want to stop playing these weird head games that we seem to be so good at. I want to stop getting angry with you. Because I'm not angry with you! Not anymore—and I don't understand why we have to…" His hands rake through his rumpled hair and down over his neck, fingernails leaving fine white lines that vanish into his skin almost immediately. "…I know you were kissing me the day after I—I know you were kissing me. …I felt it… Didn't I…?" Potter's head hangs. He sounds unsure of everything. Unsure, broken, cold.
Severus clutches Potter at the hip. His skin feels hot. It reminds him of the children's game—lowering his hand over a candle flame—just to see how close he could get before the pain made him jerk away.
"…Don't look at me for a minute," Potter mutters.
"Potter!" Snape barks, and the emerald gaze meets his. "You were going to give yourself pneumonia in the bath. I was trying to warm you up." Which is a ridiculous excuse, if not a patent lie. "If it became—something more—intimate. I apologize."
"Well I don't want your apologies!" Potter shouts, magic crackling under his skin.
"And I'm not after a mercy fuck!" Severus snarls. Sometimes he thinks his tongue might slice the inside of his mouth.
"No…?" Harry laughs humorlessly. "…Can I have one, then?" he whispers. The livid scar peeks from underneath his hair as he leans forward.
Severus feels a sympathetic twinge in his arm, in his jaw, lower. He remembers the taste of Potter, the scent—he remembers the guilt. He wants to do the right thing. He wants to tell Harry that it won't solve anything. It won't change him; it won't change either of them. Not for the better, at any rate. They'll still fight, they'll still shout—likely, it will shatter their latest fragile truce and they'll truly hate each other afterward. He wants to tell Harry that he should forget about it, that they should lie down and go back to sleep, lie down and forget, sleep. He wants to repeat the lies. It will be better in the morning. They'll come for us. Soon. For once in his life, he wants to live up to all the trust placed in him. For once, he wants to be a good man, wants it like he wants forgiveness, respect, solitude, his own chambers, Albus' affection, revenge, a bare forearm, Potter's body, Potter's gratitude—he wants—he can feel it in his mouth and in his guts—he feels it until it threatens to drown him—
Say no.
"…I'll do whatever you want," Harry says.
This is a test. Say no. Say no. God damn you. Say no.
"…Severus?"
Snape shudders. He puts one foot on the honorable path and stops.
Lower, and lower, and lower still.
"…Put on your glasses."
Harry hesitates for the space of a few heartbeats. The wizard plucks them from the night table and slides them in place.
"You will not stroll into this blindly."
"Tough, when you're nearsighted," Harry tries to joke.
Severus surges up against Potter. The younger man startles back instinctively. Potter's mouth is slack with surprise—green eyes dart nervously up and down. "You have done this before." Severus doesn't quite stop himself from asking.
"Yes... but it wasn't like this at all," Harry offers, his heartbeat hammering against his chest so hard that Severus can feel it.
"I endeavor to be a unique experience," Snape sighs in anticipation and wonders how disappointed Albus would be at Severus surrendering his last chunk of coveted decency. He vows that if the boy—the man—backs out now, he will never, ever forgive him.
But this little piece of banter actually makes Harry blush. He seems to be caught between staring at their rather intimate position and trying to think of something encouraging to say. "I doubt it will be forgettable," he murmurs, but Snape hears it and decides he's had enough talking.
He pushes himself further up, his weight on the heels of his hands, and bends his head to capture Potter's lower lip. It bobs out of reach for a split second, then returns, crashing against his mouth with a greedy moan. He rides the motion, yielding, letting Potter nip at his mouth until the boy laps against the sealed line of lips, and Severus opens as a long-buried vault, keyed to accept only this as a password.
It is worth it.
Potter kisses sweetly. Soft lips, enough tongue to tantalize, affectionate. The sort one might sneak into the Astronomy tower and share with a blushing companion. They remind Severus of silly childhood stories where the dead wizard turns out to be sleeping—where the dragon yields after a thorn is pulled from between his claws.
He grips Potter by the neck and forces him closer, harder, keeping him there until the man understands that there will be no mercy—that kisses are best when they are as much composed of teeth and tongue and hot breath as the gentle grasp of lips. The pillow cradles his head as Severus eases back, drawing Harry down with him.
Potter forcibly breaks away and tears the fogging glasses from his face. "These just get in the way, I promise," he hisses, and dives back in, fisting one hand in the sheets and one in inky black hair, crushing their mouths together. The man shows less skill here; too much urgency bleeds through in sloppy licking and sucking—not that Severus minds. It is a joy not to have to be practiced when Harry shifts closer and breathes into his mouth, stilling for seconds before renewing the assault.
Worth it, worth it, worth—stop bloody thinking—
Snape lets him carry on a few more moments, before he slides down and snaps at the edge of Potter's jaw with teeth yellowed from age and the love of Darjeeling.
A tremor runs through Potter, and the man melts further into his embrace. "You bite—I knew you'd bite—knew it," he gasps, his hips humping against the body below him.
Severus purrs his approval and sets his teeth into the soft flesh of the man's neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. His hands map Harry's chest, combing through fine black hair.
"Fuck—oh, fuck," Harry cries, tightening the fist in Severus' hair and, to the Potion Master's surprise, keeping him close.
He can feel Potter's cock now, stiff against his stomach. "Open to suggestion, are you?" he asks, his voice sinking into a husky whisper. He nods and moans as Snape begins rolling down Harry's pajama bottoms, each twist revealing another inch of creamy skin. "As am I. Care to make a request…?"
"Anything you want is fine," the younger man gasps, watching his own receding waistband as if hypnotized.
"Much as I enjoy submission in the classroom, Potter—"
"Harry!" he cries, grabbing one of Snape's wrists and pushing his hand down, encouraging it to slide underneath the cloth. "Call me Harry. I don't want you to fuck me and call me Potter."
"Aren't we presumptuous."
He frowns. "You won't call me Harry?"
"Harry—I will have you know that I enjoy a good buggering as much as the next man. Furthermore, we haven't any decent lubricant—I've no desire to ache for a week and neither do you." The pajama bottoms slip from the lovely curve of Potter's arse and are kicked off until they vanish over the edge of the bed.
"I like the ache." Harry slowly rocks back, revealing his flushed cock.
It points at his mouth like a divining rod. Snape imagines what it would be like to take that beautiful cock between his lips—or legs, for that matter. "There is a difference between well fucked and fucked raw."
"Say 'fucked' again." Potter pants as he rucks up the corner of Snape's top.
"Whatever for?"
"Your voice is sexy."
Severus pauses. No one has ever told him that any part of his person, on any level, could be considered sexy. Lucius, while drunk, had once called him 'a bit of all right.' Emphasis on the 'bit.' "Is it." He leans up as Potter yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it into the shadowy ether that has swallowed Harry's own clothing.
"Yeah."
Two pairs of hands and a foot—Potter's—help Severus off with his pajama bottoms. Harry laughs, splitting the silence. "What?" Severus snaps. The man is supposed to be nearsighted—and it is dark—how much could he see?
Harry shakes his head and smiles. "We're naked."
"How old are you?" Severus asks, distracted from putting the proper amount of scathe in his question by Potter licking a finger and teasing one of his nipples.
"I like you when you sleep on your back. Then I get to look at you. Or—half of you. Your profile."
"It's mostly nose," he replies, breath hitching. The fingertip circles his nipple until it hardens into a firm peak, then flicks at it.
"It's nice. Er… Can I—may I ask you something?"
"Out with it. I don't have the patience of a saint." Snape thinks he could pound nails.
"How do you—want to—because if we aren't going to—and I don't think I can—I should lie d—my back," he finishes, urgently grinding his erection into Snape's stomach.
"For Merlin's sake—it's not NEWT level Arithmancy—even Muggles manage—find a comfortable position and we'll go from there."
Potter nods and slides to one side, settling against the mattress, coaxing Snape towards him until they lie next to one another—much like they do at night. But now Harry tickles Severus' side with the lightness of his touch; now Snape darts in to suck on the hollow at the base of Potter's throat.
"…Fucked," Severus purrs, just before he pulls Potter's slick, writhing body flush against his own. A hand shifts between them, then another—and just as Severus finds himself wholly in Potter's clutches, his own hand tightens around the younger man's cock. He milks the silky flesh slowly, drawing his fingers from root to tip, teasing the weeping head.
"Say it again," Harry begs.
"Fucked," he growls, thrusting into Harry's grip. Their position is a little clumsy, but it allows him to kiss and bite and touch and stroke—"Fucked." Severus realizes it also has the added bonus of being easy on Potter's back and his own dodgy knee.
Harry moans and tosses his head, jet-black hair spilling darkly against the pillowcase. "Unh—I—" is all he manages to groan before he begins driving his hips forward. Coherence deserts them both as the room fills with the sound of flesh impacting flesh. Severus notes that Potter favors a small cry, high-pitched and toward the back of the throat, whereas he himself prefers a shuddering whine.
"Sev—er—us," Potter keens, separating each syllable on a thrust.
"Yes," he hisses. Your voice is beautiful, Snape does not say, and covers Harry's mouth with his own again simply because he can.
Potter sucks his tongue, gasps for air, and offers his throat so obviously that Snape hardly has a choice as to whether or not he sets his teeth against the pale flesh. When he bites, the younger wizard drops his jaw in a silent scream and quietly comes against Snape's stomach.
Severus, not to be outdone—least of all, by Potter—answers by spilling himself into Harry's hand a few seconds later. The other man coos nonsense and kisses his brow.
Worth it.
A small part of Snape wonders how badly all of this will end. Maybe that is why his desire is always cut with dread—nothing Severus wants ever comes without a hefty price.
Potter laughs. "…Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily… life is but a dream…" he sings, his voice soft and unpracticed.
Snape can't think of a response.
After a few minutes, Potter rises. He brings back a washcloth and wipes off his hand. Harry offers Severus the cloth, but Severus cannot move. So Potter cleans up for him, replaces the washcloth in the bathroom, pads back to the bed, scoots under the blankets on his own side, places a proprietary kiss on Snape's lips, curls against him, and goes to sleep.
An hour later, Severus tells the room and a sleeping wizard—
"You're very irritating. You know that, don't you?"
XXXXX
He follows the routine.
Snape wakes first, grabs his clothes from the peg, creeps into the bathroom, relieves himself, dresses, washes his face, brushes his teeth, scrutinizes his appearance in the mirror for several minutes (wincing at the state of hair, teeth, and—yes, thank you—nose), waits another few minutes, gathers his courage, exits the bathroom, and is pinned to the wall by sleepy green eyes. He does not see how Potter gets from the bed to the bathroom—suddenly the door is closed. Because his hands are twitching, Severus makes the bed.
It reeks of sex.
Harry exits the bathroom a few moments later, as naked as he was when he went in. "Brr," he says. Snape thinks the made bed must've derailed the younger man's plans, because he shifts gears and pulls on his pajamas, wrinkled though they are from a night on the floor.
Snape stands in the corner, feeling as much an arse as he did at his first school dance.
"It's cold," Potter says.
"…Yes."
"Really, really cold."
"Yes."
"Is it—would it be okay—"
"You want to—"
"I'll make the bed again, I swear—"
"No—go ahead—I was—"
"It's just that it's so cold."
"Yes."
Potter climbs back into bed. "I mean, it's not as if we get much accomplished before breakfast anyway."
"This is true."
"…Do you want to get in?"
Severus feels the cold wall at the small of his back. "I've…" He swallows and tries again. "I've already dressed."
"Ah. Right. Well. …You're sure you're not cold? It'll be warmer later—"
"Why all this harping on the temperature, Potter?" Snape catches himself before he starts pacing. The room is so small sometimes—
"It's cold, is all. You don't have to snap at me."
"I'm not snapping at you!" Snape snaps. "Oh, bloody…" He drops himself into the chair. "This was a bad idea."
"What, getting out of bed?" Harry tone tries for mild and achieves annoyed.
"You know what I'm talking about. Insipid brat." He hunkers down in the chair, arms folded.
"Well, which is it, Snape? Am I a child, or a man? …Or does the boy thing get you off?"
Severus looks at him, then, half reclined in the bed. Harry's expression is wary, but defiant. A battlefield mask. Snape resists the urge to go for his wand. "Yes, Potter, a noticeable lack of experience really does it for me—drives me absolutely wild."
"Fuck you. Oh, wait, you won't fuck me—I'm too bloody delicate—or maybe—yes—here. How about I pretend to be unconscious?" Potter flops back on the bed and closes his eyes. "Is this what you want?"
"What I want, Potter, is someone who knows what in Merlin's name he wants! I've had my fill of sodding students!"
"Do you pick one from every year, are they disposable, like tissues? What number am I? Tenth on the list? Further down? Took you a long time to get to me—what was I doing wrong? You prefer blondes? Maybe all those times I was passed out at the infirmary, you obliviated Madame Pomfrey and forced yourself on me—"
"Mister Potter," he snarled, "before you make radical insinuations, might I remind you that those who live in glass houses shouldn't crawl on top of their professors and beg for a shag!"
"Like you didn't want it! Like you weren't hard the second I woke you up!"
"I did not force myself on you, Potter!" Severus shouts as his knees bang the side of the mattress. He finds himself nose to nose with the green-eyed monster, who has risen up on his knees and snarls back fiercely. "I did not force you!" Albus, believe me. "You asked for it! Admit it!"
"Admit you wanted it and you liked it!"
Severus grinds his teeth and gives the barest of nods. "Fine! Now you."
"I asked for it," he says calmly. "I wanted it, and I still want it. Now," Potter says, extending a hand, "come here, you're warm."
Snape's eyes widen.
XXXXX
"But… why?"
"Because. Shut up."
"You're out of your head."
"Probably. Be quiet."
"Make me, Potter."
"You asked for it."
XXXXX
"…I'm not much to look at. You can't have missed that." But already Severus' hands are searching for the clasp on his trousers.
"Pfft. I'm no prize," Harry replies. "…Will you do the biting thing again?"
"You're the one who asked for it."
XXXXX
The routine holds, but for a few alterations.
Exercises happen. So does reading the old Sunday Edition of the Daily Prophet. Breakfast is a leisurely affair. They talk now, though the conversation is chosen carefully from subjects such as weather, vocabulary, the Quidditch debate, their respective aching injuries, the state of salt in the eggs, favorite foods, the portraits at Hogwarts, and why boysenberry jam is sent every third day. Severus tries to keep back the sarcasm—Potter avoids leaping to the defensive.
They usually stay away from the personal.
XXXXX
Potter goes out of his way to offer the salt, pepper, and butter. Severus amputates the bread crust.
"…May I ask you a question? And feel free to be kind on this one," Harry cautions. "…Am I any good?"
Severus blinks. "Any good?"
"You know… at. You know."
A brow arches.
"Okay, don't look at me like that—fine—I withdraw the question."
"…Let us put it this way. If I were forced to assign a mark… you would pass."
"Oh." Harry smiles. Snape thinks he detects the hint of a blush. "Thank you."
XXXXX
"I am—really—a rather ugly man."
"No you're not."
Snape folds his arms.
"You're not. I'm not backing down on this one," Harry says, sticking out his tongue.
"Put that mouth to better use, Potter."
"You asked for it."
The phrase has become something of a joke between them.
XXXXX
"…We'd better take a bath."
"Whose is it first?"
"Don't know," Harry pants, grinning against damp skin. "If you get to go first, can I watch?"
"May I watch."
"Of course you can. I'm first then, am I?"
XXXXX
Severus tries to be glad that Potter has found a new coping mechanism. Namely, sex. Certainly it isn't a healthy way of dealing with grief and loneliness—it can't be, not when a lecherous, greasy Potions Master twenty years senior is your partner.
He is not a good person. He couldn't be a good person and enjoy taking advantage of Potter's vulnerability. He begins to hate looking at himself in the mirror.
Sometimes he lies next to Potter and imagines what it would be like if Lupin had been sent instead of him—if circumstances had been different, he wonders how long it would be before Harry wound himself around the mangy werewolf. Which, of course, is a preposterous thing to wonder. As soon as the full moon hit, he either would've torn Harry to pieces or turned Potter into a dark creature.
When he has nightmares now, Harry wakes him and kisses him.
The room seems very small.
Better descriptions elude Severus. These days he can't decide between the words 'cozy' and 'suffocating'.
XXXXX
"Don't stare at me."
"…"
"I mean it, Potter. Kindly pick another object."
"…"
"What? What do you want? All right. What is it? What shall we talk about?" Severus tosses down his fork so that it clatters on his plate. A bit of fluffy yellow egg escapes onto the floor. Potter continues to stare. "I imagine there's s—"
"How do you feel about melted butter?" Harry cuts him off.
"What?" Snape stops.
"As a lubricant. Melted butter." Potter indicates the butter dish on the breakfast tray. "Comes every morning."
Snape blinks. "…As it has since the first day."
"Yup."
"…We are absolute morons."
XXXXX
Severus finds himself constantly on edge, even more so now that Potter will do things like corner him, unbutton his shirt, and finger a nipple—for no apparent reason.
It must be some bizarre, slow form of torture.
XXXXX
Harry wakes him around four when the bathroom door closes.
"Dream?" Severus asks as Potter returns to the bed.
Harry doesn't answer right away. He climbs in and sighs. "Not a nightmare. Just thinking."
He swallows. They do not have these kinds of conversations. "…About?"
"I don't know. …What's the best way to tell someone you're sorry you got them crippled?"
"…Foot the medical expenses, perhaps?"
Harry growls. "Poor choice of words."
"Oh. …It was unintentional." Snape's voice is still thick with sleep.
"I know."
"…Shall I tell you it wasn't your fault?"
"No."
"She should never have been on that raid. …Granger was a better tactician than soldier any day. I imagine they'll fit her with a prosthetic and she'll spend the rest of the war sitting in a room full of maps, moving stickpin wizards from one place to another."
"…You said that just to make me feel better. And you're not even doing a good job at that. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to empathize?"
"Potter. When Albus' toys break, he puts them away to mend. Look at us."
Harry is quiet. "…You aren't broken, though."
"Believe it or not, Potter, you aren't the only one to make some ridiculous choices." Though it isn't what Snape refers to, Harry glances at the Dark Mark.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
"All the time?"
"No. Comes and goes."
"So does mine." Harry indicates the lightning bolt scar. "He's still out there. Guess that means the battle rages on."
"Suppose so." That seems to be an end to the talking. Severus' eyes are closing when Harry continues.
"…I'm glad they sent you. At first, I hated the idea. But now… I couldn't imagine being here with anybody else."
"Just think, Potter, if they'd sent Tonks, you could be with a different wizard every night."
Harry smacks him with the pillow.
XXXXX
"Why did you join them?"
Severus stretches out on the bed. A bead of sweat rolls back into his hair. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm curious. Because I want to know more about you than how you like your eggs seasoned."
His legs feel like boysenberry jam. "All right, Potter. Do you want the drawn-out, silly, cliché response that I gave to Albus, or do you want the truth?"
"…Can I hear both?"
He shifts. "Basically I told Albus it was because of the fame, the power, money, family, peer pressure, revenge, so on, so forth."
"That isn't the truth?"
"A collection of plausible motivations, but not the real reason."
Harry slithers closer on the sheets. "What's the real reason?"
"They asked."
XXXXX
"…I hate Sirius for dying. I hate him for promising me something and then yanking it out of reach."
"…I hate him too."
"…"
"What?"
XXXXX
"Albus drugs his candy."
"No!"
Severus nods over the edge of the newspaper. "Um-hm. Lemon drops—let's just say a non-reactive calming potion and a very slight cut of Veritaserum have aided him more than once."
"You're kidding."
"Do you know what he does to his chocolate biscuits?"
"I've eaten those!"
XXXXX
Snape had considered himself a top. Not that he'd ever been a Cassanova, of course, but based on a sample of his experiences, he'd decided to declare his preference.
He'd done that too soon.
"Ready?" Harry asks, smoothing his rough palms over luminously pale skin.
"Get on with it."
"You asked…" Potter slides two slicked fingers down the cleft of the older wizard's arse. "For it." His touch is so light it makes Severus squirm.
"Don't waste the butter."
"Shh. You'll break my concentration." Potter smacks one of the offered cheeks.
Severus grips the back of the chair harder and shivers. Bent in this position—his legs on either side of the arm of the high-backed chair, his good knee supporting his weight on the seat cushion, his bad knee stretched out comfortably beside—Harry can take him from behind without causing either one of them any pain.
Not that Harry hadn't wanted to try it face to face—he had—but Severus was done trying to explain to a deluded mind why he didn't particularly want to watch Potter watching.
"Was the swat too much?"
"No—but don't get carried away."
Fingers circle his arsehole and then begin to work inside. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Severus can hear the amusement and knows he will be now be subjected to a swat or two in the near future. His body is being learned like a discipline—not Potions or Occlumency, but one of the foolish, flashy classes in which Harry used to show talent. Every moan is noted and catalogued; maneuvers that earn a favorable response are repeated. It is odd to be so studied; it reminds Severus of spying again, to be completely conscious of your own actions in case they should accidentally reveal something private.
"…You're a million miles away."
"Just do it, Potter, enough with the foreplay," he hisses. The fingers withdraw as slowly as they went in. "Stop teasing and move."
Harry wraps an arm around his middle and leans in, rubbing his cock against Severus' backside. "Why can't we go slow for once?"
"Slow is for lovers, not convenient outlets." The barb is unintentional, but hits hard regardless. Snape pushes back as he feels the slick, blunt head at his grasping hole.
"…I wish you liked me." Harry groans and eases in until he is completely sheathed. "I wish you liked me enough to ask me for it instead of me asking you all the time," he grunts and begins to move. "I'd let you fuck me if you wanted—if you want to, just say it—it was fine the first time—I'll suck you—just ask me—don't even ask me, just take me, show me what you want and I'll do it—" The thrusts speed until the chair legs thunk against the floor.
"You're—doing—it—right—now—you—ridic—oh, fuck me," Severus manages. Potter drives deeper and deeper, his thick young cock overwhelming all else. Snape drops his forehead into his arms and hangs on, wailing at the onslaught, the Dark Mark flashing into his vision as his eyelids flutter open and closed.
XXXXX
The clock read three in the morning when he went in. Severus guesses it is now somewhere around five.
In defiance of the fact that he is as cracked as Potter, he has not filled the bathtub with freezing water. No water at all, actually.
A few minutes alone.
It is cold.
And he smells like butter. Not that he isn't getting used to it.
Severus draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on one. His fingers are numb. He tells himself it would be absolutely useless to try and choke Potter to death until they are warm again. Severus stays in this position for some time—what feels like an eternity and must be about fifteen minutes.
When he looks up, Potter is staring at him from the bathroom doorway. The Gryffindor gold pajamas are wrinkled and suddenly seem the color of bile. "…Are you okay? …Snape?"
He bares his teeth. "You wish I liked you?" he spits, parroting Harry. "You wish I liked you? If I didn't like you, Potter, would I smell like a concession stand? If I didn't like you, would I have saved your life? If I didn't like you, I wouldn't have agreed to this—if I didn't like you, I wouldn't have molested you in your sleep."
"You still feel guilty about that?"
"Would you kindly fuck off, Potter?"
"No. Can't go to sleep. Bed got cold."
They stare. Snape extends his legs the length of the tub and crosses one ankle over the other. He folds his hands, pushing his index fingers into a steeple. "You do realize what they'll do when they find out I'm taking advantage of the Boy Who Lived—"
"One, you're not taking advantage, two, I'm not a boy. We've been through this. We're both attracted and it's better than sneaking a wank. Come to bed." Harry offers a hand to help him up.
"I haven't been with anyone in fourteen years," Severus blurts.
"…I'm sorry?"
"You've interrupted a very long drought."
"…F-fourteen years?"
"Nearly half your life, Potter. Three-fifths, more like it. I haven't been with anyone in fourteen years, until…"
Potter leans against the sink and takes a deep breath. "In the spirit of confession…"
"God, don't tell me," Snape snorts, "don't even bother. I know."
"…Was it that obvious?"
"I had a strong suspicion. It's been part of my life's business to keep tabs on your activities at all times. I doubt, especially in the last few years, that you would've been able to sneak away with anyone other than Weasley, Shacklebolt, or Lupin."
"Ron is straight, Kingsley is in love with his wand, and Remus is like—my Dad."
"Exactly." He draws his knees up again. "Merlin help me. I'm responsible for deflowering Harry B—"
"If you call me Harry Bloody Potter, I will curse you."
"Curse yourself."
"Sod off."
"Fuck you."
"Greasy git."
"Stupid child." Neither of them have any venom left. Harry offers a hand up. Snape stares at it, then up at Potter. "…I can't do this much longer. They have to come for us. They have to."
"They will. Soon," Potter says, the hint of a smile on his lips.
"When?"
"Soon."
"…You are such a liar."
"Enh, you asked for it. Come on."
Severus takes the hand, pulls himself up, and follows Harry back to bed.
XXXXX
One afternoon, they arm wrestle.
Potter beats him four times, then sucks him off by way of apology.
Snape can't resist telling him it's the only cock he's ever going to want, and can't resist thinking that it's the only one Potter has ever had.
XXXXX
"Fourteen years, huh? What makes a man wait fourteen years?"
"This isn't my idea of a bedtime story."
"Want to get up to tell me, go ahead. It's freezing."
Snape gives in, repeating some of the less sordid details. It's the same thing that will happen to them. They will be discovered, separated, Severus will be shunned. He knows it.
"Oh," Harry replies, yawning, "I'm sorry." Severus strokes his rumpled hair.
XXXXX
Harry answers the question without being asked.
"Ten people were in his office. All talking about me. I picked it up off the center of his desk, put it in my pocket. No one noticed."
"I wasn't there."
"No. You were on a mission. If you'd been there, you'd have searched me and called me a thief in front of the entire Order."
"That's not tr…" Snape rolls his eyes. "Fair enough. But you would've deserved it."
"Oh, probably. …I just wanted to do something, you know? I can handle being a target, as long as I'm a moving one. …People are dying, right now, they're out there dying. I'm supposed to be the one to stop it—but no one will tell me how or when or why—you know, never mind, I don't want to talk about this right now. Let's talk about something else. Or do something else."
"Such as?"
"I don't know. Let's play a game."
"Such as?"
"I don't know, anything. Heck, you could even teach me something. Not Potions," he amends.
Two hours later, Potter can sing the song 'Finnegan's Wake' word-perfect—even though the notes tend to shift, those wouldn't matter in a pub.
If they ever see a pub again.