TITLE: Harry Potter and the Obligatory Sequel, Chapter Five
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc.
BETA: The Incredible Irisgirl12000, and all further mistakes are mine.
NOTES: This is going to be done in spurts, when I have the time and energy, and I'm not sure where it will take me.
SUMMARY: While Harry is busy trying to force the summer to live up to its potential, Snape discovers dreadful news.

Chapter Five: The Passionate Potions Master

Snape quickly pulled out his wand. "Get her into a sitting position," he ordered.

Harry dropped his flowers on the desk and hurried to his aunt, propping her more or less upright. "Gngh. What are you going to do?" he queried, sounding just a little bit worried—and a tad winded. "And would you get on it already? Merlin, she's like a sack of potatoes."

"Obliviate," Snape muttered. "Let's drag her out in the hall before waking…"

Petunia's eyes popped open. "Where am I?" she squawked. "Why are you touching me?" she demanded of Harry. "Get away! You!" she added, paling as she laid eyes on Severus. "What have you done?"

Snape arched a brow coolly. "Now Petunia, I did warn you that you never wanted to see what happened to your flowers. But then you had to go and…meddle," he spat.

Aunt Petunia let out a garbled sort of shrieking croak, and made her escape, brutally clawing her way over Harry and wriggling out the door.

Harry slammed the door behind her. "Well, that would have been funny if it didn't hurt so much," he announced. Harry looked up at Severus, three red, irritated vertical lines bright against his white face.

"Up, boy," Snape told him. He took Harry's jaw in his hand and turned his face this way and that, looking over the marks scratched into the skin. "I have a healing solution here that should help," he announced, pulling a small vial from his sleeve.

"Do you? Nifty!" Harry said brightly. His face had reddened under the intense, silent scrutiny, and he only calmed when the man stopped staring.

"I never leave home without it," Snape told him, pulling out the stopper and letting a few drops fall onto his fingertip. "Here, stand under the light." He gently rubbed the potion over the abused skin, which began healing immediately, hissing and smoking slightly.

Harry gingerly touched his face when Snape had finished, and ran over to the broken mirror that was propped against the closet door. Not the slightest trace of the welts remained. "Wow! Wicked," he announced, turning his head from side to side.

Snape rolled his eyes. "You learned it in your third year, you imbecile. Now, if you've finished sulking, vamping, getting into mischief, and generally making my life hell, I've a meeting with Mrs. Figg."

"Mrs. Figg?" Harry echoed. "A date?"

"Don't be daft," the Potions Master told the boy. "She and I have things to discuss, that's all. You needn't get your knickers in a twist every time I feel the need to converse with another…likeminded individual," he eventually concluded.

Harry gave him a small smile. "It's all right. I'm not jealous of Mrs. Figg, at any rate. I'm pretty sure you won't forget me. Are you going to her house?"

Snape gave a soft sigh. "No. The wards are stronger here. We'll merely sit on the porch and have a little chat." He readied himself to leave. "You will conduct yourself with decorum, will you not?"

Harry batted his eyes at the man as innocently as he could. "Don't I always?"

Snape groaned in defeat, heading back downstairs.

OoOoOoOoO

For the first time in a long while, Snape was comfortable. He had his long legs stretched out in front of him, Mrs. Figg was perched merrily beside him, and he was sipping a cold glass of lemonade from the pitcher she'd brought. It was exceedingly nice of her to have added that 'secret ingredient,' which was not, as one might assume of a woman of her nature, 'love,' but rather 'vodka.' Snape was well into his second glass, and reflected for a moment that he was quite fond of Mrs. Figg, really.

In fact, he was almost fond of the world, despotic madmen and big-hearted loonies notwithstanding. After all, he had most everything he could possibly need. He had a safe haven. He had a serviceable potions lab. He had a young, insatiable lover who would surely attend his every whim, if only Snape let the boy do so. He had a houseful of trembling morons to terrorize. And most of all, he had a lovely glass full of sweet, sparkling, alcoholic beverage.

He sighed. This was the life.

He should have known it wasn't going to last.

A bang from the screen door behind them announced Potter's arrival, and Snape looked up to see the troublemaker ready to do what he did best. The whelp was only half clothed, his shirt abandoned for the sake of showing off his slender chest, and he had a book and a ratty old towel tucked under his arm.

"Hi, Mrs. Figg!" he chirped with a shining smile. "How's your summer?"

"Just fine, my boy, just fine," she told him jovially. "I can see you're doing well."

"And what, exactly, are you doing?" Snape growled.

"Oh, hush," Mrs. Figg told him. "The poor boy gets enough browbeating when you're not here."

Harry gave him that kicked-puppy-dog look, and the man shut his eyes, blocking out the sight. "I just came out to read for a while," the boy whined. "I've hardly been out all summer, and I look it, too. My skin's so pale I might as well have been languishing in the dungeons all summer."

"It looks just fine to me," Snape said, before swallowing hastily. "I mean…you're obviously just trying to overhear our conversation."

"I'm not!" Harry protested loudly. "I wasn't going to be anywhere near you! I just figured with the two of you here, I'm probably about as safe as I could be."

Snape scowled.

Harry pled with his eyes.

"You may stay at the far end of the yard," the man finally commanded.

Harry nodded quickly. "Sure. Okay. Just let me know if you need anything," he added with a charming smile, sauntering away.

Severus couldn't help but notice the boy was wearing his new denim trousers—the ones that fit his frame snugly. He took a rapid swig of his lemonade, averting his eyes. A come-hither glance was tossed from over the boy's shoulder, leaving Severus' pulse quickening. Was it just the man's imagination, or was the boy really working those hips?

Hurricane Harry does it again.

Snape just hoped the little terror would stay on his side of the yard.

OoOoOoOoO

Harry flopped out on his towel, glancing up at Snape from under his eyelashes. He told himself he wasn't worried about Snape. Snape wasn't going to leave him for Mrs. Figg, and nothing was going to happen to the man just because he was outside, and Harry didn't always need to be right there next to him. Still. He did want to watch. Just in case.

Squirming a little, Harry frowned. Snape had said his skin looked fine, but that wasn't much of a compliment. In fact, Snape's reaction to his presence was certainly nothing like what Harry had been aiming for when he slipped into his GIVE ME SEX NOW jeans and ambled outside without a shirt on. The man hardly seemed to notice. It was really irking. On the other hand, Snape wasn't the sort of bloke that would cause a scene over something like that. He was really private. He probably thought Harry looked great, but he wouldn't say it in front of Mrs. Figg.

This logic made Harry feel a little bit better. He sighed, staring at the muscled hero on the cover of his book. The man had long, dark hair that was caught in a breeze, and a swooning woman with a huge bosom was draped over one of this thick forearms. The man was a bit on the bulky side, but if Harry squinted a tad, he looked kind of like Snape. That was mostly the reason Harry was reading it. He sure as hell wasn't interested in the woman, although he did wonder how she managed to stay upright, being all top-heavy. He'd found the romance novel in his aunt's knitting basket, and was immediately struck by the protagonist's resemblance to his own boyfriend.

He just had to nick it, if only to see what it was about. His aunt never missed it—Harry had a shrewd idea that it wasn't Petunia's at all, but rather Aunt Marge's, who probably left it accidentally last time she visited it. There wasn't any magic in it, but it was a lot more creative than anything he thought his aunt Petunia would ever read. And racy, too. All those heaving chests and slender waists, and strong arms that swept a girl right off her feet, followed by instances of squeezing and stroking and screaming. Harry was quickly absorbed by the rather detailed, if somewhat silly and sentimental lovemaking scenes, and had been reading for more than a quarter of an hour before he was interrupted.

"POTTER!" Snape bellowed.

Harry's head jerked up.

"COME HERE!"

Harry was on his feet in an instant, paperback still clutched in one hand as he tore towards Severus as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't know if Snape was angry, in danger, or just impatient, but his voice suggested that Harry shouldn't dawdle, so he didn't. He leapt over the rose bushes, sprinted through the grass—then caught his shoe on the edge of the flowerbed and plunged headlong into the geraniums.

"Potter, what the hell are you doing?"

Harry groaned a little, pushing himself up on one elbow. Snape was looming above him, looking irritated. "Making an idiot of myself," Harry responded. "Obviously."

Snape heaved a sigh and bent over. Harry thought the man was going to help him up, but instead he plucked the book from the youth's hand. Harry watched, aghast, as the man held it up for examination. The dark eyebrows shot sky high, and Harry groaned again.

"'The Passionate Pirate?' 'A love doomed…a bride captured…catapulted into a world of turmoil and tenderness…a destiny that binds two fates…' Dear God, what is this utter tripe?" Snape's glance snapped up, catching on Harry's face. "Potter…were you reading this?"

Harry didn't think his face could actually catch fire, but it was making a good effort. He miserably tried to bury himself back in the geraniums, hoping to blend with their bright pink petals, and become somehow less conspicuous.

"Merlin above. You're reading romance novels and surrounding yourself with flowers. Something has got to be done."

"It was an accident!" Harry howled, now thoroughly humiliated. "And I was only reading it because dashing Dan, the pirate captain, looked a bit like you!"

Snape stared at him, then looked back at the cover. His shoulders began to shake. It took Harry a few moments to work out that he was laughing, as he'd only seen it happen once before. "Complete berk that you are," the man said fondly. He slipped the tome into his robe. Harry felt the stirrings of disappointment. Rachel had only just shown up at Dan's cabin at midnight, wanting to know if he knew where her father was, and Dan had been bare-chested when he answered the door. Harry'd had great hopes for that chapter.

He wondered if this was going to result in him growing up to be maladjusted.

"Here," Snape said, offering him a hand. Harry took it, scrambling up and wiping the dirt from his jeans. He looked forlornly at the flowers he had flattened, knowing his aunt would have it in for him when she found out. Snape produced his wand, and straightened them up again.

Harry brightened. "Thanks!"

"Don't thank me yet, young fella-me-lad," Snape said in a grim voice. "You are in trouble."

Harry swallowed. "Uh-oh. What'd I do now?"

"Letter. From the Headmaster. To me. Ringing any bells?"

Harry clapped his hand to his forehead. "Oh! I'm sorry; I completely forgot! One came when you weren't around, and I tried to pick it up but it burnt me and I dropped it, and now it's behind the sofa. God, I'm sorry," he repeated. "I was angry with you so I wasn't going to tell you, but after we made up I never thought about it and—"

Snape, who'd been storming towards the door to the house, stopped and whirled around. "Harry," he said seriously. "This sort of thing cannot be mucked about with. This isn't a game. When a letter comes for me, I must have it, regardless of whether you and I are having personal issues. Greater things are at stake. Do you understand? You mustn't do this again, for whatever reason."

Harry nodded unhappily. "Yeah, I really do. I'm sorry. It was juvenile of me."

Snape let out a long, frustrated breath. "Would that that were something new," he muttered, and headed inside, Harry trailing dejectedly behind.

OoOoOoOoO

Snape re-read the correspondence. It couldn't be. It really couldn't be. He wanted to beat his head against the table, but exercised self-control. This was almost the worst news he could possibly get.

Finally, after revisiting the parchment for the umpteenth time, Snape waved his wand over it, causing it to crumble to ash. Nothing left to be traced, just as Dumbledore wished. And it certainly was news he didn't want being traced—particularly not to him. He had enough problems of his own without being caught up in this mess. Unfortunately, it looked as though he'd have no choice.

And drat the Headmaster; he had the temerity to be pleased that they'd acquired a new spy. He was, judging by his words, transported with joy by the event. He was probably in his office dancing a jig and sucking down lemon drops as though they were…well, candy.

It was entirely possible that Snape was the only living person who knew why allowing this state of affairs to continue was such an atrociously bad idea.

And on top of everything else, this was bound to affect his relationship with Harry, sooner or later. Not the least because the entire situation had to be kept from the boy. Snape felt his stomach churn as he pondered how upset Potter would be at hearing the news—and realizing his lover had chosen to keep it from him

Well…nothing for it. It couldn't be helped. All Snape could do was go on as he had, and hope for the best. It was a shame he was so out of practice at that.

Nervously wiping his palms on his robes, Snape pushed his chair back and exited the makeshift lab. He found Potter sitting glumly on the landing, jeans caked with dirt, face soiled, sticks and pink flower petals decorating his wayward hair.

"What's up?" the monster asked. "They're not making you leave, are they?" he added anxiously.

Snape stared. "You're very…pretty with bits of flowers in your hair," he eventually said.

Harry looked rather alarmed at this. "Oh, no! Was that letter really from Voldemort? Was it cursed or something? What did it do to you?"

"Stop being an offensive runt," Snape snapped. His face softened after a moment, and he put a hand to Harry's cheek. The boy's face glowed crimson, and the man smiled slightly. "You have such soft skin," he whispered.

Harry shuddered, his eyes dropping almost shut. "Would you—could we—kiss?" he asked breathlessly.

Snape considered this for a moment. "Yes, why not? I'll just Obliviate anyone who tries to get in my way." He drew Harry into his arms, their mouths fitting together as though they'd been made to do so. He fancied they must have been. One of Snape's hands absently feathered its way through the boy's hair, knocking bits of twig and petals to the floor.

They pulled away, and Harry smiled self-consciously, ducking his head a little. "Thank you. That was nice."

"Thank you," Snape replied, still gazing absently at his student. "Do you know any poetry? I've got an anthology of some of the loveliest verse upstairs, and I think I should enjoy it if we spent the evening reading it together. What say you?"

Harry shrugged, at sea. "Uh…sure."

The man forced a smile. "Good." He put an arm around Harry, leading him up the steps, and Harry leaned into the gentle touch.

Snape never offered Harry so much affection. In fact, Snape never offered Harry so much attention, either. Harry supposed he ought to be thrilled at the man's apparent change of attitude, but he couldn't help thinking as he burrowed into the safety of the Potions Master's lanky frame, that something was terribly wrong.

He hoped he never found out what it was.

Somehow, though, he doubted he'd have a choice.