"I fear for anyone caught between what they know, and what they don't yet know that they don't know."

-Welcome to Night Vale


Chronicles


The video tape rental in town has something for everyone, or so the owner assured Harry: "Unless you are expecting something new, young man!" comes the senile whisper from the owner at the checkout. The old man's cloudy eyes glisten like a rolling camera lens.

'Anything New' is apparently everything from this century which was recently released to tape, Harry realises, as he takes a look through the dusty shelves.

"Can't be too picky in Pleasant Hope," the creaky voice assures Harry. "At least we've got videos to watch!"

Harry runs his fingers over the dusty plastic boxes with the sun-bleached cardboard covers. His choices are pretty limited. "How's this one?" Harry lifts up a VHS box, not yet visibly faded by the sunlight.

The reply, when it makes its way past the wheeze of elderly lungs, is both oddly specific and weirdly imprecise. "One and a half hours. Trashy. Good with popcorn."

"Oh." Harry lets go of the box and points at the next one. "And this?"

"An hour and fifty minutes. Sentimental. Best with tissues." The man behind the counter peers at Harry. The cataracts that have partially blinded him have turned his eyes a strangely beautiful, misty silver.

Harry looks up at the somewhat-cryptic boxes on the top shelves. Most of the titles have faded far too much to be readable. Harry reaches to pull one down so he can read it. The box teeters on the thin edge of the shelf and then falls, right on the top of his head, like a light-handed whack.

"Oops. Sorry," Harry yelps and grabs the box before it knocks anything else off its shelves. 'American Pie'. Eep. Yeah... Definitely not! He feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought of introducing Snape to this particular movie. Wonder if the old man here's watched all of the tapes, including this one? Or that one! And every single one from the Adult section!

Scary.

"Not that one. Obviously," the owner sighs and fixes his unnerving gaze on his only customer as Harry awkwardly slides the offending box back on the shelf. "I haven't seen you here often. What are you looking for today?"

"Um, dunno really," Harry scratches his head. "Something good to watch. W-with a friend. Guess we'll know when we'll see it. I don't think he'd like anything sentimental. Or anything trashy," Harry adds immediately. "I think he's more... old-fashioned."

"A fine quality in an audience. Try the older releases to your left."

"Oh, ok," Harry stumbles past the dustier shelves. His gaze shifts across the boxes. Back to the Future, Back to the Future II, Labyrinth. He's never really planned out an evening like this for anyone, and suddenly the whole idea seems as silly as the cover of Swamp Thing right next to The Return to Frogtown.

He peers at the impressive lineup of Star Trek films and suddenly, before he can change his mind, he grabs the third one, the one with blue Spock on the cover.

A glare like that is as icy as it gets. It reminds Harry a lot of Snape during his evening sermons. The stained glass window casts a strip of multicolored lights on the church floor, and when Snape passes through it and lingers, his face becomes a dual mask of red and green, a multicolored enigma.

The movie rental owner's stare lights up as Harry approaches the counter. "Interesting choice. Yes, ver-ry interesting: An hour and forty-five minutes. Slow-paced yet stirring. Best watched with a grain of salt and an appreciation for lifetime devotion." Gnarly fingers snap the plastic box shut and punch in the number in the cash register. "One ninety-eight with tax."

"Thanks." With a bit of luck, Harry fishes out a wrinkled dollar bill, three quarters, four nickels, and three cents from his left pocket. The owner sweeps the scattered coins from the counter and hands Harry the bagged tape.

"Best keep it until the weekend, young man. Enjoy your night."


Pizza from the uptown gas station is way too plain. As much as Harry likes gooey cheesy slices with a snowstorm layer of garlic-and-parmesan on top, what sort of guy would he be if he just shoved a few greasy slices at Pastor Snape instead of a proper thank you? Snape would probably lift his eyebrow at the 'offering' and dismiss him completely as a typical teen vagabond. That's so not what Harry wants to look like!

So instead Harry sneaks into the kitchen just in time for Snape to start the evening sermons, and stirs spaghetti in the boiling pot, slow and even, just like Aunt Petunia always told him to do. He spoons the chunky tomato sauce out of its can with a plop and into a plastic bowl, and microwaves it diligently. To make up for all the canned'n'nuked ex-vegetable goop, Harry adds sprigs of dill and oregano, stalks of green onions, and garlic cloves white and shiny as oversized teeth; all of them as fresh as they could be, plucked quietly from Snape's herb garden just five minutes ago.

Harry sets the table in the kitchen just in time: he hears the conversations and the cars speeding off the gravel driveway of the church, and Snape walks in just a few minutes later.

"Well, that's done for the day. I didn't see you at the service..." Snape looks up and stops. "Harry?"

Harry stands at the table, basking in the sheer luck of a well-managed moment. He's in his best, newest school shirt, and he beams as he spoons out the first knotted bit of spaghetti onto a plate. "Surprise!" he points at the pair of plates and tries not to make the gesture so awkward. "Dinner. And a movie after! Want?"

It's really tough to say what Pastor Snape wants on any day, much less right now. One eyebrow lifts, but aside from that, Snape shows about as much emotion as if he's been told that the spaghetti plate is about to take his confession. Fortunately, he doesn't keep Harry guessing for long. "Starving." Snape drawls. Just like that, he takes a seat and reaches for his fork, as nonchalant as ever. After the first bite, he asks "What's the movie?"

"Ever seen Star Trek?" Harry grabs his fork, and grins over his own mouthful. "It's about aliens. And adventures in space. It's brilliant."

"I'd bet all the sacramental wine in my cupboard that you've watched it before," Snape smiles. The smile is sharp, stained with spaghetti sauce, and it makes Harry's mouth water.

"Um. Not all. Just bits and pieces, whatever's on late night TV." When the Dursleys had all gone to bed Harry used to sneak up into the living room to watch something in the dark, with the sound turned down to the barest whisper; sitting right in front of the flickering TV set in total awe at the late night features. Those episodes of Cosmos: A Personal Voyage might as well have been Emmanuelle, the way they would make Harry's cheeks flush, make his eyes starry and bright, and fill his entire being with distant longing for more: for discovery, for adventure, for sights beyond his little town or planet or even galaxy. The universe itself was so unthinkably, immeasurably vast, and watching Cosmos made it so clear to Harry that he was a part of it all, living in it, rejoicing in its utterly incredible greatness, and taking it all in with every breath in his lungs, with every thought in his consciousness, with every fiber of his being.

Snape's dusty VCR swallows Harry's rented tape with a hungry gulp. They settle on the couch in front of the TV set, and Harry hunts and pecks buttons across two different remote controls until he finds the right combination to bring up the bright blue warning screen. When Harry sneaks a glance at Snape's face, lit by that eerie light, he's strongly reminded of the movie's cover: a gaunt Vulcan face, in vivid blues against a black backdrop of space. Like Cosmos. Like the blackness of this room: lights turned off to make the TV glow like the movie theater's screen.

Spock!

Yeah, so very, very Spock, Harry thinks. The blue light has washed out Snape's skin, transforming the usual sallow tan to a strangely suitable greenish pallor; and Snape's beaky nose, harsh cheekbones, straight black hair, arched eyebrows and intent dark eyes all look pure Vulcan. That sight, that thought, makes Harry want things, so many things: to run his fingers through Snape's long hair, to lift those black strands and take a peek to see if maybe, just maybe, Snape's ears have Vulcan points.

"What?" Snape glances sidelong at Harry, as if he's finally sensed that he's being watched.

"Nothing. S'just..." After a long second, Harry breaks their joined gaze and looks down. "You look like someone I really, really like."

"And who would that be?" Snape arches an eyebrow, and even that familiar, tacitly teasing expression suddenly strikes Harry as Vulcan.

Harry gulps then grins, wide as a kid who's just been allowed to stay up late and watch TV past his bedtime. "Just keep watching."

Harry knows it isn't appropriate or fair to think about… about liking Snape. Not when he's a preacher. A very straight, proper preacher, who isn't interested in doing anything more with me than seeing a movie.

Pity.

At least Harry's used to settling for what other people will let him have. Snape has managed to persuade Harry to attend his sermons regularly with nothing but his words and his voice; the least Harry can do in return is try to convert Snape into a proper science fiction fan. No one with a functioning TV and VCR to boot should ever miss out on Star Trek!


Snape keeps his usual snarky comments moderately polite while the movie goes through the usual routine of transparent-peril-overcome-in-inevitable-triumph. By the end of the movie it's obvious which character Harry had compared Snape to in his mind; though the earlier parts had been distinctly offputting, with a teenaged version of the character indulging in fortunately-mist-shrouded carnal activities with a female stranger. Snape indulges himself in turn, allowing his snippiness far freer rein during that scene than in the rest of the film. It's worthwhile just to watch Harry squirm.

Harry isn't squirming now. By the end of the movie Harry's curled up on his end of the couch, drowsy eyes almost closed behind his glasses. Snape sidles stealthily off the couch and comes back with an armful of sheets and a pillow. The darkness and quiet is broken only by the dim glow of the screen and the hisswhisper of rewinding tape, as Snape nudges the dozing boy's foot with his own. "Come on, you'll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that."

Harry mumbles and grumbles as he gets to his feet, but it's all purely for form's sake: he helps Snape make up the couch obligingly. Then he strips out of his shirt. Snape swallows and turns his back as soon as Harry starts on the buttons, and doesn't relent until he hears the rustle of sheets being turned down. He turns back late enough that he barely glimpses a shirtless back as Harry lies down and rolls himself into the sheets.

The tape stops rewinding with a sudden hissclick and is silenced as one bare arm slides out from the sheets to reach and press eject on the remote control. The TV goes dark and so does the room.

In the scant light from the kitchen, Snape stands for a long, silent moment, looking down at Harry as he snuggles his face into Snape's lumpy pillow, smiling as if it's the finest featherdown. Without those everpresent glasses his face seems younger, more vulnerable. Snape had never noticed his eyelashes before: with his eyes closed they are strikingly long.

The movie was forgettable, but the brat curled up on Snape's couch is anything but.

"Pleasant dreams," Snape murmurs.

Harry "mmm"s and his soft smile widens slightly.

However Harry sleeps, Snape's own dreams turn out to be unusually pleasant that night.

He awakes at four and gets up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. In the morning haze, he glimpses a sleeping figure sprawled on his couch. Harry had kicked off his sheet and is hugging the pillow to his chest. Before he stops himself from looking, Snape realises that he now knows exactly how many fingerwidths of pale skin spans across Harry's thigh, from the visible tanline right above his bent knee to the cotton edge of his underwear.

Forbidden fruit might as well taste like salt. "God, grant me serenity…" Snape bites the inside of his cheek and turns away.

No sense in going back to bed now.

Once in the shower, Snape turns the knob all the way to the right, and waits for the summer-lukewarm water to run cold before he steps into the punishing stream and hopes it will cool him down, in all possible senses.


Harry wakes up to the sound of the running shower. 'Pleasant dreams,' Snape told him before he slept, and Snape's deep, personal whisper, far more personal than a prayer, followed Harry into deep sleep like a lullaby. Like a mantra.

Harry's imagination doesn't need much to be allowed to run wild. He pictures Snape leaning in much closer, and whispering those words right against his ear, right into it. So close that Snape's breath warms his earlobe and moves the strands of his hair. So close that it brings out the burning in Harry's cheeks and sends hot blood rushing down his groin. And the words of personal confession Snape could reveal to Harry would be far more sinful and tempting, damning and devious.

Simple words they would be, scattering like broken prayer beads deep into Harry's mind, strung into sentences frantic and forward: telling of deep human need, of desire, and each word would burn on Harry's skin like a physical touch of lips. That's what Harry wants. Exactly that, from Snape: to watch a human side of him exposed, every inch of skin and every word of admission.

Pleasant, so very pleasant, each word would sound, and none of it would be a dream.

Harry breathes deep and draws the sheets over his groin. Stop it! he urges himself desperately. I can't take care of it here! Last thing I want is for him to see anything. It'd be just too awkward to explain.

But we always crave what we can't have, despite embarrassment or awkwardness.

The click of the water shutting off and the resulting silence jolts Harry from his morning daydreams.

That was quick. If it was me, there'd be no time for barely… anything.

Does Snape ever masturbate? That's the big question right there, isn't it? As big and as hard as it gets.

so to speak.

Harry grins impishly, relishing that thought for a moment, then he "Argh!"s and rolls over to bury his face in his pillow, hopefully hiding every bit of the flush he can feel burning in his face. Only in that feathery cotton-clean safety, can he explore the thought further.

Gah, do preachers even do that? Maybe not. Maybe they give it up completely for Lent. Maybe it's just allowed on certain days. Like on a Sunday. Or every day that's not a Sunday. Or not at all.

What does the Bible say about it? There was something about that poor married guy, Onan, 'spilling his seed' in the ground... So maybe it's a bad thing, like sin, but not a mortal sin. At least I hope not: Snape's a man, not a saint, so he's got to do something. Somewhere. Somehow. Otherwise no one in their right mind would ever become a preacher.

Is it even allowed like that or does he get in trouble for it and has to apologise afterwards? But who'd he apologise to? To his boss?

To God?

Ha, hypothetically, besides God, who'd know? And I bet lots of things are OK if no one knows. That's how most Biblical instructions tend to go, anyway, 'OK if no one knows.' It might as well be the eleventh commandment.

Harry suspects that line of reasoning is unfair, but he has to admit there's a certain fairness too, in the way that it allows far more freedom than the alternative. What else is Snape up to that no one knows about? Probably all sorts of delicious deeds. The Bible tells people not to do all sorts of them, over and over and over again.

The Bible is anything but fair, but, to be fair, Harry doesn't know of any other religion that's any fairer.

Argh. Enough of that, he's coming out.

Harry's pulling the sheets off the couch and folding them; he looks up as the bathroom door opens. "Good morning," he beams and Snape nods in reply as he leaves the bathroom. He's clean shaven, his hair wet and slicked back, but otherwise he's every bit as buttoned up from head to toe in black, as he is any other hour of the day.

Though he's just as much of a mystery as he was yesterday to Harry, at least one thing about him is settled: the tips of Snape's ears are round. About as human as ears get. For some reason the discovery of a perfectly ordinary curve of a single ear is as stunning to Harry as if it had turned out otherwise.