The Blood of Stars

by perverse-idyll

Severus creates a prison of his own making, and the stars bear witness to it. He cannot speak of love, but as always in his life it becomes the key to both freedom and death.

7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

xxxxx

For weeks after the ambush, I had nightmares about the charred werewolf and the crunching sound of Nigel's skull. Just like I still burst from sleep sometimes, my face pressed into the sweat-soaked pillow, the past clinging like cobwebs, thick with shadows and running feet and curse lights. The echo of Hermione screaming and the earthquake rumble of Hogwarts cracking open and crashing to the ground. Staring faces. Blood-streaked hands. Perhaps worst of all, Dumbledore's voice whispering Harry, you failed. Tom isn't dead. I learned to get up after one of those dreams, and if Ginny was there, leave her sleeping. I'd slip away to another room, cast a Silencing spell, turn on the telly, and sit thinking—or if I could help it, not thinking—until the sun came up.

Once or twice, heading back to my office through the Ministry corridors, I caught the stench of singed fur on my hands. Both times I was alone, and my chest tightened and my sinuses ached as if I'd caught cold. Or been crying. Which I wasn't. I never did. Over Nigel, I mean. Although maybe I should have. A quick Tergeo before someone found me standing in the hallway scowling at my hands, and I got on with my life. Because that's what you do.

Or else … or else I had dreams about Snape. About this dark, ravenous figure pinning me, heat radiating through the wind-chilled wool of his robes, his taste bitter as quinine, me swallowing and swallowing until stars burst behind my eyes.

The sensation of being overwhelmed, suspended, crushed between the sky and a pair of grasping hands, a greedy tongue, the hard knot of arousal grinding between my thighs—sod it, I gave up and wanked. Not because I wanted Snape, Merlin forbid. The memory of him rubbing up against me, the closeness of his face, his skin cold against my cheek and his tongue filling my mouth, the heat so shocking it lit a fuse that wormed its way down between my legs, the goosepimpling touch of his hand sliding up to grip my hair—

No. I didn't want that. It was too strange for words. There was no reason for him to kiss me, after years of treating me like crap, someone he despised simply for existing. And for me to grab on and buck up against him the way I had was absolutely mental. There was nothing about Snape I wanted. Desire—that was for Ginny. I couldn't explain what had happened with Snape, except that I was sure it had to do with my last-minute rescue from ending up a screaming heap of bones. From lying next to Nigel with my face chewed off.

Because that's all that would be left of me now. If Snape hadn't come.

So it was—call it temporary insanity. Not wanting. It couldn't be. Not him. Fuck it, everything about that night had been horrible, and I hoped to God I never saw him again.

It's just, my cock had a long memory. It kept flashing back to that white-hot point, curtained under the trees but visible to the stars.

I got it out of my system, all right? No big deal. There was nothing I could do about it, unless I wanted to tell the Ministry that Snape was alive.

Eight months later the bastard kissed me again, and I was bloody lucky he did.

I was weekending in the North Country, Muggle-style. Cottage rental, green hills and well-trodden footpaths, out for a nice walk the way you do, lollygagging through the mild afternoon. I landed on the track above Cotterby Scar, wildflowers on the upward slope and the limestone drop overgrown and rugged below. Making sure no one else was about, I Apparated down to the waterside, sliding a bit on the wet grass. It had rained for three days solid that week, and the river was swollen and noisy. Exhilarating, really. I had no plans other than to follow the Swale downstream to the nearest village, admiring various waterfalls along the way. Then I'd hike over to the East Gill Force and find a dry spot to unpack my lunch. The cottage had a fireplace and an iron bathtub, so I could Apparate back and warm up any time I tired of walking.

The ground was mucky, and the dripping ash and elm trees rustled in the rain-cooled air. So amazingly peaceful. Safe as houses and all that. Yeah, right. As if I'd learned nothing from the last twenty years.

Perfect weather for a picnic, I'll give it that: birds swooping from their nests, water foaming over rocks, bread and berries and a bottle of ale stowed in my knapsack. Hermione was off revising her law courses, as usual, and Ron was sticking with George, as usual—the family made an effort to pop in a sub when Ron needed a break, but George could be a right bastard to his family since Fred died. Sometimes even Molly couldn't take his mouth.

Ginny had plans to Floo into Ottery St. Catchpole from Quidditch practice next day and then join me at the cottage. I looked forward to the two of us being quiet together. Partly because Ginny was still learning that my being quiet didn't mean anything. And by "anything," I mean angry or upset. When I sat at the family table, grinning and listening rather than diving in, it was because I wasn't naturally boisterous like her brothers. I didn't need to be loud and constantly trading quips. Sometimes I enjoyed simply sitting on my own.

After the war ended, I spent as much time with Ron and Hermione as I could, but they were together now and needed privacy.

So did we, I guess.

It was still a little hard to believe that I was … normal now. That I could do normal things. I made a point of dropping in to see Teddy whenever possible. I met Hermione's parents, and we got along great. Luna sent me funny postcards showing pictures of all the different countries she visited. I heard from someone that Neville was starting an apprenticeship with Professor Sprout. Wherever I went, I bumped into people who knew me, even if I didn't know them. Ron and I had drinks at the pub most weeks, and sometimes Hermione or George joined us there, but no matter what, total strangers would come up to our table and shake my hand or try to sell me something or give me something or insist I attend board meetings or fund raisers or commemorative events.

I was used to being one-third of a life-saving friendship, sort of a—a three-part rune that spelled loyalty, and no Dark Lord or Death Eater in the world could divide us. Now I had to let that go and learn to be half of a couple. Hanging out as a foursome was fun, but—I don't know. Something didn't gel. Ginny and I ended up playing a tonne of Quidditch together. The more time passed, though, the more I preferred to relax at home, especially once I started taking field assignments. Ginny—well, she was accustomed to the Burrow's tumult. She'd been brought up with bickering and pranking and lots of family outings.

Maybe I was a bit less exciting than she expected, and maybe I missed Ron and Hermione more than I let on.

Never mind. Tomorrow we'd wander around and climb the fells and hold hands and have as much sex as we wanted, and just be ourselves.

Really, I couldn't have asked for a better day.

Until a Body-Bind spell hit me in the back.

I had one second to think Shite. Then a bruising kick in the arse pitched me in the river. So much for my Auror training. I hit the bank shoulder-first and toppled sideways with a splash. I landed face-up, the river water slopping over my neck and cheeks. It stung. The knapsack cushioned my back a bit, but the cold soaked right through my jumper and flowed up inside my trouser legs, like runoff down a pipe. My first instinct was to see who'd cursed me, but my eyes were fixed in one direction and wouldn't move.

I started to float away from shore, slowly at first, scraping over the shallows, then picking up speed. The current spun me partway around, and the sky revolved in a sickening way. My face went under, then came up again, tingling with shock. I couldn't even gasp. Water beaded on my glasses. Good thing my mouth was shut when the Petrificus caught me or the water would have poured right down my throat.

The river, Merlin, how it burned. It was colder than the lake in the Forest of Dean, really painfully freezing, like molten ice. And roaring. Unlike the lake, it wasn't calm. Partway out from the bank, it snatched me up, dragged and thrust me along, rolling and bumping me over and under. The surging and slamming scared the crap out of me. The cold was agonising, the Body-Bind sheer torture.

Cursed rigid, I couldn't yell for help. Couldn't see where I was going, couldn't keep myself afloat, couldn't stop myself whirling headlong into the rocks that split the frothing current. Couldn't breathe. The boiling, gurgling rush tossed me this way and that, drove me against every stone in the riverbed, seethed and sucked me under, dunked me deep and spat me out. I was seared with cold, soggy, scuffed and bleeding, tumbled over and over as the water fled downstream. Flash of sky, swirl of liquid, flash of sky, faceful of water, sky, spray, a suffocating, bubbling wave forcing its way up my nose. Air, oh fuck, I needed air, I needed it now, where was it? There, up there, unreachable, a ripple of daylight dabbling at the surface, disappearing as the river spilled onward and a churning, roaring blanket of water crashed down like a wall, choking and cold.

I smashed off something massive, a boulder maybe, and screamed inside, unable to move a muscle. The crack to my head stunned me, and the current carried me off to the next collision. My whole body felt waterlogged, ice-blue, bruised head to foot, my sodden Muggle clothing rubbing me raw. But I was in there, aware every second of what was happening to me. The nonstop roar almost drove me mad, the push and sway of the water, a weight, a force, over me, under me, yellowish-green with a white, frothing head. The constant pounding and sloshing were utterly brutal. I couldn't think.

I skidded right to the edge of losing it. My mind, I mean. Not even Voldemort had been able to do that. I rolled facedown, my cheeks and forearms bumping and scraping, gashed open on underwater rocks. My sinuses were on fire, totally plugged up. Greenish-black things kept swimming over me. I thought at first they were snakes, but they were probably weeds. I couldn't tell. My glasses had broken off, but it's not like I could see more than quick glimpses anyway. Merlin, everything happened so fast. The world kept getting snatched away, a spinning kaleidoscope of water and sky.

Half-conscious, I almost missed how the river accelerated, its mindless roar shaking the inside of my head. Foam exploded wetly on all sides; water whipped across my face. Helpless, I hurtled forward, got jostled against the rocks, flipped over, and went flying.

For one second, I hung suspended in mid-air. Then a wave lurched over me, and together we swept off the falls. I spilled into the maelstrom, and the river thundered down on top of me.

I plunged underwater, straight into another world. It was as if someone had yanked curtains shut against the daylight, and I somersaulted in slow motion through a bone-chilling murk. I've had dreams like that. Of drifting in liquid silence. Up above, the water still thrashed violently, but it was no longer deafening. Its assault stayed on the surface, far away. Only the vibration of it filtered down, stirring the depths.

The lake was like a cave. A freezing cave. Sunlight speared the gloom, startling me as I rippled through bars of brightness. The rocks on the bottom wobbled, distorted by my passing. I spun toward them, coasting into shadow. My eardrums throbbed. Deeper here. Sluggish. The water had stopped brawling. Dark, so dark, like the lake in the woods where the sword had been hidden. No one would ever find me. The water I'd swallowed swamped my chest, a solid block. I was dimly aware of a chipped front tooth, and blood trailing out my nose. Every bit of me felt distended with pressure, and I thought my eyeballs were going to burst.

Part of me kept trying to reach out for help. Save me, Ron! Hermione, help me! We'd survived Voldemort, damn it. We'd won. But I sank, and the water around me darkened. Not fair, not fair. I couldn't die now, I couldn't, not like this. It hurt so fucking much. I'd never see Ron and Hermione again. More than anything I wanted to say goodbye. How could I leave them? We'd survived the war together. I was going to have a family.

Sightless, alone, far from everyone, I bumped sideways amongst weeds and muck, stiff and silent at the bottom of a lake.

It all drained away. My whole life dwindled to a sputtering please not now not fair, a random jumble of pictures, Ron Hermione, noisy and bright, shrinking to a desperate thread Snape one tiny mindless dot like the spark please at the end of a blackened wick.

Just before the spark went out, something hauled me backward through the swirling water, so fast that bubbles sputtered in my wake. The centre of the pool erupted like a geyser, heaving me up in wet, splashing circles, and a crack of magic spat me ashore.

I landed with a thud. Well, a squelch. The ground was rockhard, the sky blinding. Didn't matter. I still couldn't breathe.

Finite Incantatem whipped through me, setting off spasms. No more Petrificus, thank fuck. My sopping clothes got ripped clear and cast aside. Everything went aching and freezing and limp. My sodding teeth hurt. A flurry of black blotted out the light and I was shoved roughly onto my stomach.

I closed my eyes—like raking the tines of a fork down both eyeballs, but still a relief. I just lay there, drooling. Dying, I guess. I didn't care, as long as I didn't have to do it in the river.

A firm weight pressed my back. Oh God. I had to retch. Water squirted from my mouth, my nose, water everywhere. Gagging, I blacked out. Another tingle of magic, and my lungs cleared, snapping me back to life. Fuck. That hurt. Something hissed in my ear like a frustrated snake, and I got yanked onto my back again. My arms and legs flopped. Those hands, bearing down. Then smooth, clean fingers worked my mouth open and slid inside, forcing my tongue out of the way. They were gone, and something else sealed around my lips—a mouth, fitted to mine, a gust of air, stale air, a warm breeze down my throat.

Not enough. Again, a sharp press, again that steady exhale that became my inhale. I coughed, and the mouth drew back before lowering over me again.

My whole body blazed with cold, my lips, my face, bruise-swollen and numb, burning with pain. The mouth covering mine was so incredibly warm, and the warmth so delicious, and holy Merlin, the feel of it feeding me air—I still dream about it sometimes. The hands on my chest, pulling me about. They forced me to open up. They made me live. He made me, is what I'm trying to say.

Time stopped. It all narrowed down to one thing. A miracle, like sharing dragon's breath.

Then my rescuer pulled back, and my entire body screamed Don't leave me here! Don't let me die!

I forced my eyes open just a slit. Daylight scalded them, and they watered so much I couldn't see, but—sod it, I knew. I knew damned well who crouched over me. I had all the evidence I needed in the texture of his hair, the shape and taste of his mouth, the prominence of his bones. Blood-snotty water still leaked out my nose, but I swear to God I could smell him.

The blurry slab above me was like one of the submerged white rocks that had loomed up from the shadows as I tumbled downstream. Around it hung two straggly curtains, shielding me from the sunlight.

Snape's hair. I loved it at that moment, lankness, blackness, greasiness, and all. It was the only colour that didn't hurt to look at.

I croaked, "Please," or tried to. I was naked and my whole body jerked, spasming with cold, and there was no way I could keep my hands off him. His black robes were the most wonderful thing I'd ever touched, soft and smouldering with heat. Too weak to do more than drape my arms around him, I held on while my muscles thawed against the fabric. As soon as I could feel blood beating in my extremities, I worked my way up Snape's shoulders and into his hair, hand over hand, trembling with exhaustion. His hair was like a revelation. I buried my fingers in it. Once under the thick strands, the cold knives in my bones finally started to lose their sharpness.

Snape stared down at me, waiting. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I could feel that look. I will make you regret this. I was too far gone to care. He hadn't called me names yet, or told me what a useless waste of space I was. Which was odd. No sneer of "What are you playing at, Potter?" It would have meant things were normal. Would have meant I was safe.

The silence changed all that. It left me reaching for things that weren't there and grabbing hold of things that were. I hadn't forgotten him kissing me, and—well, I wanted it now. I wanted him covering me. I didn't give a toss about being naked. Frankly I'd be happy never seeing my soaked and freezing clothes again. I wanted Snape and his robes enfolding my bare skin, wanted him blanketing me with his body heat. The more heat, the better. Wanted him breathing into my mouth. For the warmth. For a way to banish the river's noise still thundering through my head.

So I wouldn't call it a conscious decision. Exhausted, I hung around his neck. At first he resisted, or didn't understand, but then his head bowed beneath my weight. When his hair fluttered in the wind, I wadded it up—such a simple thing, the ability to move my fingers, but so fantastic—and steered him closer, hoping he'd take the hint before my strength gave out.

He didn't. Arsehole. So I braced myself and craned up until our lips just touched. Even that was enough to kindle a funny little zigzag of life in my stomach. Like a baby bird screaming feed me, I opened my mouth to beg. That was what finally did it. Even though my face was smashed up and it must have been as appealing as kissing an icecube, Snape made an impatient noise and slid into place as if he did this every day, nudging my lips further apart so he could ease his tongue inside.

Merlin, that was all I asked. I let my eyes slide shut as warmth blossomed in painful, lovely spots all up and down my body.

Snape remained kneeling, settling deeper into the kiss while managing not to lean on any of my bruises. I was pretty far gone, but I had no desire to Apparate home and find help. I was content to stay where I was, naked on the riverbank with Snape's hands and mouth to heal me.

God, I loved that kiss. I wouldn't have thought Snape capable of it, and a small part of my brain reckoned he'd found someone else to practise on since the last time we'd done this. It was velvety and careful, and the way he paid attention and kept it calm and searching made it feel like he was giving me a slow massage.

And there was something else about it, these little slips of emotion. I'd once attended a concert performance courtesy of a nice older member of the Ministry. It wasn't my sort of thing, so I did as much watching as I did listening. Some of the musicians, even the ones with violins under their chins, swayed and dipped their heads at certain moments, as if the intensity of the music overwhelmed their professional reserve. Some closed their eyes at particular notes or grimaced as though the perfection of all those sounds blending together was so blissful it hurt. It helped me to stop squirming in my seat and made me want to hear exactly what they were hearing.

Snape—he did that with me. These extra nudges, as if he couldn't help himself. A way of brushing his lips back and forth over mine with this half-drunk expression. Little pauses where our mouths barely touched, but the connection was at its most intense.

I started doing it, too. Because that's how it felt, like we were playing a duet. But instead of music, it was me being alive that we collaborated on, and it took both of us to produce the notes that reminded me how much I loved life. How sometimes it was so astonishing I didn't know whether to laugh or stand up and open my arms to the world.

So I was distracted. There was this whole warm landscape available to me, wrapped in smooth, sun-drenched blackness. It didn't register at first that my hands had gone exploring on their own. They traced the long passage of his spine absentmindedly, reaching down as far as they could. And I think—I'm not sure—no, I'm pretty sure—but I think they accidentally groped his arse.

Without warning, Snape rolled over, scooping me on top. The pain in my ribs broke my trance. I squawked. Merlin, I clawed at him and tried to scramble away. It felt a whole lot more awkward and exposed to be on top, flaunting my bare bum at the world. It also occurred to me, too late to do anything about it, that river rafters and hikers came down this way all the time. Well, fuck. Hopefully Snape had cast a spell to hide us from prying Muggle eyes.

Restraining me with an elbow, Snape dragged a fold of his robes over on top of us. The material spread out in a tide of black heat, super intense, almost burning. Sunlight seeped like a healing potion into the muscles of my back, and Merlin. That was all it took. After the terror and bruising and water torture, it was … indescribable. I stopped pretending I was going anywhere and just let myself sprawl all across his body. In fact, I pretty much melted all over him and let the sun do its job.

I reckon I lost a few minutes there. The heat penetrated right to my frozen bones, and everything tingled as if the ice in my veins had turned to steam. The river was boiling out of me. It was letting me go.

Then the bony cushion of Snape's body bent, lifting me with him, and I snapped awake.

"No. Wait." Bloody hell, my throat was raw. "Minute," I croaked feebly. "Stay a minute."

Muffled under his robes, Snape's heartbeat bounced off my forehead, deep and vibrating. I clung on, confused because now that I was more alert it really sank in who I'd been snogging. How desperate I'd been to kiss him. What the hell, Potter? Just shows how out of it I was. If someone else had saved me—Ron, for instance—the question of kissing would never have come up.

Well, too late now.

"Don't go. Please."

Silence. What was I supposed to do with that? He'd not spoken to me once, not once. Cripes, though. Maybe he couldn't. Was it possible Nagini had done for his voice? But I'd heard him cast Obliviate in the Room of Requirement. Hadn't I? He'd left Ginny convinced I'd done a terrible thing. The stuff he'd said to me—or not said. Stuff I hadn't forgotten. His words in my mind. Let me stay dead.

Fuck, I couldn't make sense of it. I was so bloody tired.

Snape just sat there breathing in a keyed-up way, probably angry, holding my head against his chest. No arguments from me on that score, because I wasn't too keen on looking him in the face just then.

I was so certain he was about to tell me to get the hell off him and stop fucking around that when he lay back down again, pulling me with him, for a second I didn't know what to do. Then I realised I didn't need to do anything. I could stay where I was.

Lovely. I slipped right back into that haze of simmering heat and mindless surrender. Sure, I hurt all over, but the pain seemed to be concentrated over there, on the other side of some imaginary horizon. For now I could ignore it. It helped that I felt physically slack, supple, as if my bones were soft. Every time Snape budged or breathed, it sent an answering ripple from one end of me to the other. Heat above, heat below. One of my legs draped his, my shoeless foot hooked over his shin. His hand was still on my head, fingers twined in my hair.

I … well, I blame the sun and the shock. My dick got hard. Daydreaming, I shifted my hips, and well-being rolled up through me in a golden glow. It wasn't personal; it was more about just being alive, about sensation flowing back into my extremities. The hunger to feel more alive pulsed inside me, steep and swelling.

I didn't realise at first I was rutting in slow motion against Snape's thigh. It was like nothing I did could possibly have consequences. Nothing was real, except for the fact that I was here, breathing.

Of course, some part of me still waited for Snape to jerk upright, snarl insults, and kick me back in the river. But it was almost like he didn't even notice. I rocked drowsily back and forth as if I were rocking myself to sleep, little tickles of pleasure running up and retreating between my legs.

My face was right against his neck, which put my nose where I'd never in a million years imagined putting it, smack in his hair. It had that warm animal smell hair gets, a kind of earthy richness from lying tangled in the sun, with undertones of the grass beneath us. Greasy, sure, but that just made the smell more intense. Smoky somehow. No doubt from slaving over a hot cauldron.

I buried my face in it.

Small poky bits jabbed at my stomach. Evidently Snape carried vials and notebooks and whatnot around with him, and his robes must have been lined with pockets. Sodding things. They were so distracting I fantasised about yanking his kit off to get them out of the way. But then Snape would be— Hmm. Hang on. Vague thoughts of sallow skin and black chest hair twitched inside me, and that warm golden feeling rose up again. Trying to leverage a bit more pressure, I rocked weakly and bent my knee. Snape shuddered, and his hand tightened in my hair. His other hand slid up inside my cocoon, and fingertips skimmed my ribs. Before I could decide what I thought about that, he swept the robe off and left me naked to the world.

Damn. Reprieve over, I reckoned. Now I'd get levitated to my feet. Or dumped on my arse. Then Snape would dust himself off with a smirk and Disapparate.

I lay still. The silence stretched, and Snape showed no signs of moving. The sunlight beat down, drugging my blood. I wondered what Snape would do if I melted all over his robes. Within minutes, I was positively roasted. The river's roar spilled by in the background, but I was safe, dry, my body incandescent and fantastically naked. The rising fever in my veins made me squirm, and I slowly went back to humping his thigh.

A second later, Snape's hand alighted on my back, cool against my burning skin. I felt the urge to kiss him again. I didn't have the strength to wank and raise my head at the same time, so I settled for panting into his neck, into the high, loose collar that covered his scars.

Carefully, the flat of his hand glided from my shoulder to the small of my back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, and the long, smooth stroke provoked a shiver in its passage over my skin. Snape had touched me before, sure, but never like this. Never with a trace of uncertainty in his fingers. Never with the sense that he was trying to be gentle.

Stupid with contentment, I rode back and forth, barely moving atop his body. In the dip below my tailbone, his nails dented my skin.

It came to me then that the thing rolling around under me, long and full, was Snape's cock. Snape's cock, and I was rubbing myself all over it.

He couldn't have been wearing pants; the heavy bulge moved too much. The pressure of his erection stirred a sleepy satisfaction inside me, the obvious wrongness just adding to my belief that I was dreaming. Because look, I was naked and Snape was being bizarrely nice to me, and we didn't even need to talk about it. I'd almost died, now here I was, and it felt incredibly wicked. Merlin, I wanted to thank him for that. I wanted my aching, lazy, grateful body to excite him the way it excited me.

I was so out of it the thought started making me maudlin, so I wiggled a bit to get the warm feeling back and dragged my hands up to clutch at his shoulders. And I pushed. With every thrust, oh God, I could feel the sweetness rise and subside, rise and subside, teasing the heat a little farther each time.

It was hypnotic and unreal. No urgency at all. I probably could have stayed there basking, breathing through my mouth and inhaling the fragrance of Snape's hair, enjoying the repeated flush of pleasure, cursing his lumpy pockets until the sun went down, in no hurry at all to get it over with.

I had no idea what Snape was thinking. As long as he let me keep doing what I was doing, I didn't give a toss. Then the hand in my hair slid down to my neck and the other smoothed its way up my arse. The cool tips of his fingers fit lightly into my crack.

I could have shaken him off. Would have, in my right mind. When I didn't, his hands tightened and slowly started to guide me, encouraging me to rub.

Neither of us said a word or let on that what we were doing was insane. After a few seconds, I picked up his rhythm. He rotated my hips, with little pushes at intervals, driving my dick against his leg.

By this point I was relaxed and wrung out, sweating madly, dazed by sun and bruises, stewing in the heat of Snape's robes and floating on sparks of almost-orgasm. The hand on my arse went away, and Snape's sleeve curtained my face for a moment. The curtain went down with his lowered arm. Sunlight stung my eyes. Without warning, a single wet fingertip insinuated itself between my arse cheeks and slid, cool and careful, inside my hole.

Whoa. Eyes shut, face smashed into his collar, I bucked against him in shock.

As he fingered me, so idle and lewd about violating my privacy he made it seem almost natural, my backside lifted up, and Snape hissed something I couldn't quite hear.

Bugger that. Come on. Let him whine and curse. Let him break his fucking silence. I wanted to hear him cry out in pleasure. For me. Because of me. I wanted to hear his dark, snarling voice whisper my name.

Reckless, I bit his neck. Or really, the fabric around his neck. Not hard, but Snape whined a little and rolled his head sideways to expose more throat. A queer feeling fluttered in my stomach, like pressing on a bruise. After Nagini's attack, I would've expected him to hate being touched there.

I worried mindlessly at the mouthful of collar, letting him feel my teeth. A harsh noise scraped out of him, a held-back sound ending in open-mouthed panting as he braced his feet and moved under me. Cradled together, we rocked like lunatics. I wiggled and strained, sweating on top of him, utterly bursting with sun, throbbing madly around the thin finger tucked inside my arse. I hid my face in his hair and inhaled, inhaled, biting him, pushing back and forth and gasping, whimpering, cock against cock. The smell of sweat dizzied me. The smell of sex, of life. I could taste the sun in his clothes. His skin. The sweetness of crushed grass in his hair almost made me cry.

Let me stay dead.

No, damn it. I won't. Come back, Snape. For me. Come for me, all right? I don't want you to be dead. We're alive, and that's—that's it, you bastard, come with me, that's what I want, oh God, with me, just like this, I'm coming, oh yes, you son of a bitch, come with—

I squeezed my eyes tight, tight enough to see water rushing past, and bit down. Snape's throat vibrated, his groan shivering in my mouth like a swallowed curse, and I caught the swell of a pulse between our pricks. I pushed down, chasing it, and rode his arching hips up and up with feverish ease, sobbing with gratitude and rocking, milking his orgasm for my own ends until I made it to the edge and spilled right over.

No sharp ecstasy, no spurting sensation. It just melted out of me, warm and glorious and hazy and spreading, an outburst of bliss rippling to the horizon. I let myself be carried on it, farther and farther from my body, held pinned by the pressure of a long, cool finger in my arse, until I coasted without stopping over the line into blackness.

xxxxx

When I woke up, I was stretched warm and dry in a St. Mungo's bed, a Sticking Charm holding my wand on the nightstand beside me. The room was dim and smelled of herbs, and the murmuring figures casting diagnostic spells over me wore healer's robes. I was far away from the river. Far from drowning. And far, I had no doubt, from Snape, who had performed his usual vanishing act. Let me stay dead. If not for the evidence of my bruised muscles, banged-up ribs, and missing bit of tooth, I might really have dreamed the whole thing.

I saw them then, rising from their chairs in the corner, swimming toward me out of the gloom. The faces I'd hallucinated while I was dying. Ron and Hermione. Ginny. Home. I smiled and stretched out a hand to let them know it was going to be all right.

Hermione reached me first and laced our fingers together. "Oh, Harry. They said you almost died."

"That's some sort of luck you've got there, mate." The edge of the mattress sagged as Ron sat down and gripped my knee. Stubble covered his cheeks, and even though he tried making a joke of it, I could tell he was upset.

Ginny came to stand by the head of the bed and brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes. I wanted to say I was sorry, but she leaned down, kissed my scar, and whispered, "Next time wait for me, all right?"

I nodded. It felt grand to have all three of them touching me, anchoring me against the rising tide, the waves of sleep washing closer and closer.

Nobody could explain how I'd turned up in hospital. As for what had happened—I told them only what they needed to know. When the mediwitch saw how my eyes kept closing, she shooed everyone out the door. I watched them go and wished guiltily that Snape would come back. Sneak into my room now that I was alone, visit me in secret so I could stretch out on top of him and forget everything else. Sleep. Dream. Burrow under his robes and snuggle my cock against his body.

It was totally mental. I wished it anyway. Sometimes we want things that just don't make sense.

A few hours later I woke with a hard-on and a question dangling in my head. Why hadn't he used warming charms? He could have. It would have been the obvious thing to do. There was no need to strip me naked and wrap me in his robes. No need at all.

Before falling back to sleep, I wondered if I owed him a life debt now. And why he always came for me. And for the first time, why he always left me behind.