Those who need, must.

Well-Lived

dracofiend@gmail.com — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 05:29:28 GMT

Title: Well-Lived
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: HP/SS
Rating: G
Genre: Romance
Summary: Severus wins a lifetime achievement award.

Severus accepts the Minister for Magic's Lifetime Achievement Award with little patience and less grace, removing himself from the podium with a flourish of robes after delivering brief remarks that might be considered less than heartfelt. Harry watches him with a half-exasperated eye, but his smile softens when Severus returns to his seat, brittle tendrils of hair hovering alongside the severe downturn of his mouth. His step has become more stately, in recent years, Harry thinks. His scowl has not mellowed.

"It's a beautiful trophy," Harry tells him later, as Severus settles into his chair with his customary grimace.

"It's a pointy piece of rubbish," Severus grumbles, reaching around himself to wrestle with a cushion. "Toss it in the bin for me, will you?"

Harry sticks the artful crystalline sculpture underneath his arm and goes to Severus, to give the cushion a shove. Severus used to snap at him for doing it—tonight he only catches Harry's hand.

"It seems I've achieved all that's worth achieving.," Severus says to Harry's wrist. "Whatever shall I live for now?"

Harry laughs and curls their fingers together. He can tell when Severus is joking, now—another development of recent years. At least it feels that way.

"There's always righteous criticism and vindication," Harry replies.

Severus snorts and leans back carefully. "Those pleasures have long lost their shine." He eyes the trophy, then tugs it slowly from where it's wedged. "What a grotesque manifestation of public adulation," he murmurs. "And long overdue, if it was ever due at all," he says, raising his gaze to Harry. "I admit the first forty-odd years of my life were quite noteworthy. Fairly riddled with achievements," he nods matter-of-factly. He adjusts his seat; Harry sits on an arm. "As for the remainder, well. I've not done anything worth mentioning at all."

"Don't say that," Harry answers mildly. "Resting on laurels is no easy feat."

Severus' lips curve wryly. "It should be, for you—by the end of this affair your experience in such matters will far exceed mine." He raises his arm as if to send the trophy into the air, but stops short and pushes it at Harry instead. "I suppose you'll want to keep the ridiculous thing? I was about to cast it permanently from my sight," he says lightly.

Harry takes it and cups both hands around its spires, aware that vanishing spells are draining when one is already fatigued. He's begun to feel the edges of it himself, from time to time. "I love it when you spare a thought for my feelings," he says with a small smile.

"Mm," Severus murmurs, shutting his eyes. "That's your allotment for the year. Until Christmas. I can be prevailed upon to be generous at Christmas." His voice trails away; after a few moments the muscles in his face gently ease.

Harry places a hand upon the silver hair, stroking it back from Severus' fine-lined temple. Severus' jaw has gone lax and folds of sallow skin are bunched at his neck.

"We should keep it," Harry says quietly to himself, his fingertips hidden in Severus' hair. "You did a lot in your life."

A sharp eye cracks open, a bit blue in the black. "It's not over yet. Save the eloquence for when I'm gone—I won't have you tarnish my image of you as an unrepentant dolt."

Harry laughs again and twists about for an embrace. "All right," he says, into Severus' shoulder. Harry lets the trophy slip to the floor, deciding he'll pick it up later and put it with the others but just at the moment he brings both arms around Severus and kisses the soft sagging neck with a grin on his mouth and a tooth in his grin, because he can.

Azkatraz peeps--come on down to the Snarry meetup!

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 15:21:07 GMT

If you're going to Azkatraz and you haven't signed up for the Snarry meetup yet, register here now! :D It's going to be an awesome mix and mingle party with appetizers and non-alcoholic drinks (but there's a bar next door where you can get alcoholic drinks) and goodie bags and prizes!!! Even if Snarry is not your OTP you should come because a TON of people will be there! It's $25 but if that's a problem, no worries--we've got generous Snarry fan sponsors who have volunteered to cover the cost for you! So hurry and sign up here!

Enchantment; Loss (Part 2 of 2)

dracofiend@gmail.com — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 03:30:53 GMT

Title: Enchantment; Loss (Part 2 of 2)
Author: dracofiend
Pairings: HP/LM, HP/DM
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Chan.
Summary: Harry wishes for one thing only.
Author's Note: Originally written for hd_worldcup 2009, for the prompt of "A snitch in time saves nine hours of Quidditch." The version under the cut includes two additional scenes; the original version posted in hd_worldcup is rated R for implied chan and is available here.

Three

The collapse of Harry's life begins on a Thursday, in his flat, in the first hour of the morning. Lucius is with him, seated at the cherrywood table that had been given to Harry as a housewarming present. It's a bit large for the space and noticeably sumptuous against the backdrop of the other furnishings, thanks to Narcissa's exquisite taste.

"I'm pleased to hear all is progressing well with the Aurors," Lucius says. The head of his walking stick sparkles against his thigh. "I had no doubt they would see your potential early on. Fortunately, one need not possess great talent in order to recognize it in someone else." He smiles and shifts the walking stick from his lap.

Harry had been moving toward the bathroom to start preparing for bed, but when he sees Lucius rising, he alters his direction and opens his mouth to ask. He doesn't, though, because Lucius is adjusting his right glove. Lucius will not stay.

Harry is in the midst of constructing a reason in his mind, a fine reason, to persuade Lucius not to leave when Lucius reaches out an arm. Harry goes to him immediately; the lambskin glove is light against his hair.

"Come to the Manor tomorrow night for dinner," he says, "and dress nicely, please. We're having guests. Oh, and do bring those clever toys the Weasley boys brought you—I think Draco would enjoy them."

Harry nods and murmurs okay while wrapping his arms tightly around Lucius, pressing his cheek to the smooth wool where Lucius' overcloak parts. The fastenings of the robes underneath are just visible to Harry, though the family motto engraved on them is too close to make out. Tibi ipsi dic verum, they say.

"He misses your company," Lucius continues. The weight of the glove is drawn away then, and Harry knows it means good night. His embrace doesn't slacken until Lucius makes it so, easing back a step gently and straightening his cloak.

"Good night," Lucius says, inclining his head. With a twist he is vanished before Harry can utter a word.

+++++

That evening Harry arrives at the Manor, appropriately attired and with a big yellow box under his arm. Its bold blue lettering lights up when viewed, flashing Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes with pride. He's ahead of schedule—maybe he can see Lucius before the guests come—but the house elf he asks can only tell him the master is occupied, and he roams the halls fruitlessly for a little while. Draco finds him as he's exiting the empty third-floor study.

"Oh good, you're finally here," Draco greets him. "And looking ravishing tonight—are those for me?" He glances at the box, his wry expression becoming pleased when the letters work their magic. Harry grins at the reaction.

"Nice robes," he replies, presenting Draco the box. "Your dad asked me to bring them…where is he, anyway? I didn't see him downstairs. Or your mum, in fact, but I figured she's still getting ready, right?" he adds for good casual measure.

"Oh, they're with the others in the music room," Draco answers, "but don't worry, we'll be called when we're wanted. What the bloody hell is this? A rubber wand?" He fishes out a wand with a disdainful snort, then gasps and almost drops it when it turns into a relatively fresh sardine.

"Ugh!" He flings it to the floor with a splat as Harry laughs. "That's appalling!" Draco frowns, reaching over to wipe his hand across the front of Harry's sleeve. Harry charms the smears away.

"Great, isn't it?" Harry grins. "It's a trick wand—oh, I'd stay away from those," he warns when Draco pulls out a sweet. "That's a Ton-Tongue Toffee—it turns your tongue into this unbelievable, gruesome, snake-like monstrosity that actually rolls out onto the ground like it's about to take over the world."

"That sounds interesting," Draco says brightly. "All right, let's see." He thrusts the toffee at Harry.

"No!" Harry pushes it away good-humoredly. "You eat it, if you want to see it so badly!"

"I'm not that brave," Draco insists, "not like you. I haven't the nerve! I'm sure you could handle it, however—though I can see a ton-sized tongue creating a problem at the table. What about after dinner?"

Harry is proclaiming his steadfast refusal and Draco's mistaken assumptions regarding the power of flattery when Dobby appears, summoning them to the formal dining room with wide, watery eyes. Draco leaves the Wheezes in Dobby's care and they set off down the spiral stairs.

The dining room is fuller than Harry had expected, and a few of their former classmates from Slytherin are also there. Even more surprising, he is led by the house elf to the front of a long table, draped in cream linen and glistening with a forest of crystal and silver.

"Master Draco is to be sitting with his friends, as my Master wishes," the house elf tells Draco apologetically, when Draco stays alongside Harry. Draco pauses, blinking, then his features ease to blankness.

"I see." He doesn't turn to the far end of the table, though, to where the house elf gestures, and Harry tries, uncomfortably, "Could you make room for Draco wherever I'm supposed to be? Maybe put in an extra chair—I'd really rather we sit together—"

"Ruks is very sorry, Master Harry, very sorry he is," is the tremulous answer. "My Master commands it and Ruks is to obey. Master Draco, your friends is very happy to see you…" He trails off, ears quavering as Draco's face grows blander.

"Of course," Draco says, shrugging. "Father can be particular about such things; it doesn't matter to me," he tells Harry in a dismissive tone. Harry quickly agrees and adds, "Save room for pudding—there are lots of other treats in that box besides toffees." Draco kind of smiles at that and turns away. The house elf brings Harry to his seat, which is at the very end, next to the place at the head, where Lucius usually sits. The chairs around him are unoccupied, and Harry looks down the length of the table. He recognizes some faces—they're parents he's seen on the platform at King's Cross—though he can't name all the names. They're talking to each other in the low tones of polite company; once or twice someone catches Harry's eye and Harry looks away, not wanting to stare. After several minutes of looking around, not talking to anyone, and straining to see Draco all the way at the other end, next to Pansy Parkinson, several people enter at once. The seated guests' voices drop, then become entirely muted.

Harry looks twice as he recognizes Professor Snape, in formal robes and with a woman on his arm whom Harry has never seen. Behind them he glimpses Lucius—his chest catches reflexively—escorting Narcissa in. Harry watches Lucius as long as he can before curiosity compels him to examine the dark figure bringing up the rear. He's a tall man, thin, with an ivory pallor to his face and lean, refined features. The lady with Snape is being seated across from Harry; Snape waits for her to arrange herself before he takes the chair beside her. She has voluminous quantities of black hair and long-lashed, heavy eyelids—before Harry notices anything more, Lucius is stopping beside him, waiting for Narcissa to sit, then taking the chair at Harry's left, brushing his elbow as he does so. Harry dares to dart his eyes sideways, but he knows better than to smile. The final guest approaches; the house elf adjusts the chair for him. He does not sit down, and suddenly everyone around Harry is getting up. Harry quickly does the same.

"My dear friends," the gentleman says slowly, taking peculiar care in his speech, as if his tongue is unaccustomed to the language. "Seventeen years…seventeen years since we last met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. How gratifying it is to see you here this evening! Ah, it has been too long." Harry watches him discreetly and sees his gaze flickering from one guest to the next, down one side with deliberation, and up the other. Harry can't detect any trace of a foreign accent, and yet—there's something unusual in the form of his words. "It has been far too long. However," the man continues after a beat, "despite the long delay in our reunion, I believe this occasion has been well worth the wait…particularly in light of Lucius' singular, and most worthy, achievements. Please, shall we raise our glasses to Lucius?"

The foreigner lifts his glass of red wine, and each person at the table immediately follows suit. So does Harry, wondering who the man is (perhaps some overseas wizarding government official?), what he's congratulating Lucius for, and why Lucius hadn't mentioned this was to be a celebratory dinner.

"To Lucius," the man says with a slight smile, directing his glass and his gaze over Harry's head. "To Lucius," the table echoes. Harry turns to look at Lucius because everyone else is, but Lucius is looking only at the speaker, lifting his own wine to the air. He is returning the smile with a gracious one of his own, his eyes grave and deeply attentive. Harry sips his wine, wondering, wondering who this man could be to have Lucius thus enraptured.

After the toast the man brushes back his plain robes and sits. Again, everyone else follows, and Harry watches the man give Lucius a nod, after which Lucius half-turns his head and nods to thin air. It produces rolls on their bread plates and shallow dishes of lobster broth; their napkins are fanned upon their laps without a sound. Harry turns his attention to the man at the head of the table and waits for him to begin.

The guest meets Harry's eyes. Harry smiles politely; the next instant his head is exploding in eviscerating pain, the agony a fat blade thrust fast through his skull. Then it's gone, leaving Harry's eyes wet as he re-opens them. The stranger is breaking his roll in half and spreading it with butter; Lucius' bare fingers are resting his shoulder.

"Are you feeling unwell?" he murmurs.

The voice at his ear completes Harry's recovery; he looks over gratefully and gives his head a small shake. "I'm fine," he answers quietly, wishing he could shift nearer. "Just an odd moment of dizziness." Probably because I'm sitting so close you, he thinks but doesn't say, settling for a smile to himself instead. Crystal and cutlery are clinking and tinkling around him—the pleasant cadence of dinner party talk begins to flow. Harry tears off a piece of his roll.

"Harry Potter," the strange voice intones, "I must tell you how eagerly I have longed for this day."

Harry's chewing his bread when the man starts speaking to him. He puts on a smile and swallows, finding the man's fixed gaze somewhat discomforting. Something about the man's posture and demeanor, the gingerness of his movement, suggests great age—his appearance, in contrast, is unlined and untouched.

"Every man, woman and child in our world knows the tragic story of your childhood—very probably it is the story of wizardkind," the stranger says, amusement lifting his lips. "A story poised for transformation into a tale of good and evil, a truly mythic tale. It may even immortalize you, in a manner of speaking."

The stranger's smile widens to reveal beautiful teeth, and he stops to dip his spreading knife into the butter. Harry's somewhat shocked—he isn't sure of the appropriate way to respond, but he's certain that this would be a taboo topic of conversation were it not the guest of honor who was in breach of common etiquette.

The stranger spares him the search for something proper to say. "You may not realize how very closely I hold your story to my heart," the man resumes, "and indeed, you do not; it seems Lucius has abided by my wish to make this a little surprise." He glances at Lucius and positively beams when Lucius replies with a solemn nod. "Ah, wonderful, you have done so wonderfully, my dear Lucius!" the man almost laughs aloud.

Through a sudden dull ache in his head, Harry notices that Snape and the woman beside him have stopped conversing with each other and are now openly observing the stranger as he talks. "In that case, Harry, perhaps you can answer for yourself the question in your mind and guess who I am?" The man gestures vaguely with his buttered bread. "Lucius has told me you are a brilliant boy; intelligent, quite magically gifted, a nimble learner, decisive in your actions—though perhaps a bit impetuous, hm?" He tilts his head and takes a careful bite of his roll, and the gleam of his eye, the emphasis of his last words sets Harry's heart rushing. This man knows about Lucius.

The stranger chokes delicately, his finely-formed face creasing into a closed-mouth grin while his mouth works to finish. He chuckles—a distasteful papery sound—and reaches for his wine. "Harry, no cause for such alarm!" The man drinks, drawing out the swallow, closing his eyes as if he's savoring being alive. "I shan't reveal your secrets, not here at this fine table." He opens his eyes, smiling at Harry, and Harry is seconds from pushing back from the table and excusing himself. "It would be tres gauche! Ah, but you mustn't think of leaving us—have you guessed who I am yet? No?"

The throb in Harry's head is becoming duller but more diffuse—his thoughts fall from their shelves like flying earthenware, crashing in his brain, piling into senseless patterns that make him disangled, horribly winded. It feels like he's spinning, the sounds are spinning around him though he sits stone-still in his plush and tassled chair.

The man polishes off his roll and takes up his spoon. "I am Lord Voldemort. It’s such a pleasure to see you again, Harry." He smiles at Harry, and begins to drink his soup.

Harry cannot move—his chest is held taut by a thousand seizing fists, each of them gloved and tearing out his breath, his sight, his instinct to ask aloud if this is a joke. After a time Harry is cognizant that his head aches, and that Lucius has bent toward him and is talking in a low voice.

"You haven't touched your consomme—is anything wrong with it?"

The question re-animates Harry and he decides to look at Lucius, though he fears—he doesn't know what. Will Lucius bare fangs, sprout horns? Will his eyes glow red? Harry turns his head—Lucius looks no different. His handsome features are unchanged; his eyes remain pale gray. He gazes at Harry with the full expectation of a satisfactory answer, and Harry returns to breathing.

"Oh no, not at all," Harry replies, the gap in his thudding brain bridged by robust manners. "It looks lovely, thank you." He suddenly realizes he may be holding up the next course for the table but still the proper thing to do is to consume a few brief spoonfuls, as a courtesy, so he picks up his shining soup spoon—and it jerks him away.

+++++

Grimmauld Place is true to its name, a street both desolate and unhappily tread by time. The secret anomaly is Number Twelve, kept hidden and bustling and lit and clean by magic. The comings and goings and meetings and urgent shoutings and whispers keep Harry afloat in the first several days after he tumbles into being on the bare wooden floor. Draco is dumped down moments after, just as dazed, but as he leaps up toward Harry he is surrounded by bodies and is borne from sight.

Harry's friends are there, his Gryffindor friends—at the first opportunity they take him up to the scrubbed rooms near the attic and show him the transfigured beds, which are lumpy because Neville did them when Hermione was occupied elsewhere and no one has had the time or energy to fix them. They explain what has happened—there's an order of some sort, an order and a phoenix, hurriedly convened (or re-convened?) when word had come that the Dark Lord, yes the very one who murdered Harry's parents and tried to murder Harry—has re-risen. Harry's friends talk over each other, their eyes and mouths like circles, like the circles of the story that repeats itself. It's happening again, they say, like it happened before. Harry understands that the theme is deja-vu, and it's almost—almost deja-vu when he's lying in his lumpy bed one night in his tiny room while the others listen in the hallway to another meeting via Extendible Ears. There's a faint knock at the door, just as he would dream it if he could still dream pleasant dreams, and without hesitation Harry says, "Come in."

He could use a pleasant dream right about now, and it peers in at him from a shadow, beyond his opening door. Harry's bedroom lamp outlines familiar features, long-missed, beloved, light eyes and light hair.

"Hi," he says, joy climbing his throat. By reflex he speaks softly and sits up without a sound. All he hears is the liquid pounding of his chest and he thinks he should've trusted because he knows Lucius better, better than anyone in this whole rotten house.

Except for possibly Draco, who peers in from outside and leans against the door.

"Hi," Draco says, half in and half out. He looks at Harry for a long moment while Harry's dream fades. "They, um. They let me out today," Draco says, almost too quietly. "Of my room. Apparently I've convinced them that I haven't a bloody clue, either. So I thought I'd come and, you know. See if you were all right."

Harry regulates his breathing back into its numb state; Draco steps in hesitantly. "So, are you?" Draco asks, one hand still on the doorknob.

There's only one response to this. "Fuck no," Harry laughs, dry and crackling. "And you?" he asks. Small courtesies sweeten life, Lucius has said.

"Likewise," Draco replies. He pushes the door shut behind him and moves to sit at the edge of the bed.

+++++

Harry is sitting in the kitchen with his friends, ostensibly discussing the current state of the war. They're supposed to be scrubbing the pots and pans the lone house elf hasn't managed to clean. He's making better progress than most because he's not listening or saying too much, though Draco's already worked his way through a saucepan and a double-boiler and is currently attending to an overworked fish kettle. As Harry idly contemplates how strange such a scene would've seemed—Draco toiling away intently at house elf's work—a short while ago, Draco raises his head and catches Harry's gaze.

"What're you looking at, Potter?" Draco mutters, glaring back hard for a second before ducking his head. Harry grins, knowing Draco can't keep a straight face.

"You, Malfoy," Harry says under his breath. "Those dishwashing gloves are hot. My god, they’re sizzling. It's utterly distracting."

Draco's rag pauses on a stainless steel handle before continuing to scrub. "Sick fuck," he mutters, and Harry laughs quietly. Draco's trying to convey the impression of lofty anger as he looks at Harry sideways again, but it quickly disintegrates and he turns aside, not quite unsmiling.

This is the extent of their frivolity for the day, and indeed, for many to come, as Mrs. Weasley pushes through the swinging door next, her wan face markedly drawn. A few rags and sponges exhibit renewed efforts at her presence, but Mrs. Weasley doesn't chide. She comes to Draco's side and hovers over him, and because Harry's right there, he can hear what she says.

"Draco, dear. Professor Snape is here—he needs to speak with you. It doesn't need to be now; you can see him whenever you're ready."

Then she envelopes him into a hug, a close one, despite the soap and the gloves and the fish kettle and the rag. Harry feels the kitchen go still, sees her eyes fall shut and her mouth run flat and the back of Draco's shining head tilt alongside her tired cheek. Harry's stomach slants. He wants Draco to return to cleaning, to never leave this room.

+++++

Harry doesn't see Draco is in the library until it's too late, and Draco has seen him, is looking him full in the face. Harry can't turn around, pretend he means to go somewhere else, pretend he remembers an urgent other task and fly from the door.

"Would you fucking believe it?" Draco says without preamble, from beside a threadbare tapestry that traces family lineage with long-faded lines. "He got my parents too."

Draco turns around coolly and spies a wooden step-stool, which someone had been using to dust the top shelves. He goes over and picks up the feather duster resting upon it. "Same spell, I believe," he says, quite clearly. "Avada Kedavra? Not innovative at all but I suppose if it isn't broke…" His voice expires when he sits carefully on the stool, as if his heart or his seat might snap in the middle, and he grips the duster in his lap and breathes in once, sharply.

Harry's feet bring him forward; his arms bring their heads together. Draco's pointy chin hooks into the crook of his neck. Harry squeezes his friend's shoulders while Draco squeezes the feather duster, grips it until he's shuddering, breathing fast through his nose which soon begins to sound wet, breathing fast through his mouth until the inhales thicken. Harry grips Draco and feels the backs of his own eyes burn. He keeps them open, wide, and they burn.

+++++

Reprieve

"Hey," Draco whispers, when Harry turns onto his side at the sound of the door.

"Hey," Harry whispers back, as if he's been sleeping. He hasn't been, for a time. A timeless time. Draco hasn't been, either.

Draco slips in and closes the door behind him, turning the doorknob soundlessly to no purpose, as the weary timber always creaks. So does the floor, in more timid fashion, as Draco steps barefoot over the worn rugs to the side of Harry's bed. Harry sits up with a rustle of sheets and a faint wheeze of bedsprings, and gives Draco's outline a small tired smile. The only light creeps from beneath lowered blinds that don't quite blind, and it reflects from Draco's eyes, sometimes. Draco seems to smile back—Harry never can actually tell but it feels like it—and lowers himself to the ground and leans his back against the bedframe.

It's quiet for a bit; there's not really even the soft noise of people breathing, but the space has become less tight, more tolerable, which always happens when Draco comes and sits. They're in Harry's room because it's shunted to the corner, sandwiched between the bathroom and a sloping wall, while Draco's is right next to Neville's and one time Harry was going in while Neville was coming out and it was about three in the morning and there were some startled looks exchanged, both at the awful moment itself and the next morning. Neville didn't say anything, but now Draco comes to Harry's room and Harry doesn't go to his.

"Helped Mrs. Weasley with the pantry today," Draco says after awhile. "Do you know, we've got fifteen tins of doxy eggs. In broth."

"Really? That's horrifying," Harry replies, not lifting his head from where it rests on the headboard. He swivels his eyes sideways to the shadowed blur of Draco's shoulder. "What are they doing in the pantry?"

"Awaiting death by toast," Draco says, waspish. "We'll be having them for breakfast for the foreseeable future—was there somewhere else you'd rather they be?"

"You're joking, right? People don't actually eat those? I don't think that's safe—"

"They're guaranteed fresh through November of next year and people eat them all the time—it's typical tinned food fare so naturally you won't have tried it—"

"Then the space under the sofa in the music room would've make a bloody good buffet—"

"They're rather like mushrooms," Draco interrupts, twisting his head around in the dark. "Some you eat. Some you don't." Harry feels him staring and can picture Draco's lordly expression, the one he uses when he allows the moron to be left unsaid, though Harry can't much see it without his glasses or the light.

"Oh," Harry says. "I never cared for mushrooms."

He listens for Draco's impatient intake of breath before his straight face breaks into a ha-ha grin. "Though doxy eggs can be all right," Harry continues, with a laugh in his voice. "Mrs. Weasley's doxy egg salad was actually really good—you must've missed it at lunch the other day."

"As a matter of fact, I did," Draco answers dryly. "As another matter of fact, you're a fucking twat and if anyone else was on the same insomniatic schedule as I am and wouldn't mind me stopping by for a three a.m. chat then I'd have no use for you or your disgraceful rug here."

"And yet, you love me," Harry says with a muted chuckle.

Draco's outline jerks, which causes Harry to sit up. The bed growls metallically.

Draco turns away and resumes his former seat, with his back against the bed and his fuzzy profile to Harry.

"Must you always do that?" Draco asks lightly. "Pretend not to know something so you can make fun of me while I explain it?"

Harry's heart pounds suddenly—it hurts but he feels fine because they are getting to something he's known or almost known for—he can't remember how long, maybe since they've been here but maybe since before—anyway he trusts their friendship, and even if this goes wrong he will still be for Draco.

Unfortunately, this certainty doesn't help him with what he ought to say, so after a moment in which the darkness is frozen about them and Draco is utterly still, Harry does the first thing that comes to mind and wriggles leftwards on the bed, wincing as the springs finish the silence with jarring squeals.

"Sorry about the rug," he says, affecting calm and pulling the blanket aside to make space. "You want to try up here?"

Draco rises with a shrug, sits on the edge of the bed with hardly a bedspring's groan, then folds his legs and torso up. He affects calm too, and might do it a little better than Harry, though Harry figures Draco might have an edge when Harry's not got his glasses on.

Harry wants to find out.

He reaches over and closes his hand on Draco's wrist, where it rests nonchalantly against a warm hillock of blanket.

"What are you doing?" Draco asks mildly, as if out of idle curiosity. Harry finds Draco's pulse, and inwardly concedes that Draco is far superior in this business of affecting calm. The soft dip of Draco's wrist is like the tiny mallet of the world's most industrious fairy. It strikes at Harry's fingertips, astonishingly swift, the rush and flow out of rhythm with the racing beats of Harry's own.

"I'm feeling your pulse," Harry says, steadily enough. He wants to say something else, something funny, or at least normal, but the closeness of Draco's hip has squeezed all chance of that from him.

"Ah," Draco replies eventually. "Is everything in order then, doctor?" He says it with all the brittle sarcasm it deserves, but beneath Harry's fingertips Draco's pulse has quickened, impossibly.

"I'm—not sure," Harry says, or thinks he says—all at once he realizes just how near Draco is, all of him, his hip and his face and his arm and his hair and Harry feels his nerve spilling away in a wave of what the fuck. He lets go of Draco's wrist and would push himself from the bed except it moves under him, abruptly, when Draco's shoulder drops and he's twisting his neck and his mouth is touching Harry's in an off-centered press.

It's nothing at all like the last time Harry kissed—Draco's chin is much smoother and he doesn't push, he doesn't tilt his jaw sideways, he doesn't slide a hand to Harry's neck to draw him in. Despite the shock of the moment Harry can't help but compare—Draco has no vehemence.

Draco's mouth ebbs back. He looks at Harry with dark eyes. Then he mutters lowly, "Is it all right?"

For an odd instant he is wholly unfamiliar—someone Harry's never seen, a random person with blond hair and excessively angular features who happens to be sitting with his lips by Harry's lips. Harry blinks, his lungs aching—and sees Draco again. This is Draco. This is Draco, who has never before looked so unsure. Harry swallows; the bed seems to be swimming all around.

"It was okay," Harry answers, a bit breathlessly, though he's finally got a cocksure grin in place. "But let me show you how it ought to be done." Draco's wrist lies where Harry left it and Harry takes it up for the sake of something to hold—the pain of missing Lucius is firing raw in his gut, unbearable, as if a brand new thing. Harry watches Draco's throat rise quickly and fall, and it eases Harry's own. He leans in until their mouths meet softly, carefully, and when Draco's fingers catch between his, Harry finds himself thinking this is how it ought to be done.

+++++

Four

"Well," Harry says, breaking the silence. "Here we are."

The front gate of the Manor is still imposing in its ruin, its decorative finials transformed to bayonets. They stand on crushed gravel, the remnants of a path, and look past the wrought-iron crest to the high eaves beyond.

“You want to go in?” Harry asks. His eyes search and find—there’s the window to his room—to Draco’s—the one that lit the marbled hallway on the second floor. They’re dark and shuttered up; behind the boards the glass is likely broken.

“Do you?” Draco says. His hands hang at his sides with their fingers curled in, but his face and his voice are girded and poised. Harry looks away from him, back through the gate. Tomorrow the Ministry contractors will come and peel back the boards, force open the doors, clear away the shards, and no one will ever go to the Manor again. Harry’s throat tightens as he pictures Lucius’ dismay. He swallows and forces himself to be fine.

“It’s up to you,” he tells Draco. “You’re the heir.” He glances over with a little smile; Draco’s poise has slipped but at this his mouth breaks upward, briefly, and he meets Harry’s eyes.

“It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten,” he replies.

“How could I?” Harry says. “You remind me every day.” He grins at Draco because it’s a joke, though the truth of it flutters in him like a half-remembered dream, anxious and submerged, never to be retrieved. But this unsettlement won’t remain, not forever, Harry knows; the time that has passed, and Draco, have shown him as much. They continue standing for a few moments more, then Harry asks quietly, “Should I open the gate?”

“What was the last thing he said to you?” Draco asks suddenly.

Harry looks over quickly. “What?”

“My father. You looked like you were thinking of him.”

For an instant Harry stops—he’s himself again, as a child who’s been given his heart’s lone desire, and he will never speak of it, to not a soul—to not a soul.

Then his thoughts come unstuck and he laughs with a shrug. “I think he asked if I liked the soup.” He pauses, gazing at the broken ground, breathing down the first faint tricklings of an ache. “What about you?” he asks. “What was the last thing...?” His expression softens when he raises his head. Draco is watching him.

“Look for Harry,” Draco says. Then he steps nearer, turning his torso from the gate, turning Harry to him with a warm and light hand. “Found you.”

Harry smiles; the ache is gone. “Whoa. That was bloody amazing.”

“Yes, I thought so as well,” Draco replies. He takes Harry’s hand and steers them around, over loose rocks and glass and past the condemnation signs, informing Harry of his imminent plans to dine. “I could have a nice pasta—Italian?” he says as they leave the Manor grounds. “Ron likes Italian, doesn’t he? Should we ask if they’d care to join?”

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand in his and tells him okay.

Enchantment; Loss (Part 1 of 2)

dracofiend@gmail.com — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 03:30:09 GMT

Title: Enchantment; Loss (Part 1 of 2)
Author: dracofiend
Pairings: HP/LM, HP/DM
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Chan.
Summary: Harry wishes for one thing only.
Author's Note: Originally written for hd_worldcup 2009, for the prompt of "A snitch in time saves nine hours of Quidditch." The version under the cut includes two additional scenes; the original version posted in hd_worldcup is rated R for implied chan and is available here.

One

"Just go on inside there, Harry—have a good look around." Hagrid beams down at him from his tree-branch height, hoisting up the brown-paper-wrapped books higher under his arm. "Eeylops is the place ter be—you won't want a toad or summat like that, toads went out of fashion years ago. Tell yeh what, it'll be a birthday present from me, right?"

Harry, dizzy from the mine ride in Gringotts and from answering strangers' hellos and from constantly looking up at the giant man who seems to be his only friend in the world—this world—feels himself flush. He hasn't managed to eat properly ever since he read that letter and he's been a bit jumbled, and now he's thirsty as well but his thoughts are abuzz at the new robes he's just purchased, at the street he's standing on, at the cold glittering piles of coins in his (his!) vault.

"You don't have to—" he starts faintly, but Hagrid stops him with a friendly wave of a paw.

"I know I don't have to," says the big man, and he smiles through his beard. It spreads open like an oversized muskrat. "Go on now—I'll just nip down and get yer cauldron and such, won't be a tick." And he shuffles Harry in through the door, which jingles loudly as it swings open.

The smell hits Harry an instant before it happens—a rush of air and wings in his face, and he drops to the floor, gasping sawdust and droppings. On his knees, Harry begins to choke.

"It's only an owl," drawls yet another unknown voice. "It won't hurt you."

Harry tries to stifle his cough and peers up, wincing. His last swallow went wrong; it's difficult to breathe.

"Look," says a boy, pointing behind Harry. Harry rises and turns, blinking back the wetness in his eyes—and they widen. Behind him, filling the wall in a crazy ill-aligned tapestry, are owls. They perch on ledges, on swinging bars, on artificial twigs, on ceiling rafters. They are of all sizes and colors, ruffling feathers or sleeping, fluttering to and fro, calling to each other in muted croons. Never has Harry had so many eyes upon him. It unnerves him, and he turns back to the boy.

"That's…a lot of owls," Harry stutters.

The other boy gives a superior sort of laugh. "Never been here before?" He looks at Harry as piercingly as did the owls, though his eyes are light, and his hair, lighter. Harry notices that his nose and face are sharp, with points.

Harry shakes his head.

"I've been here loads of times," the pointy-nosed boy tells him. "Beautiful creatures, aren't they?" He waves at the birds as if he owns each and every one. "I've already got an eagle owl," he says, "and I was thinking of getting another, maybe a dragon owl. Or a falcon—those are kept in a different room, as they're too sensitive and valuable to be shown out here," he adds.

"Oh," Harry nods at the boy's expectant look. "A falcon would be wicked."

The boy's mouth twitches as if to laugh at that and he's about to reply, but an elderly man totters into view behind him, from a rear doorway.

"Hallo there, son," the man says, adjusting the dirty smock around his neck. "Need an owl for school?"

Harry turns to look and he can feel the other boy's gaze suddenly zoom in on his head. It's starting to make his head ache, the prolonged staring by random people focused on the one spot. He wants to slap a hand over his fringe, but instead he simply nods and answers the man.

"Yes, please," he says, and the man gives him a smile, wipes his hands on the apron and steps around the shop counter.

"Can I show you anything in particular?" the shopkeeper asks, pushing aside the empty cages hanging from the ceiling as he comes.

Harry looks back at the blond boy, whose eyes dart away.

"I suggest the snowy owl," the boy says knowledgeably, acting as if he hadn't been searching for Harry's scar. He juts his pointy chin toward the far corner, and Harry follows his eyes.

"Ah, Draco," says the shopkeeper, who has reached them at last. "Still considering that falcon? I can't hold onto her for more than a day, even for you, so put in a good word with Mrs. Malfoy, eh?" He graces the blond boy with a wrinkly wink before turning to Harry and clapping his hands together.

"Now then young sir, what can I do for you?"

Harry hardly notices the faint scowl on the other boy's face or his swift jingling departure, despite Draco's lofty explanation that he must meet his mother for a dressrobe fitting. Harry is transfixed by the sleek white feathers of the owl, perched high in the corner, amber-eyed and alone. The owl is breathtaking, quite large, quite still, and it looks not at Harry, or his scar, but over his head entirely.

"I'd like that one, please," he tells the shopkeeper, when he can speak.

+++++

It’s the weekend of the first trip to Hogsmeade when Harry meets Draco Malfoy’s dad. Harry’s leaning on the low castle wall with some others in his class, watching the lucky third years file out in a neat line and listening to the chatter about the bizarre and wonderful shops when a loud, somewhat testy voice shouts, “Potter!”

Harry swivels about, as do his friends. Most of them don’t care much for Draco because he’s in Slytherin and is rich. Harry thinks Draco shows off a bit much and can be rather bossy, but other than that, he’s all right.

“My father—” Draco begins, but his mouth shutters like a window when a white-gloved hand is laid upon his head.

“You must forgive my son’s familiarity—he forgets we haven’t yet been introduced,” says the man standing behind Draco. He’s tall and trim and broad-shouldered, and his inflection is gentle. His elegant robes match his solemn smiling face, and his silver hair is long and remarkable in the sun. His gloved hand strokes Draco once, without ruffling a hair; then it’s extended to Harry, white palm up. Harry is dazzled.

“I’m Draco’s father,” Draco’s father says. “One of the school governors. I’m delighted to meet you, Harry.”

He says this very sincerely and the lilt of his words is pleasing. Harry overcomes his diffidence more readily than usual and steps forward with a small smile to shake the man’s hand. The glove is shockingly soft, and warm, and Harry notices the supple feel of it around his cold fingers.

“I understand you’re the new Gryffindor Seeker,” Mr. Malfoy says, looking down at Harry with serious gray eyes. They look like Draco’s, only bigger. “That’s quite an achievement.”

“Er, yes sir,” Harry nods, stumbling over the words slightly. He feels his cheeks grow pink and the resulting embarrassment makes them pinker. He averts his eyes and catches Draco scowling, and hurries to correct himself. “I mean, thank you. Sir. I, um—it wasn’t expected. I wasn’t trying to—I mean I know first years aren’t supposed to—er. I really have Draco to thank for it.” He takes a breath and struggles to shut up while glancing at Draco, whose scowl deepens before clearing at the sound of Mr. Malfoy’s laugh.

“Oh yes, Draco told me about the Remembrall,” Mr. Malfoy says, his gray eyes crinkling with amusement. “Let us hope that you’ll always be around to save the day.” His smile becomes warmer, almost indulgent, and it makes Harry like him, heaps more than he’s ever liked Draco.

“We were just setting off on a little turn about the grounds,” Mr. Malfoy continues. “Would you care to join us?” He adjusts the clasp of his overcloak and Harry sees that the walking stick he’s carrying is topped by a bejeweled snake’s head. It winks a dark silver in the clean fist of his glove.

“Oh,” Harry replies, blinking. “I’d like that—but wouldn’t you and Draco rather go by yourselves? I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to catch up on—”

Draco’s chin is tilting into a nod but Mr. Malfoy shakes his head, smiling. “Aren’t you a thoughtful child? Please, I insist.” He stretches out an arm; his cloak swings from his elbow like a wide wing. “Draco and I will have more than enough time together this weekend, hm, Draco?” Harry looks at Draco, whose sullen features become agreeable under his father’s gaze. “Today I was hoping to meet some of his new friends.” He circles one arm around Draco’s shoulder and gestures slightly at Harry, and Harry can tell now that it’s not really a request. It’s something he’s only ever seen on other people’s dads, so he ducks his head, smiling back, and moves to Mr. Malfoy’s side, even though he’s not exactly Draco’s friend. Mr. Malfoy’s hand comes around his shoulder and they begin striding up the rampart.

Harry looks quickly at Draco, meaning to make some sign of apology, but Draco has a haughty expression pinned firmly to his face, and it doesn’t slip when he says, to Harry’s surprise, “Thanks.”

+++++

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here with us for Christmas?” Ron asks for the tenth time as Harry pounds his robes into his trunk with flat hands. He’ll only be there for three weeks but he’s never stayed at a friend’s house before and out of an abundance of caution, he’s bringing everything he’s got. It really isn’t much, but for some reason it’s incredibly difficult to get it all to fit.

“It’s going to be wicked fun,” Ron presses on. “George and Fred have these amazing fireworks planned—you’ve never seen wizarding fireworks before, have you?”

Harry hasn’t. “I’m sure it’ll be a grand time here,” he answers in what he hopes is a reasonable tone. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when I get back, yeah?”

Ron collapses onto Harry’s bed with a hmph, and the resultant jounce gives Harry the shove he needs to cram the top layer of clothing in. He slams shut the lid with a victorious, “Got it!”

“I wouldn’t have to, if you’d just stay,” Ron says glumly. “It won’t be half as good without you. What’s so good about Malfoy, anyway? He’s a stupid git.” He sighs as Harry pulls the trunk off the bed; it falls to the carpet with a solid thud. “Okay, so he lives in a mansion,” Ron concedes unhappily. “Not like you have to go there; he talks about it enough—”

“It’s not that,” Harry interrupts. It really isn’t. It’s not that at all. “I’ve been there before, anyway.”

Ron sits up fast. “You have?! When? You didn’t tell me!”

Harry shrugs as if it’s not a big deal. “A month ago?” Recalling it makes him even more eager for his trip.

“Why?” Ron asks, still sounding incredulous, and a touch indignant. “And how come I didn’t—wait,” he says, realizing. “Was it that weekend I was at home with Fred and George? We were working on the fireworks—and you aren’t even going to see them!”

“Sorry,” Harry tells him, and he really is sorry, but he’s been looking forward to Christmas for weeks, ever since Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy asked if he’d like to stay with them for the holiday. It had been after the Quidditch match that Mr. Malfoy had taken him and Draco to. The Arrows had made quick work of the Wasps, and afterwards they’d had dinner at the Manor. Harry had met Mrs. Malfoy—a beautiful lady, quiet and kind—and Draco had shown him the best parts of the Manor.

“We don’t have time for everything,” Draco had said in boastful fashion, “but let’s go to my room first. You’ll like it!” And he’d excitedly displayed his worldly goods to Harry, who could only stand in the doorway and wonder at the sheer size of the bedroom until Draco urged him to come in already and see the cursed necklace he’d got for his last birthday.

They’d gone from Draco’s room to the flying pitch, the lake, the indoor pool, the game room and were en route to the stables when a house elf appeared to announce that dinner was being served. Harry was keen to get a closer look at the tiny creature, but Draco sent it away with a nod and swept them off to the dining room.

“This is the big one,” Draco had told him, “for when we have special company. I wonder who else will be there?”

It turned out to be just the four of them (not counting the house elfs) in a enormous hall with ceilings higher than Hogwarts’. The food was delicious, better than at school, and Mrs. Malfoy had asked about the Quidditch match.

"It was brilliant," Draco had promptly declared, "and even you would've thought so, Mum, because it was short! Too short, really; we didn't have a chance to go round to see anyone else. Normally the matches last forever," he'd said, turning to Harry, "and we go visit other people's boxes, or they come to ours. You should see the Parkinsons' box, it's got a hidden back panel where—"

"Oh, I wouldn't fault the Arrows for getting a thing done properly," Mr. Malfoy had said then, over the sound of Draco's voice. "After all, a snitch in time saves nine hours of Quidditch." He smiled at Draco, who had fallen silent. "It's a wise strategy."

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Malfoy had replied, when no one had said anything, and after another moment she had asked, "Harry, which side do you support? I'm afraid I haven't the correct attitude toward the sport, but perhaps if I familiarized myself with a proper team." She had nodded encouragingly, and when Harry said, "The Chudley Cannons," she shushed Draco, who had burst into a snort.

"Have you ever seen them play?" Draco had asked him incredulously. That had launched an exuberant discussion on the merits and demerits of each team in the league, during which Harry had found it impossible to remain cocooned in the quiet anxiety inspired by the fineness of his surroundings, especially since even Mrs. Malfoy had insights to contribute ("What's so marvelous about getting the quaffle through a silly hoop? I could do the same with my wand."). It had been capped off with Draco's huffy, "Dad, can we take Harry to a Cannons match?", at which point silence descended while Mr. Malfoy arched his brow, tilted his chin and looked across the table at Harry.

"Harry, would you care to join Draco and myself—and Narcissa? No? Ah, just Draco and myself—at a Chudley Cannons match?"

Harry had been only too happy to accept.

Then Mr. Malfoy had said there was certain to be such a match during the Christmas holidays and perhaps Harry would enjoy a lengthier visit to the Manor during that time? Harry had been so surprised he’d blinked.

“What?” he’d said, forgetting his manners.

“You can come home with Draco,” Mr. Malfoy had said. “You can stay here until winter term begins.”

“Um,” Harry said, thinking of the Dursleys and the headmaster and how much fun it would be to come back to the Manor with Draco.

“You should!” Draco said. “We can practice Seeking and build snowcastles and such—and maybe we can even go to Merchant's Square! It's far better than Diagon Alley—can we, Mum?”

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes hadn’t left Harry’s face and he seemed to know what Harry was thinking, because the next thing he said was, “I can arrange it with the school and your aunt and uncle, I’m sure.”

Harry had grinned, and now—now he is waiting at the foot of the staircase in the entrance hall, with his trunk but not Hedwig, because Draco had snickered at him for wanting to bring her ("You can't go three weeks without your owl? Anyway we've got lots of post owls at the Manor."), and Ron had promised to take care of her while he was away. Draco's blond head peeps up from the dungeon stairwell, followed by the thudding edges of his own trunk. He smiles when he sees Harry; it gives way to a cooler expression, though, when he notices Ron get up from the stair where he was sitting.

"Hey," Harry says. "That's a lot of stuff." He eyes the second, smaller trunk that hovers jerkily behind Draco and comes to rest with a clunk.

"Those are presents for my mum and dad," Draco says, in his best aristocratic tone.

Harry is stricken. "Oh no," he says, panicked. "Presents for your mum and dad."

Draco looks blankly at him. "You're coming to stay. Don't you know when you come to stay at someone's house you're to bring a gift for the hosts?"

Harry is absolutely mortified. He'd been talking about Christmas presents for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy—he hadn't even known about a gift for the hosts. His hands are getting hot. "I've never stayed anywhere before. I've only got something for you for Christmas but I don't have—I don't have anything for your parents! Maybe if I go right now—"

"It's too late," Draco says. "The carriage will be here any minute. But not to worry—"

"If you'd told me you were going I would've known about bringing something," Ron interjects in a mutter. "My mum is always going on about that kind of thing."

Harry turns to Ron, his best friend in Gryffindor, in desperation. "I'm sorry, all right? Look, I’m going to owl you something good. On Christmas. I promise."

"Whatever," Ron mutters, at the same time Draco starts saying something imperious-sounding. They are all interrupted by the appearance of a house-elf a few yards away.

"Master Draco," it says, bowing down low, "it is time." The house-elf extends a thin arm toward the large double-doors, which begin to swing outward.

"Ah, excellent," Draco says, and he looks over at Harry. "Come on. No, just leave those behind, the elf will get them." He doesn't respond in any way to Ron's open glare, but marches off sans luggage toward the opening doors. Harry looks around and gives Ron an apologetic half-smile. "Thanks for watching Hedwig—have a good Christmas. And I know the fireworks will be really fun!"

Ron only heaves an impatient sort of sigh and doesn't smile back, which bothers Harry as he hurries after Draco, until he clears the doors and sees the carriage, stopped several paces away on the left, pulled by four silver-gray horses of great hoof and height. Draco is getting in, one foot on the footplate, hands curled about the ornamented rails. Beside him, his father stands, his cloak and hair shifting slightly in the chilling breeze.

"Hello, Harry," Lucius Malfoy says, when Harry approaches. His solemn mouth curves up; his gray eyes catch the light. Harry stammers something, his throat hitching with embarrassment, and takes the gloved hand proffered to him. Lucius Malfoy helps Harry into the carriage before seating himself, and the horses leap to life immediately. His grasp is as soft and as warm as Harry remembers.

+++++

"That does sound really fantastic," Harry says, earnestly wistful.

"It was completely fantastic," Ron affirms. He's sprawled on his stomach by the fire, playing a half-hearted game of chess with Neville, and winning. "You definitely should've been here. Definitely."

"Yeah, but you liked your present, right?" Harry grins.

Ron picks up a rook and clasps it to his heart, beaming. "It's the love of my life." He puts the rook back down on the board, where it commences pounding the living stars out of Neville's knight. "A Nimbus Two Thousand," he says dreamily. "How the bloody hell did you get it?"

Harry laughs and repeats his stock answer to this, which Ron has been asking since he owled back on Christmas day. "I have my ways," he replies, with a mysterious wave. They involved receiving a brand new Nimbus Two Thousand from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy on Christmas morning.

"Well, I can't believe you'd give something like that to me," Ron says. "Watch your queen, Neville."

"Yeah," Neville mumbles. "Why'd you give something like that to a merciless tyrant like him? Have I lost yet?"

Harry chuckles. Draco had asked a similar question while Harry had been re-wrapping the broom. He hadn't been able to resist trying it out at least, and it had been glorious, pure happiness, whipping through cold Christmas morning air, astride nothing but magic, with Draco streaming along beside him on his own gift of the same, shouting and spinning and dipping and circling over the brazen vibrant green of the Manor's empty pitch. Oh, it had been wonderful. A strong part of Harry had wished he wasn't writing out Ron's name in big letters on the red wrapping paper—but his Gringotts vault was locked up, hundreds of miles away, and he hadn't anything else to give.

"Is it a Gryffindor thing?" Draco had asked in scorn, as Harry had attached a card to the eagle owl's leg. "Is it because all Gryffindors are stupid idiots? Or are you uncommonly stupid and idiotic?" Harry had shrugged with a simple, "Maybe," and sent the owl off. The weight of the broom had him soaring low into the sky.

"Not yet," he says to Neville as the poor boy reaches for his quivering queen, then changes his mind and goes for a bishop.

"But almost," Ron adds, making a move that causes tinny clanging to rise up from the board. "Yeah, I guess it was worth it, you going to Malfoy's house. Hey, maybe next time you go you can get Neville a broom," he jokes.

"What? Why?" Neville asks, alarmed.

Harry only laughs—and decides he might as well tell Ron now, as he's about to win the chess game and he looks like he'd take it all right. "Actually," Harry says, "I am going back. For the summer."

It's Ron's turn for alarm. "What?" he yelps, pushing himself onto his hands. "But you said you'd come to the Burrow for—"

"No, I will!" Harry insists. "First two weeks, right? I will! But after that."

"Bloody hell, why do you like Malfoy so much?" Ron almost yells. "He's an utter prick!"

Neville seems a bit stunned at the vitriolic language, but he agrees, murmuring, "It's true, he's not very nice."

"Oi, Hermione!" Ron's calling out, his deep frown deepening. "Harry's staying with Malfoy for the whole fecking summer!"

"Hey!" Harry hisses, as heads around them turn in interest. Except for Hermione's, which is still ensconced in a book, in the quiet corner. "I didn't mean to put that over the tannoy!"

Ron's angry face darkens further with confusion. "What's a tannoy? And what is it with Malfoy anyway? You're the only Gryffindor he's friends with; he hates all the rest of us! Haven't you ever thought it might be because of your—" and by the motion of his hand Harry knows he's going to say scar and he hates Ron for saying it, or nearly saying it, because Ron backpedals at the last second and chokes out, "—because you're famous?"

"And how are you any different?" Harry bites out, thinking back on how he'd considered lying about it when Ron had asked him on the train, on the first day of school, how he might've pretended not to be this incredible Harry Potter that every single person knew, but he didn't do it because of course the truth would've come out, horribly, in the end.

That shuts Ron up right quick. He snaps his mouth closed and lowers his head to the chess, where Neville and the queen are both visibly nervous.

"Checkmate," he says through a tight jaw. He moves his rook into place; all the pieces fall away, then begin clacking onto the board toward their starting squares.

The shouting may have got Hermione's attention, because she emerges behind the chair Harry's in with an abstracted, "What's the fuss? Bad game?"

"No fuss," Ron says, folding his legs under him and getting up without looking at Harry. "Harry's just being a git."

"Yeah, Ron won the game," Neville adds helpfully before he scrambles to his feet and scurries away.

"Really," Hermione says, her gaze much more alert as she glances at Harry.

"No," Harry tells her emphatically as Ron storms out of the common room. "I just told him I'm going to stay at Draco's house, after I visit the Burrow, this summer. That's all."

Hermione hmms in a knowing way.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Harry vents. "The Manor is so much better than the Dursleys—it's not even a—it's not a question, there's absolutely no comparison, none at all. And it's not as if I could stay at the Burrow the whole summer! To hear Ron talk about it, I think I might be sleeping on the roof with about a thousand other people—I feel bad enough as it is just being there two weeks! But I really want to, you know? I really want to go and be there when you're there and meet Charlie and Phil—"

"Bill," Hermione corrects.

"—Bill, and see Ron's house and his room and his amazing backyard with the gnomes and things; I mean, I haven't seen gnomes before!"

"We're covering them next month in Defense," Hermione says briskly. "I've read ahead. And I suspect Ron might just be worried that you won't really find the Burrow interesting when you get there, now that you've seen Malfoy Manor. It's very grand, isn't it?"

Harry takes in a breath and shakes his head. "Yes, but. Yes. It's like a palace, it's got these white peacocks and fountains and its own Quidditch pitch…it's unreal, like from a storybook or something," he tells her, sagging in his chair. "But so's Hogwarts!" Harry straightens and grips the chair arms. "And I bet the Burrow is too! Does he really think I won't have fun just because it's not some giant estate? Is he that thick?"

Hermione shrugs. "He still hasn't figured out that you gave him your best Christmas present," she says. "That was really generous of you."

"Oh," Harry mumbles, the frustration sucked from his lungs, replaced by awkward gratitude. At least Hermione knows he isn't a git. "Well I promised him something good. And I knew he wanted one. A lot."

Hermione smiles at him. "Yeah, he did. He made everyone try it, even me, even though I really didn't want to. I fell off."

Harry feels better, and well before anyone can think seriously about summer, he and Ron have mended their differences. At the end of term, Harry ships off to the Burrow with Ron and Fred and George and Percy, waving good-bye to his friends at King's Cross Station. Draco is the only one who doesn't wave back, but he does do a little smirky nod, which only makes Harry's grin go wider. Then he sees Draco's father; Draco's father doesn't see him. Mr. Malfoy's slow grace and walking stick are no longer unfamiliar, and Harry's stomach flutters inexplicably. He likes it.

Two

"Is that all you've got?" Draco yells jeeringly from some distance away. His hair is askew from the wind and his face is heated—his leather-gloved left hand is closed around the snitch, so firmly that no trace of wing is visible. Harry brings his broom in closer; Draco hovers away. "How ever did you manage to win seven House Cups?" he shouts, his anger plain.

"Come on!" Harry shouts in response, kicking his broom higher. So far he has weathered bouts of guilt, fear, and extraordinary happiness in this, his seventh and most wondrous summer at the Manor, but at the moment he feels only supreme irritation at Draco's increasingly strange behavior. "What's your problem lately? Why are you being such an arsehole?" Harry calls, forcing his broom faster so comes level with Draco even as Draco pulls ahead.

"Maybe if my father had been watching you'd have caught it," Draco sneers over his shoulder. He throws the snitch at Harry; it arcs into the air and falls for an instant before the wings spring out and it jettisons off. Harry's eyes follow it for a frozen second while his broom pushes forward of its own accord, until the line of the snitch intersects with Draco's path to the ground.

"What?" Harry yells down, too late, too late. His blood has stuck to the veins that are heavy in his limbs, which feel wooden as the broomhandle between his wooden thighs. His heart beats fast, very near to the skin. "What are you talking about?" he shouts, injecting his tone and demeanor with every ounce of unknowing he can wring from his voice. His body races toward the grass; wild questions blur his vision. Had Draco seen something? How else would he have known? Lucius couldn't have—

Harry's shoes hit the turf. "What are you talking about?" he shouts again, fiercely, as he makes a hard stop and jumps from his broom. Draco's striding away, the back of his robe flaring out from his rigid shoulders, his hair shining spitefully, blindingly in the sun.

Harry runs and catches up, sick to his stomach. He must know.

"What do you mean, if your father—" Harry demands, grabbing Draco's arm roughly.

"I'm the heir," Draco growls, jerking himself free. "I know what you're doing, ingratiating yourself to my father. It's pathetic. Pathetic. I don't know how I didn't see it before but it won't gain you anything anyway, because wizarding bloodlines don't work like that. I suppose this is where proper breeding will tell"—he pauses to cast Harry a nasty smirk—"but the Manor, the grounds—including this pitch—the Gringotts vaults, the Ministry titles—everything is magically bound to be passed to a true blood heir. Blood, Potter. You might have everything else but you don't have that, so even if he wanted to my father couldn't give you anything that rightly belongs to a Malfoy."

Harry is breathing again, but only barely. He cannot believe his ears. "What?" he says faintly.

"I'm not stupid," Draco snarls, striding even more rapidly than before. Harry hustles to keep pace, despite his lightheadedness. "I know Father's always preferred you. I know about the post he's got for you in the Auror division while I'm stuck in the fucking Department of Games—what'd he tell you last night? That you're better equipped to handle real responsibility while all I'm fit for is bloody snitches and quaffles?"

Harry is confounded. "But you love Quidditch…" is all he can say.

Draco halts abruptly. "Fuck you," he replies, and turns away.

"Hang on!" Harry calls an instant later. The anxiety is whirling and whirling with his thoughts, remembrances of the prior night, of Draco's father at his door, whirling into the bottom of his chest where he is to keep them locked up if he's to have any hope. Harry runs to Draco's side. "You're—just hang on!" He spins to face Draco and they nearly collide. "You're worried that I'm trying to—what? Take your place or something?" He's gripping Draco's shoulders so he can't get away. Draco twists hard, but Harry holds harder until Draco pushes with a grunting half-swear—then Harry lets go, and Draco stumbles to the ground.

"Just—that’s mad!" Harry continues where he left off. "I don't want to be the heir for fuck's sake and anyway, I thought you wanted to work in Games!"

"What was he talking to you about?" Draco demands from where he's fallen. His hair is in his face, obscuring it, but Harry can see that Draco is deeply agitated. He rarely gets this way in front of other people and Harry feels badly about it because Draco is always self-conscious about "acting in unseemly fashion" afterwards. Draco would have cause for agitation, if he knew—but Harry shoves the thought down and serves up a right answer.

"He was telling me they needed a runner in the DMLE," Harry says. "In the Auror division. He was giving me a big speech on how they had little use for trainees straight out of Hogwarts and that I was being boneheaded for wanting to join a group of thugs like that and that he hadn't bothered to pull too many strings to get me the spot, but if I work hard, maybe in a few years—which he clarified meant anywhere from ten to twenty—he might try to call in another favor or two to get me bumped up to being a junior assistant to the assistant to the associate department administrator."

It's a true story Harry tells. He omits the details that would shatter his fragile, freshly-realized joy and settles down next to Draco on the pitch.

Draco's frown has eased; it returns as he asks, "You're—going to be a courier?"

"Yup," Harry nods. He's actually got his relief under control, and he feels fairly good about this, as his relief is immense beyond proportion.

"As in, a walking interdepartmental memo?" Draco asks.

"IDMs can't handle everything," Harry says. "Parcels, for instance."

Draco stares at him through his hair. "So much for the career ambitions of the great Harry Potter," he finally says, with a faint smile.

"Hey, you've got to start somewhere!" Harry protests, in high humor now. He's averted a crisis and the backlash is exhilarating. He elbows Draco in the side and asks, "It's not as if you're starting at the top of the food chain—what are you going to be doing for Games and Sports? Scheduling meetings for the International Gobstones Club?"

Draco ignores Harry's sniggering and answers with a prim, "No. The department secretary does that—I'll be attending the meetings and taking minutes for the official records, among other duties. Many other duties."

"Oh. So I guess you'll outrank me, then," Harry dead-pans.

"That is absolutely correct," Draco replies, looking over at Harry. "You may begin by fetching me my broom."

He holds out a waiting palm with a smug grin and Harry slaps his own palm over it, laughing, "And you may begin by fucking right off!" His laugh is shortened by surprise when Draco surges to his feet and hoists Harry's hand with him; Harry is jerked to standing and swings into Draco's chest, nearly sending them both back to the ground. Instinctively he reaches around Draco to steady them—Draco does the same and for a moment they're caught in a weird arm-lock. Then Draco lets go and steps back with a raised brow.

"You'll have to do considerably better than that to win me over," he drawls. "Honestly, that was pretty poor."

"What?" Harry half-laughs, half-chokes. "I wasn't—oh, you've got to be kidding."

Draco's other brow goes up. "Accio brooms," he says. He hands Harry's to him with a flourish and resumes his march from the pitch toward the Manor.

+++++

Interlude

His heart's already pounding in unnatural rhythm when he Apparates to the guest bedroom in the southern-most wing of the fourth floor. It's late but not unreasonably so, though the wait for this hour has been, as always, difficult to bear. Harry blinks, anticipation and apprehension flooding to his fingertips—the yellow glow of lamplight reveals full pillows and an unwrinkled bed.

The touch upon the small of his neck makes Harry jump but then it's Lucius there, Lucius, looking down at him with that soft, considered smile.

"I hadn't meant to startle you," Lucius says. The lighting in the room casts his eyes a dark gray, a shade not quite new to Harry but still he notices it every time.

It's all right, Harry means to answer, only he shakes his head and smiles a little instead, because it's too much to speak when Lucius' bare palm rests, curved at his neck. He feels Lucius' fingers curl a moment, so lightly in his skin, and Harry can't restrain his grin or the flare in his belly as he tips himself forward against Lucius' form. Lucius' chin doesn't angle so Harry angles his, striving upward toward Lucius in a dizzy closed-eyed stretch.

The mouth that awaits is neither warm nor cool; it feels like Harry's own, and it parts instantly, allowing Harry anything he will. Harry's spine is afire as he presses tongue to lip—he stops there and waits, feeling his blood pulse finely in his lowered eyelids. This is the moment for which he lives. He mustn't take what he is given, no matter how terrible his desire.

Lucius' jaw cants slightly to one side. His mouth widens and he draws Harry into a true devouring kiss.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asks afterwards. His words are unruffled; his face is unflushed. His gaze, though, passes from Harry's eyes to cheeks to mouth, back up again and down, and Harry sees this and grins, out-of-breath and alive. More than alive.

"I wrote those letters you asked me to write," he replies, barely hearing himself over the roaring in his brain. "To thank the senior Aurors for giving me the clerkship."

"You mentioned your admiration of Commander Marlowe's Secrecy Statute efforts?" Lucius asks, smoothing down Harry's hair. "And of Commander Erwin's prison reform program?"

Harry spreads out his hands across the front of Lucius' waistcoat and nods, his face lifted up.

"Good boy," Lucius murmurs. With a last caress he removes Harry's glasses and sends them floating to the carved teak dresser in the corner of the room, where they fold together and settle with an almost inaudible clink. The length of Harry's body is abruptly too hot.

They're blurry now, Lucius' features, but Harry cannot mistake the permissive incline of Lucius' head, the intent in his eyes, the steady wrists emerging from finely-creased cuffs as Lucius steps back and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat. Harry forgets to swallow and starts to fumble off his robes.

Lucius' touch is gentle until he folds Harry to him, inside muscled arms that thicken as they close, enveloping Harry's narrow self with warmth, skin, musky cologne, and heavy falls of blond, blond hair. His chest beats hard against Harry, who has been laid upon the bed. Harry is crushed and Lucius' body is a pendulum, a cradle, tilting into Harry and around him, slow at first, with care. Lucius shifts his hips, his knees, bending the bed to his will with faint rustlings and creaks; he maneuvers Harry's thighs with firm and grasping hands. His prick is upright and it does not yield to Harry's buttocks—it presses, a singular point of resolute pressure, a wide weight pushing deep into Harry's gut, gradually re-making the path along raw nerve and tissue, slickened with lubricant applied with generous fingers. Harry flexes against it and Lucius sinks farther. Harry sighs out; he can't see for the silver hair in his eyes. Lucius moves in him, once, twice, more and Harry can't breathe but he tries, stretching up his neck and straining with his lungs that are pressed too tightly to the shell of his ribs. His mouth has fallen open; his fingers find the curving of Lucius' shoulder blades, impossible and large, rising like fins from the taut arc of his back. Lucius' thrusts quicken—the tears pour from Harry's eyes. He lets them streak down to his ears, where they tingle, oddly cool, distorting the sound of the headboard colliding, repeatedly, against the wall. Harry fights not to gasp—he's in disbelief at the pain again, he cannot believe the pain—but he looks long at the half-gray, half-lidded eyes, he hears the breath leaving Lucius in thin misshapen darts, and his body seizes, in wonderment, at the might of Lucius' love.

Lucius strokes him after, along the rim of his ear, across the slope of his neck. Harry smiles fuzzily and struggles not to fall asleep. His back is nestled to Lucius' broad chest; his heels are wedged to Lucius' ankles. Lucius' thumb pauses at the arch of his jaw.

"Are you dreaming?" Lucius asks quietly, his mouth near Harry's ear. The puff of his words makes Harry's arm tingle. Harry moves a shoulder in an approximation of a shrug and shifts himself more tightly into the cup of Lucius' torso.

"Almost," he murmurs truthfully. Lucius resumes petting him; Harry blinks slowly once or twice and lets his eyes close.

A moment drifts by before Lucius' voice returns. "What do you dream of?" His hand is soft on Harry's brow.

Harry awakens with a twitch—he nearly says You. He thinks it must be so, though he's so sleepy and comfortable he really has no idea if he was dreaming at all. In any case it's not what he ought to be saying so he smothers it with a little grin, pleased with himself for catching it back.

"Nothing," he replies, stifling the urge to yawn.

Lucius answers with a low chuckle; his knuckles trail from Harry's forehead to the ridge of his cheek and remain. They brush Harry's cheek gently, very gently. Harry's faint smile fades as sleep trickles back in.

"Time for bed," Lucius says, in his indulgent undertone. Harry stirs and lets slip a small noise of demurral—not strictly encouraged, but the reproach is mild. "Up, now, and away with you," Lucius commands, sitting up carefully and raising Harry with him. He summons Harry's glasses from the dresser; he runs a palm over Harry's hair. "You ought to have some proper sleep."

Harry takes his glasses with only a shadow of the reluctance that he so keenly feels. "Thank you," he murmurs, sliding slowly from the warmed sheets. Lucius has shifted across the mattress and is rising from the opposite side. "Will you—are you busy tomorrow night?" Harry asks hopefully. He watches Lucius fit his waistcoat to himself and begin with the buttons.

Lucius doesn't raise his head, but he answers with his quiet smile. "Your insistence, I think, is one of the most charming things about you—it serves you well." He smoothes his clothing down and straightens each cuff. "Flattery will get you rather far, hm?" At last he looks over—Harry's been waiting and he can't discipline the wistful upward motion of his brows. "We'll see," Lucius finishes.

He remains apart from Harry another moment, then he moves around the bed and cups Harry's chin with the edge of a hand, briefly. "I'll do my utmost to hasten our next time," he says, his hand falling back to his side. "I promise."

It will have to be enough. Harry nods, his heart beating fast with all he cannot do, and obediently Disapparates to his bedroom downstairs.

+++++

The knock comes as Harry is loosening the duvet from the bed, preparing to slip into the sheets, which have been warmed by magical house-elf means. Harry jumps a little. His head is still spinning from the silent Apparation back to his room, mere moments ago, and immediately his pulse returns to skittering high. He slides into bed, sits up against the headboard, pulls the covers to his waist, and tells himself, forcibly, to be calm.

"Come in," he says. Beneath the blanket his hand flexes wishfully; he can't help himself.

The door cracks open to reveal hallway light and a square of pale face and hair—it's Draco peeking in, and Harry's whole body relaxes.

"Hey," Draco says, leaning in. "Sorry, were you sleeping?"

"No," Harry says. He's somewhat disappointed, but Draco's not to know, and he wouldn't mind someone to talk to right now. "I mean, I wasn't asleep yet. What's up?" He scoots over to the bedside stand to retrieve his glasses.

Draco comes in and leaves the door ajar. "Just wanted to see what you were up to," he shrugs. He's in his pajamas, a Malfoy-crested affair, and he seems distracted.

"What's wrong?" Harry says. "Need a cuddle?" he adds, grinning. It's become something of a running joke between them. He fluffs one of the Malfoy-monogrammed pillows next to him and gestures at it invitingly. Draco rolls his eyes and slumps down in a tufted arm chair, giving Harry a half-hearted, "Ha."

"Sooo," Harry begins at last, when moments pass and Draco remains folded in the chair, poking idly at the upholstery. "I get the sense you have something on your mind."

Draco continues his aimless jabs. "You are very astute," he murmurs. "You'll make a fine courier."

"Thanks," Harry says. "I appreciate that."

Draco nods and shifts in the chair. He pokes at the other side of the cushion for a minute, apparently concentrating on his task, until Harry asks, "I'm guessing you don't have a chair like that in your room, judging by how fascinating you find it."

Draco lets out a hnph. "You've been in my room; have you ever seen a chair like this in there?"

Harry shrugs a shoulder. "No. But maybe you got one. Maybe you asked Dobby to put one in there. Maybe this morning. Maybe I just haven't seen it yet."

"I don't have one," Draco says shortly.

"Take mine," Harry says. "I hardly ever use it. In fact—Dobby," he calls, raising his voice slightly.

The house elf appears as Draco sighs and says, "No, I don't want it, and it's not even yours, you presumptuous—"

"Yes, Master Harry?" Dobby says, blinking his tennis-ball eyes from beside the bed.

"Hi," Harry says, sitting back up. "Hope I wasn't interrupting—can you take that chair to Draco's room? Not right now," he says quickly as Dobby looks over. "Later. After we're both asleep. Is that okay? It's not a rush, I know you're busy—"

"Oh no," Dobby beams. "House elfs is never too busy to serve. Dobby is glad to do as Master Harry commands." He nods vigorously, flapping his eartips.

"Thanks, Dobby," Harry smiles. "And, uh, if it's missing any of those little button things on the bottom, the ones Draco's fiddling with, could you fix that? That would be great," he tells Dobby, whose head is bobbing at a rate that would be frightening if Harry weren't used to it. "Thanks. That's it. G'night."

Dobby vanishes with a painfully broad smile and Harry shakes his head a little. Then he glances up to Draco, who has turned himself horizontally across the arms of the chair.

"There," Harry says. "Is that better? Or are you still stressed?"

Draco's mouth puckers and flattens. "Still stressed."

"Ah. Sorry to hear it." Harry turns onto his side and props himself up on a hand. "What about, if you don't mind me asking?"

Draco's pointy jaw tilts from side to side, slowly. His head is resting on the top of one chair arm. "A lot of things, I suppose," he says, pensively.

Harry nods, against his palm. "What's the worst one? Just curious."

Draco's mouth moves into a brief wry smile. "Potter. I retract the compliment I earlier bestowed. You are not astute at all."

Harry smiles. "I get it. I'm supposed to look into your mind like Professor Snape can do. Frankly, I think it's a bit intrusive and there ought to be a law about that sort of thing, but okay. You asked for it." He squints exaggeratedly at his friend. "Wait, you have to look at me. Eye contact is crucial, isn't it? Look at me. Hey, Draco. Over here, mate."

Through his squinting Harry can't make out the fine details, but he's relatively certain Draco is rolling his eyes when he finally eases onto a shoulder to look across at Harry. He's also smiling slightly, which means Harry is getting somewhere at least.

"Terrific. Okay. I'm reading your mind now, feel it?" Harry squints more ferociously and leans forward, leaning on both hands.

Draco snorts. "No."

"Okay, I'm getting something…you're worried…you're worried about…hmm…what? The Cannons winning the League Cup and you owing me a thousand Galleons? That can't be right—a thousand Galleons is a mere pittance to you—no, I see by your grimace that's not what concerns you…but it does have something to do with Quidditch, right? Yes…no, not Quidditch, but close, something really, really close. Okay, right…Gobstones! Almost the same thing. Gobstones…the Gobstones Club. Got it! You're worried about meetings with the International Gobstones Club. You're worried about starting at the Ministry in a couple of weeks. Am I right?" Harry blinks his squint away and takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Ow, that totally hurt. No wonder Snape looks so fucking old for his age; this must cause some serious fine lines and wrinkles."

This earns him a lone Hah! from Draco, a real one. "Don't insult Professor Snape. He's always been a great mentor to me, even if he finds nothing remarkable in you." He makes the wry face again. "Can't find a thing if it isn't there."

"Funny," Harry replies. "Here I am, trying to make you feel better, and this is the thanks I get. I'm going to sleep. Bye." He shuffles until he's under the covers to his bottom rim of his glasses.

"I suppose I am a little nervous about the Ministry," Draco says about five minutes later, when Harry is actually beginning to drift off. "I wouldn't say it's the main thing. But it's part of it. I mean, it'll be so different from Hogwarts." He pauses. "You're not scared though, are you. Bloody Gryffindor."

Harry thinks Draco thinks he'd fallen asleep, or else the last part wouldn't have been out loud.

"No, I am," Harry answers conversationally, imagining but not seeing Draco's twitch of surprise. "Because courage doesn't mean you have no fear; it means you're able to carry on in spite of your fear," he explains, with an overly pedantic gesture.

"Oh shut the fuck up," Draco snaps. The next thing Harry knows there are pillows bouncing on his head, and Harry is required to summon his wand in order to retaliate, and in the midst of fighting off the sheets that are attempting to strangle him and sending the tufted chair's buttons shooting out to assault Draco, Harry doesn't notice the creak of his door until the sheets have fallen limply over him and Draco is speaking in docile tones to his father.

"I was only demonstrating the importance of constant vigilance, as per Professor Moody," Draco says. Harry gropes for his glasses, summoning them wordlessly. He pushes back the rogue sheets and sits up straight, jamming his glasses on and looking directly at Lucius.

Lucius is arching a brow at his son. "I see. Well, you certainly have learnt that lesson well—you appear to have quite the advantage on Harry." Draco agrees with a polite laugh as Lucius' gaze moves slowly to Harry's face.

Lucius doesn't smile, but Harry can sense it; he can picture it there on Lucius' mouth. He has seen it; he knows its contours from near and from far and his chest rises in anticipation of seeing it once more, soft and there, a lasting curve to support his world.

"It's getting late, Draco," Lucius says, looking back to his son. Draco gets out of the chair; the buttons of the chair have replaced themselves in their sockets. "Don't forget we're meeting with some of the Games staff tomorrow at ten—and we should arrive early."

"Yes, Father," Draco replies. "Night," he says to Harry as he leaves the room. Harry can't make a sound; his lungs have abandoned him and he hasn't a thought for where they have got to. Perhaps to Lucius' palm, for Harry can feel them squeeze when Lucius grips the doorknob and begins to swing it closed, not behind him but in front of him. The disappointment pains Harry so terribly he starts to rise, the blanket falling away. Except then Lucius' mouth turns up, just slightly at one side.

"Constant vigilance," he says. He shuts the door quietly and Harry sinks down. He's unable to sleep for some time after.

Part 2

hd_worldcup recs for Team AU!

dracofiend@gmail.com — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 20:13:11 GMT

I might have more later but you guys, in the interest of Team AU spirit, I'm urging you to see these two:

Title: Interpreting Draconis
Author: dacro
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied minor character death.

dacro has done something really magical here--she's led us into the Deaf community by way of a sometime tenuous, sometimes exuberant, always heartfelt relationship between Harry and Draco. This isn't so much as world-building as it is submersion, and one of my favorite things about this fic is the way it makes me consider the types of issues that Deaf translators probably think about regularly, which the rest of us encounter in perhaps subtler ways in our daily lives. It gives a whole new spin to the line, "Hey, I'm just the messenger!" dacro's also made genius use of the prompt--you'll definitely get a laugh and a sweet smile out of her clever touches.

Title: The First Day Of Spring
Artist: reira_21
Prompt: 6. No use in crying over spilt potion.
Rating: R
Warnings: Naked men.

If you haven't seen this yet, please go! Do! It's a breathtaking work of colors outside lines, loss and melancholy and re-emergence; it's quiet and bare and forceful all at once. It's a series of Flash panels set to a lovely piece of music, but the most captivating part of it is the stillness. Each frame is deliberate in its consideration--there are carefully rendered hands, stylized cigarette fumes, lonely shoe-heels and scarf-ends. reira_21 did beautiful work not only in executing each scene, but in editing the whole piece together. This is a must-see.

My dear, dear flisty...

dracofiend@gmail.com — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 15:57:41 GMT

If you have a chance today could you hop over to my fic at hd_worldcup and help me out with a comment as part of the Team AU effort? *pleading eyes* If you have the time or inclination I'd be even more ecstatic if you tried the fic out (and voted?)--it's one I'd been wanting to write for some time, featuring implied HP/LM and of course, H/D.

AND--if it pleases you, do stop by all the terrific, terrific fics and art that have been posted so far (and I must stress particularly the Team AU goodies)!

♥ *gianthugs* ♥

The Most Fantastic Never-to-be-Forgotten Quidditch Match in the World

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 12:18:41 GMT

Title: The Most Fantastic Never-to-be-Forgotten Quidditch Match in the World
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: H/D
Rating: G
Genre: Romance, ~750 words
Summary: Draco is caught with something of Harry's in his pocket. Written for scrtkpr's long ago birthday. scrtkpr, I hope you like this! Happy REALLY REALLY late birthday! *hugs*

It tumbles out when Harry's not looking because he's watching the play at the far end of the pitch. If it hadn't made a surprisingly loud thunk, Harry probably would've trod on it or bumped it off the plank, where it would've fallen and fallen, down to the never-seen dirt beneath the stands. As it is, the scrum in the air is distant and in progress, and the crowd around is quiet, waiting for them to score or to move back up the pitch. So Harry shifts aside Draco's cloak that he's holding on his lap and glances at his feet, and he sees it. It's heavy and silver, a snake with gem eyes, and Harry grins as he scoops it up, recalling the first time he ridiculed it aloud. Your family couldn't find a better jewelry maker guy? Because this is hideous. Looks like something a fake pirate would wear. Draco hadn't been wearing anything else at the time.

No, Draco had answered snidely. It looks like something a Malfoy would wear. It's an heirloom that's been in the family for centuries and stop doing that, I don't take it off.

Harry had asked if was cursed to stay on and Draco had put a knee in his crotch with some little force, and that had stopped the talking and started the naked wrestling, which was okay by Harry, any day. It turns out to be true, too--Draco never takes off his super ugly heirloom ring, as far as Harry can tell. Until today. Harry squeezes it in his palm and grins, waiting for Draco to come back.

He does, a few minutes later, arms full of pie and chips that he skillfully maneuvers around their neighbors in the stands. "They ran out of beef so all I got was chicken," he says, easing into his seat, handing over a drink, sorting the napkins, balancing the paper boxes on his thighs with deft aplomb. "Did I miss anything good?" He tears open his straw and jams it into the lid.

"I wouldn't say that," Harry grins at him, and immediately Draco arches a brow.

"What?" he asks dryly, looking at the pitch. The players are hovering at the near end now, batting Bludgers and throwing Quaffles with end-of-season ferocity.

"Guess what I found in your pocket?" Harry says, holding up the snake ring. He reaches over to relieve Draco of some pie and chips but stops short at the look on Draco's face. "What?" he asks, alarmed. Draco's staring at the ring. Harry thought he'd seen every expression there is to see on Draco but apparently he was wrong. He can't tell what Draco's thinking--his face is still and pale, like he's caught but he's not scared. Harry knows when Draco's scared--this isn't it. Harry moves for Draco's hand, to give him his ring, to help him put it on--and that's when he sees. Draco's wearing it.

Harry frowns in confusion; he looks at the ring he holds. "You have two?"

Draco moves in his seat. Somewhere far off, someone scores a goal. "No," he says slowly. It's a bit difficult to hear with the celebratory shouting that's erupted on either side of them but Harry's listening hard. "That one's yours," Draco says to him. "If you want it." He pauses, then looks away with a careless shrug, picking up a chip and biting off the top. His eyes swivel up to the pitch; Harry watches their abstraction from behind the sudden kicking of his heart. It's overwhelmingly loud, the arena. He's holding the ring between fingers and a thumb so it's poised to be slipped back onto Draco's finger--there's another storm of cheers. The Wasps have scored again.

Harry puts it on. It sits on his finger heavily, warm from his palm, and the eyes cut from emeralds gaze at him watchfully. Harry smiles back. He laughs.

"It looks bloody awful!" he laughs, stretching out his hand a bit, letting his head spin and spin. He feels he might spin away entirely so he catches himself against Draco, throws an arm around him, jostling his chips, his drink as he presses into Draco's weight and his woollen-scarfed neck. His chest beats into Draco's arm; he can barely breathe.

His grin, pushed to Draco's ear, half-hidden by blond hair, is too wide for talking. Almost.

"Draco," he says. It comes out a bit gravelly despite the infinite lightness of his heart. "I won't take it off."

March

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 15:07:02 GMT

Title: March
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: HP/SS
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Summary: In like a lion, out like a lamb.

Harry looks out the window, through the slanted blinds. It's gray out there, misty, and the puddles are large. Some people like the rain—they say it's nice, to be warm and cozy with blankets in bed, with hot tea and a book, to be inside looking out, listening to it fall, fall, fall, faint and falling endlessly. They say it keeps the world green, bright, lively, for spring.

Harry thinks it makes the carpet smell wet. He thinks March is the cruelest month.

He half-heartedly tidies up the table by the couch. Ron and Hermione'll be here any minute. The conversation from yesterday unreels in his head.

"I've thought of something," he had said. The anxiety of that moment tightens his fingers now, on unopened mail—it had twitched his mouth into an unnatural smile then.

"Oh?" Severus hadn't looked round, or sounded particularly interested.

Harry had forged ahead. If he could've done it again he would've said something else—something harmless, about the viscosity of the potion. Instead Harry had suggested dinner, tacking on a "My treat," in an awful, throat-clearing, obvious manner.

Even then it hadn't been too late. Severus had agreed and jerked his head toward the caged owl, dozing on its perch. "Get the bird awake—I'll have cottage pie."

"I was thinking we'd go out," Harry had hastened to say.

Severus had shaken his impatient head and Harry could've saved himself still, even still. "This is wolfsbane, Potter—not, as you appear to believe, the potion that can brew and decant itself. I don't intend to abandon it for that quick-service horror you call a 'gastropub'—"

"I didn't mean there," Harry had said, sealing his fate. "I meant a proper restaurant. A nice one—anywhere you like—and it doesn't have to be now or anything, or even tonight—how's tomorrow for you? I was just reading about a place that supposedly does a terrific lamb shank—they use only local ingredients—thought you'd appreciate that—I could make us reservations…" The stiffness of Severus' posture had stopped him.

"Ah." Severus had straightened over his cauldron and wiped off his stirring rod. "I'm afraid I must decline." He'd turned away to a shelf of bottles along the wall.

Harry should've taken this defeat like a man, square on the chin and with a stiff upper lip—because then he wouldn't have blurted out, "But I really want to—I'm not just—"

"Why haven't you restocked the feverfew?"

"I've been working up the courage to ask you all week, all month, actually," Harry plunged on, grinning like a madman, trying in vain for humor, "and that's saying a lot, right? Since you've always said I've too much of that and not enough sense—courage, I mean—and I'd really like to—"

"Harry." Severus was looking down at the empty feverfew bottle in his palm. "I'm aware of what it is you'd like to do. I must decline." He'd turned around and, with perfect calm, handed Harry the bottle. "Now. If you please."

Harry shakes his head and tries not to think of how he'd re-filled the bottle with unsteady hands, mortified, face on fire, feeling about twelve years old and wondering how he could've been so completely wrong. He thought Severus had been…warming up to him, lately. In fact, he hadn't even disparaged Harry for the feverfew oversight. Well. It was a small enough comfort.

The doorbell rings—Ron and Hermione are here. Harry sighs and shoves the mail away somewhere and goes to answer.

"Hey guys," Harry says, putting up his usual smile as he opens the door.

Severus doesn't smile back.

"Oh! Professor—I—hi!" Harry finishes, sounding falsely cheery. He hears it but he can't help it; his heart's going too fast. "Come in!" He stumbles back a step, pulling the door with him with more force than it requires. It's instinct taking over—he's got no idea what he's doing. He kicks aside some shoes he forgot to put away, talking automatically through the rush of dizziness. "Sorry, it's a mess in here—how are you?—have a seat—can I get you anything—"

"No, thank you, apologies for the intrusion," Severus says briskly, standing just inside the door. "You're expecting guests—I should've owled—"

"No, it's fine," Harry interrupts quickly, "it's just Ron and Hermione, please, do sit down, here, let me make you some tea—" He's already in the kitchenette when Severus cuts in.

"Don't bother," he says, in a tone that makes it impossible to predict that he's about to ask Harry to dinner. But he does, with a mask-like, almost dubious sort of expression on his face. It throws Harry off—he's not sure he's heard right, so he says, somewhat unfortunately, "Erm, what?"

Severus' lips compress slightly; his shoulders straighten. Harry reacts instinctively and gets lucky this time.

"I'd love to," are the words that come out of his mouth.

+++++

"So, I've been wondering…" Harry begins, still toying with whether to ask it or not. Severus looks up from his steak after a moment, meeting Harry's eyes, then back to his plate when Harry doesn't go on. Severus takes a bite; so does Harry. Severus swallows and frowns.

"I believe you had a question."

Harry speeds up his chewing and smiles a little guiltily. He knows Severus hates incomplete thoughts when spoken aloud. An "oh, nothing" right now would be lethal, probably. He swallows.

"I've been wondering why you changed your mind. About dinner, I mean."

That was three weeks ago. This is their third date. It's a funny thing. Harry doubts Severus thinks of it this way, as a date. He doubts Severus has been counting.

Severus' lip curves up at one side as he cuts another piece of steak. "I've been wondering what possessed you to suggest it." He says this wryly, a touch mockingly.

Harry smiles and resists the urge to reach over. He settles for a shrug. "I thought it'd be nice." It's not exactly the truth—he thought it'd be awkward and embarrassing and painful as hell but there was nothing in the world he'd wanted to do more. Well. Almost nothing.

Severus' brow lifts a little, though he's not looking at Harry. Harry takes a hasty sip of wine. "And I was right," he says. "Right? So what about you?"

Severus looks up. He takes a deliberate forkful of potato, his forehead wrinkling as he averts his eyes to his meal. Eventually he says, "I realized I had nothing to lose."

"Ouch," Harry grins, knowing Severus is only kidding. "Pulling no punches, huh? That'll leave a mark." His grin widens as Severus levels a piercing look at him for a moment.

Severus drops his gaze. "Would you care to try the filet?" he asks brusquely. "It's been cooked to your liking." He doesn't wait for Harry's answer before beginning to cut a piece from the grill-darkened end. Harry watches him do it, protests at the second slice, accepts the bread plate from Severus that bears the best part of the filet. Harry tries it and nods.

"That's really good," he says, meaning it. Severus appears satisfied and returns to his vegetable medley, singling out the baby carrots for immediate consumption. Harry smiles without knowing it. He's in love.

+++++

That's probably why it's so bad, when Severus asserts that their relationship is purely professional. Granted, he says this to a journalist who's come poking about the laboratory, investigating the sightings of Harry and Severus dining together. Harry's supposed to be sorting the newts' tongues from the livers, not in the front room, but he hasn't seen Severus in over an hour and he misses him. This is how he overhears Severus brushing off the other man's remarks about dinner last night.

"You were obviously enjoying each other's company very much," says the reporter pointedly.

"Nonsense," Severus snaps, shutting the door in the man's face. He whips around, and the angry lines of his face smooth to blandness when he sees Harry there.

"What was that guy trying to sell?" Harry asks in a jokey voice, to cover up the fearsomely audible jumping of his heart. "Double glazing? Ginsu knives? Encyclopedias? I'm fairly certain you've got all those covered, what with your wards, and your poisons, and your…encyclopedias."

Severus' mouth tightens. "It was an abhorrent agent of the press."

"What did he want?" Harry asks, because it would be the natural thing to ask.

"To bolster his laughable misrepresentations with quotes taken out of context." Severus begins striding back to his workroom. "I refused to oblige. Are you through with the newts? I'll need half a jar of the tongues."

Harry nods, turning back to the door. He listens to Severus creak up the stairs. "Half a jar of tongues," he mutters to himself, or else he'll forget, because the pain in his chest is unbearably distracting.

+++++

Harry's flat is darkened and he's in bed, watching nothing on the ceiling and hearing the wind fling the water against the outside of his walls. It's 9:07 p.m. He's not especially tired—he's used to staying up a while longer on Thursday nights, with Severus, over pudding, in a quiet restaurant. He wouldn't mind falling asleep. He closes his eyes and wills himself to do it.

It's a middling effort at best, utterly wrecked when the bell sounds at the front door. Harry quickly sits up, wondering with alarm who it could be. He puts on his glasses, tugging on a shirt while he goes for the door. He's got his wand in hand and he waves it; the door reveals Severus, standing on the other side with a grim countenance. Harry hurriedly unlocks it and opens it.

"Professor, hi," he says, anxiously. "Is something wrong?"

Severus frowns down at him. "Yes—you failed to tell me that our evening plans had been canceled. Are you feeling ill?"

Harry blinks up, confused. He'd thought there was something the matter—an emergency, or maybe he'd done something wrong with a potion. "Uh, no. No, I'm fine…" He trails off, trying grasp what Severus has said.

"Then why didn't you show up at the usual time?" Severus sounds impatient, like his usual self. His gaze travels over Harry's rumpled sleepwear and the downturn of his mouth deepens. "I was in the midst of a decoction and when I next noticed the clock it had gone 9. I suppose you've eaten?"

Harry opens his mouth—he has to think about this. "No," he answers with a shake of his head. He remembers now that he hadn't been hungry. "I—you were expecting me…? I'm sorry, I thought—"

"Of course I was expecting you, or at least the courtesy of an owl to inform me to do otherwise," Severus interrupts, vexedly. "I hope you intend to come in tomorrow, there's an order of henbane due to arrive—"

"I do," Harry cuts in, because Severus is clearly put out—he's drawing away from the door. "I'm sorry about tonight—I didn't think you wanted to go, after that reporter turned up and started—" Harry pauses, unable to articulate himself with anything more than a vague gesture.

Severus' expression is disapproving. "If I were to live according to the whims of the media, I'd have died many times over. No two ways the same." He arches an eyebrow in that way that he has, and it draws a half-smile onto Harry's face.

"Yeah," Harry says, his throat moving painfully. "But I—I didn't want to make things difficult; maybe it's better to order in next time, you know, so you don't get harassed by the papers over something completely made-up. And I'm really sorry, you're right, I should've—"

Severus' gaze has sharpened and Harry doesn't feel the Legilimency until it's over.

"Harry," he says. Harry looks back, frozen. Severus hasn't done this to him since the days of Voldemort. "I thought I had made it clear. I have nothing to lose." Severus speaks lowly, clearly, his eyes fixed on Harry's eyes. "Only everything to gain."

Harry doesn't get it—then he gets it all at once. The realization takes him with such force he can't sense Severus' hand before it touches—lightly on his shoulder, inoffensive, not enough. It sets Harry in motion. He steps through the frame of the door and engulfs Severus bodily, lifting his head without seeing, kissing Severus without breathing, his fingers curling gingerly in the fabric near Severus' shoulderblades. Severus kisses back—pushes back, and they are inside, the door is kicked shut, Harry is burning, Severus' hands are swift.

"Professor Snape," Harry exhales. It turns to silence, and sighs, a nervous laugh, uneven murmurings. It turns to Severus at last, at almost the very last, in the moment before the moment before Harry lets go of wakefulness for the comforts of Severus, of his bare and sallow arms, and the soft soundless stroke of Severus' fingers on his wrist.

+++++

Harry opens his eyes to dreary watery light. It's raining again. He doesn't need to roll over to know Severus has gone—he felt the man leave, taking the greatest care to be quiet. Harry had been half-asleep and it seemed to make sense to leave it that way. He's been preparing to open his eyes since then, gradually, becoming aware of the steady pattering of the rain, the warmth of his torso beneath the blankets, the faint chill at the back of his neck where Severus, in leaving, had shifted the pillow away.

Harry listens to the rain and the sound of no one but himself breathing. He's certain now, certain, that March is the cruelest month. It's unrelenting, stifling—it's making him ache everywhere.

There's noise at the door—Harry flips around to see the knob turn slowly, to see Severus, dressed, slip in. He has a plate of toast in one hand and the Prophet under his arm. "Good morning," he says, when he catches Harry's eyes on him. "Toast?" He begins extending the plate, then shakes his head once. "No, that would be a choking hazard. Better have this first."

He gives Harry the paper. Harry smiles his good morning and unfolds it—and his smile brightens to a grin. It's a picture of Harry and Severus at dinner, a bit dark, a bit grainy, but nonetheless clear. They are enjoying themselves well.

"I think it turned out all right," Harry says, turning to Severus and laughing at his grimace. He looks at the front page again, smiles back at the two of them. It's real, Harry sees. It's April.

Settle

dracofiend@gmail.com — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 04:11:11 GMT

Title: Settle
Author: dracofiend
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: HP/SS, HP/DM
Summary: Love is love, even if it's not perfect; or, home is where the heart is.
A/N: A ficlet for the Fabulous No-Pressure Laissez Faire Challenge at hp_unfaithful! Prompt #96: Go into a lot of detail about the different settings the partners have. When A is with B, the room is dirty; when A is with C, the room is pristine, for example.

It's dim and crowded in the dungeon chambers where Severus is, crowded with shelves and cauldrons, with dusty vials and clean ones, dim with overburdened shelves and an absence of windows. Steam and fumes refract all the light, shifting the room's shapes into a dreamlike haze that curls thickly about one's throat. Snape is accustomed to his potions as they rise; the only moments he is affected by any sort of haze are those moments when Harry slips in through the door, like the flicker of a torch, heat without sound, warmth without weight. Harry comes without knocking. He has given up knocking, and he assists Severus with his work. Harry fumbles with knives or decanters or mortars and pestles; he bruises fresh lady's mantle, scatters dried nettles, upends an entire thimble of powdered unicorn horn. He bears Severus' stinging remonstrations, which are halting and endless, which puff large on impatience with unrealistic desires until they leap from clipped words into clipped gestures.

"Let me," Severus snarls, stopping Harry's clumsy wrist before it threatens anything more. Harry yields to him; Severus yields to himself. He pushes Harry down with great haste and misgivings, sweeping aside cutting boards and bottles and droppers and books. They clatter on the table or roll to the floor while Harry digs into Severus' robes and sets to war with hooks and closures. Harry shuts his eyes and Severus watches his mouth working, feeling the restraint of the walls, the cramp of the dark, the absurdity of his own hopes and the shards near his feet. It is the ruination, he is certain, of more than his potion.

* * *

"Thanks," Harry says, quickly shaking out his shirt before tugging it over his head. It catches on his glasses. He's never mastered the art—or exact science, more likely—of doing this, of pulling on his shirt without snagging his glasses, of smiling without discomfort after sex with someone he has sex with. Because he still feels awkward around Snape, particularly after, when he slides off the table and the skin is still sticky where his legs join his hips. He hikes up his trousers anyway, resisting the urge to wipe off the sweat, resisting the urge to kiss Snape on the mouth. He would do it, he wants to—but Snape is always occupied with clearing up the table, or fixing his clothes, or muttering to a cauldron with his hair hanging down. There isn't much light in here and the air tends to be thick; it's stifling and it's hard to see Snape's face.

"Uh, can I help you with that?" Harry straightens himself, pushes up his sleeves; he crunches over broken bits to where Snape's cauldron is beginning to boil. Snape's eyes are narrowed, focused on the contents; Harry looks away from him to banish the glass from the floor. He puts his wand into its pocket and turns back to Snape. The fumes are starting to smell. Harry holds his breath and touches Snape's elbow lightly. "Should I add the sagebrush?"

Snape's hair shifts, in the negative, and Harry can tell the odor from the potion will be in his own hair as well. "It's too soon," Snape mutters. "How many times must I tell you? Another minute, then stir in half a stem. Slowly!" he adds warningly, leaving his place against the table for a far-off shelf. Harry's eyes follow the man for a moment, then he returns his attention to the frothing brew. He wishes, while carefully breaking off acrid leaves over the cauldron, that the ceilings were higher, that the lanterns were brighter. Then maybe Snape would turn around, see him, and walk back.

* * *

Harry breathes in deeply as he pushes the door closed behind him; the scent of candles burned last night float in the air, and it smells great in here. Clean. It's a relief.

"Draco?" he calls out, dropping his keys on sidetable and flicking through the mail. There's nothing of interest. One largish square envelope is notably stiff and curlicued; it's already been opened, the top flap torn haphazardly and the contents resting on top. Harry's eyes skim the invitation, then lift at the sound of steps on the stairs.

"Hi," Draco smiles, padding over cream-colored carpeting, brushing past the picture frames hanging along the wall. "How was your day?" He jumps from the third-to-last step, pushing off the balustrade. "Oh, you want to go to that?" he asks while padding across the wide white floor--it's marble, but magically warmed. The bare slaps of his feet ring faintly, pleasantly, around the space of the entryway.

Draco hugs Harry in the midst of his shrug. "I don't know--seems like it could be boring, but we can go if you want," Harry says, pausing to kiss Draco chastely. "Watch out, I'm covered in filth," Harry cautions. He smiles at Draco and the sharpness, the pleasant and unpleasant keenness in him fades.

"Ack, and yet you kiss me still!" Draco makes bug eyes, then grins and crushes Harry's lips roughly with his own. "Did you have dinner? You want to eat something and watch the match?"

Draco's hair is fluffy from its obvious air-drying state; he's as fresh and masculine as French-milled soaps can make a man, and he thrusts a hand inside Harry's stained robe to give Harry's ribcage a quick little squeeze. Harry wrestles with Draco's arm for a moment and they laugh when Draco wins.

"Weak!" Draco says. His gray eyes seem translucent beneath the splendid chandelier, beaming all around from high overhead.

"Yeah," Harry grins back. "Let's go watch the match." He hopes the teeth in his smile will reflect away the light, because unlike Draco, he hasn't figured out how to turn transparent yet. He can manage a fair imitation though, in a room without clutter, with only pretty things, with softness underfoot and the world's best squashy couch. He links hands with Draco and swings them towards the bright and perfect living room.

* * *

The squashy couch isn't polished; it doesn't really match with the rest of the room. But Draco's glad he conceded to Harry on this point--Harry has a way of throwing himself down when the tide turns against his team, and Draco guesses there would be bruising, if the couch were properly firm. He wants the place to be polished--a calm and elegant space, one that looks good in magazines (it does) but is just as desirable to live in (it is). It's comfortable; not messy (or "cozy," as some might say), and Draco keeps it like that for the love of Harry's look, whenever Harry comes home. He'll glance up at the ceiling, then from wall to wall, and the corner of his mouth will quirk up, as if assessing.

"You don't like the paintings? The light fixtures? What?" Draco had asked once, when they'd just moved in.

"No! I love them!" Harry had told him. "They are brilliant paintings. And light fixtures. I guess it's just...hard to believe I'm really living here. It's so big, and grand, and. You know." He shrugged and grinned at Draco in that abashed and charming way. "Nice. Nicer than I could've dreamed."

"Ah," Draco said dryly. "Well, I'm very sorry it's not the dark, dank, rat-infested hole of your dreams--what did you have in mind?"

"You don't want to know," Harry had laughed, reaching for him. "And anyway," he added, pulling back from their kiss, "it wasn't meant to be." He had looked comically wistful then, and it had made Draco laugh too.

"Did you see that!" Harry suddenly shouts, landing hard on the squashy cushion and jabbing Draco in the shoulder. "That was a hell of a hit! Opened the lane for Bryson to score and he put it right in--the Keeper never had a chance. Fucking awesome!" He punches the air with his fist, his eyes fastened to the screen. Draco will see the replay, of course, because he needs to see the fucking awesome hit and the goal as well, but at this moment he simply watches Harry, flushed with excitement, sprawling back on the couch, his dark hair darker against the pale calfskin upholstery. Draco's heart skips a little, and he's certain that this--their home, their life, all of it--was meant to be.

Songs that start with E!

dracofiend@gmail.com — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 03:47:54 GMT

These are for Pique! But you can have them too!

Echo & His Brother, by Hopewell
Evergreen (Dusted Remix), by Faithless
Eddie's Gun, by The Kooks
The End Has No End, by The Strokes
eBay, by Weird Al Yankovic

*madloves*

Alibi

dracofiend@gmail.com — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 06:24:21 GMT

Title: Alibi
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry interrogates Draco Malfoy.
Genre: Romance ficlet. On the angsty side, maybe.

Harry turns from the cell in high proper motion, bearing the weight of a stone-colored stare. He knows the detainee is watching; he feels it in his spine, in the small bones of his neck, in the slow deep thrusts of the heart in his chest. Every lockstep breath descends and ascends in metronymic time, the tock of a clock, steady and measured as the questions he asks. Where were you, he says in regulated tones, on 30 July?

Draco Malfoy is the detainee, and the detainee has no reply, so Harry steps through the steps a step at a time. There are many, uncounted; they start broad and shallow and they wind all the way up, to a point, to a room, narrow as a pin and close as a shave, with space enough for a man and an airy Dementor. Harry treads the path with a fluent foot, won by repetition in preparation and practice. He asks and he asks and he never misses a mark, his voice never registers more than what's prescribed; his eyes never light (rage) or dull (fatigue). Where were you? he asks, on 30 July?

The detainee dislikes the pouring of the serum. Harry only knows by the flicker of his eye, twitching as the liquid flows into the spoon, for though Legilimency is indicated clearly on the route, he isn't there yet. He will follow the signs. Where were you? Harry raises the serum to the pale mouth. On 30 July? The spoon's bowl is new and bright as it passes dry lips. The detainee swallows, reluctant, without Imperius. It's too soon for that, as well.

Harry asks once more and now the detainee must answer. He must be as honest as the day is long. The day will be long, for the answer Harry is given is I'm not at liberty to say.

You aren't at any liberty at all, Harry could remark. That is a fact, and while Harry is here to make determinations of fact (by coaxing or lying or prying or force), that is not in the sequence of steps; that is not a link in the chain. The detainee wears chains, but he shan't forever, because as they near the middle of the road, in the middle of the night of the first endless day, Harry is required to remove them with his wand. He does it. Behind the transparent screen enclosing him, the detainee is bare in his prison-issue smock. Harry notes, but doesn't comment, on the aubergine stripes indented in his skin.

Where were you? he asks, and the detainee simply answers, I'm not at liberty to say. He says it mildly and his response is prompt, but at this stage it's appropriate for Harry to deem it non-cooperation. Harry draws in air through his nose, out through his mouth, readies his wand, his intent, and takes his aim.

Crucio, he says. Ministry guidance indicates that this should begin in sparing bursts, to be extended as necessary over a period of time. Restrictive implements (e.g., waist and leg chains) on the prisoner's person are to be removed prior to casting specified high-risk spells. Harry watches the convulsions of the detainee, whose eyes are flared and glistening. Harry's pulse is rapid and faint and everything in him tightens, but unlike the detainee, he can refrain from expression. The detainee stops shaking and doesn't fall from his chair. Harry had administered a small dose, as appropriate. Now he is to offer an opportunity for reprieve.

On 30 July, he asks, where were you?

The detainee shifts to sit up; the skin beneath his eyes is dark but there's a flush to his face from the pain of the curse that appears wholesome, a sign of vigor. Perhaps the detainee is aware of this and is also considering the irony, for his mouth arcs up on one side as he responds to the question. The answer permits Harry to raise his wand again.

The night ticks to day, the same day as yesterday; there's no rest for Harry or his detainee until they finish. They are much nearer to the Dementor now, though there is always, always, the chance for retreat. The rules stipulate this in absolute terms, and Harry observes the rules with great rigor, choosing solid gray when no black or white lines are presented, acting fully within the legislated boundaries. The detainee is infinitely worse for the wear, as intended. He is leaning against the side wall, back flat to mortar, legs splayed before him at visually interesting angles. His hair clings to his skin, his skin clings to his bones, and he's no longer mild or calm but he remains resistant. Harry stands over him, on the other side of the shield, willing himself to conceal the anger and frustration that now blurs his vision, dampening his shirt.

Where were you? Harry asks, his wand up and firm, though his words—he can't quite deliver them without a trace of strain. 30 July. Where were you? A trace is allowable; a trace is expected. Even the best are only human, after all. Ministry regulations acknowledge it with a procedure for relief of the interrogator, little-known and less-used. It certainly will not be invoked here today, not when Harry is so very close to the end, the end of the line, the end of the list, the end of the steps that will lead the detainee to the kiss.

The detainee refuses the choice to turn back; silently, with a vague shake of his head, for he cannot utter a sound to save his life. It will not be worth saving, as far as the detainee is concerned, after Harry is through with what he must now undertake. Harry gathers himself without shutting his eyes, lest the guards see and mistake his meaning. They're watching more closely than ever before, prepared to usher in a new Auror at the drop of a sigh.

Harry expels his last breath violently and strides through the shield, which parts for this act, only this act, like a feather from a wing. His eyes are fixed on the detainee's face. It is blanched and blackened in disorderly shapes; it is low to the ground and it does not stop Harry, it does not stop Harry, it does not stop Harry from pointing his wand or swooping down on his knee or gripping the raw neck beneath the swelling jaw for Harry is tasked with uprooting the lock that locks in the truth, whether it be Fidelius or a Vow or something equally delicate and irrelevant in a man stripped of magic.

Harry presses in fingers and snaps the lock wide. He vanishes, with Draco.

"I'm sorry," he says. No he doesn't say, he hasn't air to say. He cries it, breathes it; his blood beats it; his wrists ache it as they rise around Draco's head. His mouth sobs and his head sings; his wet face meets Draco's damaged one and he floods, he crashes Draco with what strength is left to him.

Draco is small and dirty in Harry's embrace but he has the grace to smile, a little. "Apology accepted."

The patchy sound from that throat has Harry's heart inflamed. "You should've told—you could've stopped it—"

Draco's dark-soaked hair quivers as he musters a miraculous coughing laugh. "No, ah!" he shudders. "No." His eyes are beginning to droop in exhaustion, but they meet Harry's, with love. "You'd be a crap alibi. Where are we, anyway?"

They are far away from Azkaban. They are far away from home. Harry couldn't tell a single person he was leaving, or that he'd never see them again.

"A safe place," he murmurs. "You'll have to get used to Muggles," he adds, with a cracked smile like Draco's. Draco doesn't see, because consciousness has stretched past him for the moment, but when he wakes up Harry will be next to him, and when Harry wakes up too they will be amazed (a bit dazed) at their free-and-clear escape. They will yawn together, and stretch, and then they might get up to eat something, or they might go back to sleep, or they might do anything else that pleases them in the world, and they will have no use for alibis, ever again.

omg you guys a squee post

dracofiend@gmail.com — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 04:37:17 GMT

I'm so in love with fandom right now because lookit, I'm on Team AU at hd_worldcup and it's going to be super fantastic, even better than last year when I learned a new word and wrote about a hierophant and also guess what, I got into serpentinelion which I've always wanted to join but was too shy to mention and it is SO EXCITING and I'm still real fired up about hp_unfaithful and my mind is whirling away on all sorts of fun angsty things

!!!!!

I love H/D.

I love Snarry.

I love Saul/Dale. :D

HP_Unfaithful Challenge Prompt Claiming Open

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 16:26:22 GMT

Hey guys--go and check out the prompts at hp_unfaithful's first challenge ever! I bet it'll be hard to resist the urge to write or draw something--they're awesome prompts! But don't worry if you've already got a lot to do--a quick sketch or drabble is all you need! Take a look and sign up here. ♥

Indetermination, Chapter 7

dracofiend@gmail.com — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 04:30:43 GMT

Title: Indetermination, Chapter 7
Author: dracofiend
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Greg
Rating: NC-17. Please note the header info, except for the summary, relates to the entire chaptered fic, not to individual chapters.
Summary: Draco wrestles with Greg, and himself.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

"Draco," Greg said after a tense moment of silence. It was, presumably, a greeting of sorts, but Draco's blood had stopped the instant he'd turned to see Greg's dark eyes, boring into him from under that heavy brow. He knew instantly that Greg was incensed. If they'd been eight years old again, Greg would be leaping, fists high and teeth bared, without a care for the hexes that Draco would be flinging in his way. Since that time, Greg had acquired a considerable degree of restraint, accompanied by a deliberately slow and plodding air--but Draco hadn't forgotten the streak of easy brutality that his childhood friend carried. Greg's father had once remarked that his son would've made a fine addition to their cause, and Draco's father, despite his laughter, had agreed.

"Greg," Draco returned, keeping his voice and stare steady. He didn't move aside and he could sense Harry before him still, in the doorway, watching him. Or perhaps it was Greg he was looking at--Draco couldn't stand the thought and let his head untwist quickly, to face Harry again.

Harry's gaze met his--uncertain, not angry, not the way he'd looked when he'd pushed Draco away. The relief pouring over Draco buoyed him into opening his mouth.

"Can I see you again?" he blurted out, because it was the first thing on his mind--Greg was going to barrel in and he could be so adept at comforting. "Tomorrow," Draco continued, heart going now wildly. Harry would have his comfort; Draco mightn't have his chance. "You don't have to tell me now," he rushed on, though he wanted nothing more than to see Harry's hardening eyes softened again, see the pale chin fall in a semblance of acquiescence. "But if--"

"I believe Harry would like his key back," a voice cut in coldly.

Draco's mouth froze around his supplication--he could feel the weight of a warning hand settle on his shoulder and he didn't need to look to know Greg had stepped up to the front stoop.

"Return it to him, please," Greg said, his eyes fixed on Draco's face, as if casting a silent curse. Draco's jaw tightened--he didn't relish the notion of coming to blows with Greg, but neither would he step down. If Greg were to injure him, would that win Harry's sympathy? He took a breath through his nose and swiveled, thrusting his face into his former friend's.

"Or else what?" he sneered, holding his eyelids firm, determined not to flinch.

Greg's left cheek twitched; he struck in an instant, shoving Draco back hard. Draco stumbled down the steps but found his balance in time, only to have the front of his robes snatched up in a paw-like grip. Greg's furious face was near enough for Draco to count pores.

"Do you know how long I've watched you torment him?" Greg muttered in a dangerous growl, so low that even Draco could barely make the words out. "I can't tell you how many times I wanted to hex that stupid smirk off your face when you used to talk about him at school--about how he was obsessed with you, how he'd never figure you out. Then he fell for your charms--I could've killed you for that." The flushed face creased as Greg gave him a gruesome smile. "I should've known you'd fuck it up on your own. Now I'll have that fucking key."

With that, Greg's free hand shot out. "Accio Draco's keys!" he cried, and Draco felt the jagged metal bits dart to respond. They would've torn through flesh, so forceful was Greg's summons; they only tore through robes before clattering into Greg's callused palm. Greg released him with another shove and the momentum had Draco stumbling, even as he reached in for his wand.

"Adur--" Draco shouted, but Greg's wand was out as well, and he was thundering "Expulso!" with grim intent. Draco couldn't help but flinch then as he prepared to be blown back several hundred yards into whatever trees or lampposts stood behind him--except there was a mighty crack! as another spell met Greg's, sending a brilliant blue flash soaring into the sky as Draco skidded back mere feet, skin burning where the hex had got him.

"All right?" Harry was asking, suddenly crouched around him. "You all right?" His chest was moving fast as he ran his hands up and down Draco's arms in light sweeping motions, skimming over the blistering welts on the underside of his forearms and wrists. Draco had raised his hands to shield his face from the spell; his sleeves had slipped down. "Fine," Draco mumbled, dazed from the curse but not seriously hurt. "Here," Harry said, hoisting Draco up.

Draco leaned gratefully into him, murmuring his name because Harry was holding him, close--how long he'd stayed away! Draco couldn't help nestling into Harry's weight but Harry stiffened beneath him--Draco knew he'd rushed it. He'd started too soon; Harry's hands turned ungentle. Draco's arms throbbed. He bit down on his lip and tugged himself free, sick from the smell of singed skin and the look in Harry's eyes. He shouldn't leave Harry with Greg leering and sneering and lurking at that open door but he hadn't any choice. Harry's blank face told him.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, distinctly, regaining his feet, awkwardly. Harry only looked at him, and his lashes didn't flicker. Draco turned around and walked as quickly as he could, his sleeves fluttering painfully over his burns, until he reached the street and could Disapparate away.

That night he stared sleeplessly at the Dark Mark on his arm, unevenly raised by the healing charms, and he thought of Harry, curled up in the good bulk of Greg Goyle.

+++++

"Pansy," Draco called again, into the unresponsive flames. "Pansy!" She was there, he could sense it--but she wasn't taking his call. Draco stifled his urge to shout his frustration. "Pansy!" He'd tilted too near the fire; his eyes were watering with the heat and he sat back, wiping them.

"Please, Panse." The fire crackled, but nothing more. Draco dropped his head to his chest with a vaguely hysteric sigh. His life was in pieces; surely he could get used to being ignored.

"What?"

The shape of Pansy's face made a shadow in the fire; the next moment she had thrust herself far enough in for Draco to make out her cross expression. Draco's head had shot up at the sound of her voice and he scrabbled forward, near to the grate.

"I don't know what to do," he began, "I saw Harry yesterday and Greg showed up and he--I think--" He broke off, his gaze falling to his knuckles, orange in the firelight and bunched into knobs. "I'm--I'm worried. I'm worried Harry's in love with him."

He was feeling light-headed at having said it; the thought had occupied him all night, and even when he'd dozed off he had forced himself awake so as not to dream poorly again. He's only a friend, Harry had said. Only a friend. He'd repeated it too many times to be true, as if he were testing the sound of it aloud. Draco didn't believe it.

"If he is, you've only yourself to blame," Pansy said in an unsympathetic tone. Draco shifted his shoulders, raising his head to deny it. Harry had always been so ready to suspect, to disagree--it was Harry who had been inconstant in his sentiment, declaring to everyone that Draco loved him while insisting, privately, that Draco ought to somehow feel more. "You should've taken better care of him," she finished bluntly.

Draco's mouth had opened--was she right? She was. "That isn't the point," he sniped back. "Greg's no good for him and we both know it."

"I don't think you're in a position to say such a thing," Pansy retorted, "and I'm being perfectly on point. If you'd paid more attention, he wouldn't have broken up with you, and you wouldn't be calling me at all hours of the night."

"You don't know what it was like!" Draco protested, in high aggravation once more--but Pansy's expression turned icy and began receding from the flames; Draco promptly changed the next words out of his mouth. "I'm sorry; you've heard it all, I know. But Harry doesn't know Greg the way we do. He's--he thinks Greg is just a friend. He must know Greg wants more--but I don't think he sees just how much Greg wants it. And that concerns me."

Draco looked earnestly at Pansy, willing her to understand. She had pursed her lips; her forehead flexed as she glanced away.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said at last. "You can't control him. You'll only make things worse if you warn him against Greg. And maybe--have you even thought of this?" She turned back to Draco with a skeptical brow. "Maybe he'll actually be happier now. Maybe he was being difficult, as you say, because he actually wanted a way out, and now he's got it. I know it's hard to hear, but that's what I'm--"

"I've thought of it," Draco cut her off. He could hardly form the words, and he couldn't begin to explain that this was the quietest, truest of thoughts to cross his mind in recent days. Perhaps Harry wouldn't come back because he simply didn't care to. Perhaps Draco loved Harry--and that was all.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Draco continued over the whirling in his chest. "I want your advice, even if you think this whole situation is my fault, because--well, you said so yourself. Greg has a tendency to love things to death."

Pansy held his stare for a moment, then blinked away and sighed. "Did I tell you that? Stupid of me," she murmured, pushing back her hair.

"Come on, I already knew," Draco continued impatiently. "But you have to agree with me that Harry has no idea what he's getting into. If Greg cares about him, that's one thing--but he's fixated on him, Panse. He's got Harry singled out in his mind as the one, the one he's got to take care of--and you've been through it yourself, you hated--"

"He was never obsessed with me," Pansy put in harshly. "Okay? It just--things never reached that point. And I'm not going to side with you on this, especially not over Greg, because Harry might be perfect for him. All right? You're both my friends and I don't appreciate your bloody arm-twisting, and I am not going to intervene on your behalf."

Draco very nearly shouted back. Fine, he wanted to tell her. Then you're taking Greg's side. But Greg trusted Pansy in a way he trusted no one else--and even if Pansy declared neutrality, Draco wasn't about to burn the only bridge he had left.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." He waited for her to meet his eyes again, to repeat it. "I'm sorry," he said softly, then he offered her a sliver of a smile. "It's getting easier to say that, what with all the practice I've had lately." She responded with a snort and a slight smile of her own.

"Can I just ask..." he trailed off for a beat before forging ahead. "I wanted to talk to him--Greg, I mean, after yesterday. We had a bit of a--disagreement, at Harry's. But I don't think he's been around since then...did he--you didn't happen to see him, did you, after yesterday afternoon?"

It was by no means a lie--Draco did want to talk to Greg--to afflict him with a permanent curse--and he really did suspect that Greg intended to stay with Harry for as long as Harry would allow. He wanted to get a hint, though, of how long that might've been.

Pansy's features were rigid; she obviously wasn't taking Draco's words at face value. But she replied nevertheless.

"I haven't seen him," she said stiffly.

Draco's heart tumbled. His mind raced back to the way he'd clung to Harry when Harry had pulled him up from the ground yesterday. It had been a thoughtless courtesy; a show of Harry's generic kindness--and Draco had soured it with his anxiety to draw from it something more. His expression must've shown the nature of his thoughts, because Pansy added, more gently, "Greg doesn't come to me with everything."

Dizzy, Draco nodded. He could see Greg reaching for Harry; he could see Harry yielding. Greg would be persistent, and Harry, keen for affection. Your desire for 'love,' Draco had sneered once upon a time, is consumptive.

Harry had spun around, if Draco remembered correctly. I can't wait to get the fuck over you, he'd said.

"Cheers," he mumbled to Pansy, rising unsteadily from the heavy fireplace rug. "Sorry to wake you up; I'll try not to bother you so late next time."

"It's okay," she said. The fire didn't crackle, so Draco knew she was still watching him as he fumbled for his wand buried somewhere in his robes. "If you'd like, come over tomorrow. We can have tea."

Draco nodded again, and immediately forgot what she'd said. "Night," he murmured, and waved his wand to end the call. The flames sparked and dimmed. Draco moved to the great staircase and ascended, to go to his room, to lie down on his bed.

An hour later it was midnight and he thought he would surely go insane. He rose from the sheets and threw on a cloak--he'd never bothered to undress--and Disapparated to the high street near Harry's house.

I'll make him see sense, he thought frantically. A small part of him cautioned that he was exhausted; he shouldn't be doing this, not now, not when Harry had refused him outright, and only yesterday--it was too early, this was not wise...but that part was very small and Greg loomed large in his brain, growing more adept at pleasing Harry with each step Draco took across the black pavement. The night was clear and the air was near-freezing, illuminated sparingly by widely-spaced street lights and their dull white glow. But Draco had tripped his way along this route many times before, sometimes with a lesser grasp of his faculties than even this.

He hastened soundlessly over the curb, passing familiar lawns and wrought-iron fences, and turned unhesitatingly at the stone owls guarding Harry's walk. There, he stopped, and the small part of his brain, the admonishing part, turned smug, for in the front doorway where Harry had pushed Draco back not so very long ago, stood Greg. Just past him was Harry, partly hidden from view by Greg's outline. Yellow light dazzled from in the house, framing Harry in a bright rectangle, showing off the untidy tops of his hair and the jut of Greg's shoulder as he folded his arms. For a moment, it was fine.

Then Harry's silhouette dipped forward, as if he'd fairly lunged, and the line of his form met the line of Greg's, and Draco couldn't see well from where he stood at the edge of the walk but he could see well enough, and what he could see was Harry kissing. He could see Greg's shoulders unhitch; he could see Greg's hands slide out.

The next thing Draco saw was the spinning of his feet, for he was Disapparating, seeing Harry kissing Greg, seeing Harry fucked by Greg, circling and circling in him as his body turned, as his stomach turned, and when he fell onto the carpet beside his bed, he wasn't sure anymore what he was seeing at all.

The Fabulous No-Pressure Laissez-Faire HP_Unfaithful Challenge!

dracofiend@gmail.com — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 00:55:09 GMT

Hi! The infidelity-themed HP comm that snegurochka_lee and I run is kicking off its first ever challenge! The details are under the cut--please throw in any random prompts you have off the top of your head HERE! You know you totally want to! :D

Overdosed on happy endings and holiday love? Need something fresh to start the year? Come join the inaugural hp_unfaithful challenge and revive your obsession with a long-loved (or long-hated!) character or pairing!

It'll be supereasy and low-key, and you'll get to post your infidelity-themed work to the comm at your leisure. Here's the timeline:

1. Call for prompts: Now - January 8. Reply to THIS POST with a brief prompt. A word, a phrase, or a concept will be perfect! You can specify a pairing if you want, or not - but please, nothing overly specific. This isn't a gift request, but rather a little spark for a writer or artist to take and run with.

2. Prompt claiming: January 9 - 16. Pick your poison(s). All are open to multiple claims, so you can claim a prompt that has already been claimed by someone else. Because this isn’t meant to be a gift exchange, prompts will be listed without the prompter’s name.

3. Posting: Any time through February 26. Please post to the comm when you're ready!

4. Master list: February 28. For your orderly enjoyment.

We also wanted to mention that because this is more of a kick-back-and-enjoy-the-view sort of challenge, you should feel free to respond to prompts with short fics or sketches--drabbles, even! You should definitely write or draw whatever infidelity theme floats your boat (and fits the prompt!), and there's no word limit (or the artistic equivalent, whatever that might be)--but if you're debating whether you want to play or not, do keep in mind that tiny fics/art are every bit as welcome!

One last thing—slash, femslash, het and gen pieces are all terrific for the challenge, so long as they are infidelity themed. Let us know if you have any questions!

Spanner in the Works

dracofiend@gmail.com — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 16:04:34 GMT

Title: Spanner in the Works
Author: dracofiend
Word Count: ~9600
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Snarry
Summary: Severus had never had the remotest glimmer, the barest inkling, that Potter could--much less would--employ this precise route for disarraying Severus' day-to-day routine.
Author's Notes: Written for the 2008 Snarry Holidays.

The Night Before

"I am on the very verge of marching down there myself to knock some sense into your mulish skull," Minerva was saying, thrusting her face ever deeper into the flames. "This is an unparalleled honor, bestowed not by the Ministry, which I know you abhor, but by your former students! I hadn't believed it possible to be more flabbergasted than the day I received their letter proposing an endowment in your name, and yet, here I am, exhorting you to attend the inauguration banquet they've so generously put on--FOR YOU!"

Severus merely smiled at the proof he was marking. "Threats of bodily injury have no effect, Minerva." He refreshed his quill in the red inkpot. "You may try again, though, if you like."

She made a closed-mouth sound of frustration. Even through the crackle of the fire, it sounded broguish to Severus' ear.

"You're determined, then, not to come?" she continued, tightly. "You remain unmoved by the pleas of those whom you unwillingly tormented--never gainsay me on that point Severus, I know you better--because you don't wish to have your evening routine disturbed?"

"That's a fair summation," Severus replied, eyes skimming over the text. "Barring the obvious inaccuracy you mentioned."

"Fine." Embers flew from Severus' grate. "I've done quite enough cajoling for one evening. If you are adamant about remaining forever a misanthropic old fool then I'm powerless to stop you."

Severus' lip quirked wryly; he still hadn't looked up. "I am," he said, scribbling a footnote. "Though I expected your efforts to be rather better than that."

Minerva's mouth thinned into its habitual flat line. "Very well," she huffed after a few moments. "I'll re-allocate a quarter of the funds earmarked for Quidditch to Potions."

"Three-quarters."

"Impossible! A quarter."

"Three-quarters."

"Half. You realize you could've arranged this yourself rather than having to endure these distasteful negotiations, if you had simply returned to the post?"

"I do, but then I would've had to arrange it myself, and these are not negotiations. Three-quarters."

"I cannot, Severus! The Quidditch curriculum plays a vital role in students' daily lives, and I'm obliged to consider the attention devoted to it by alumni, the school's governors--"

"Headmistress, the notion of a Quidditch 'curriculum' is absurd and if you are unable to adopt my view on this matter, then I'm afraid you and the tormented creatures that flabbergasted you so thoroughly must endeavor to enjoy the festivities without me."

Minvera didn't answer, and Severus could barely suppress his smirk--he bent closer to his parchment to concentrate on the proof.

Scritch, went his quill. Blot, went his blotter.

"Och!" cried Minerva. "You insufferable--! Three-quarters then, and I hope you're pleased!"

Severus finished the sentence he was writing, then raised his head. "Quite pleased, thank you," he replied with all due courtesy. "Now, where is this detestable event being held?"

The Morning After

Severus awoke with his eyes sealed closed and a ball of dread already coiled in his stomach, on which he lay. Something was clearly amiss, but having been caught in similar straits before, he refrained from starting up and thrashing about like an eel in a trawl. He focused on breathing evenly and immediately noted the inordinate pounding from within his head, as if small boulders were being rolled to and fro in the space above his eyesockets. This, though, appeared to be the worst of the pain. Severus was comforted. He carefully raised his eyelids--they were sticking--a fraction, to observe what appeared to be a floor strewn with clothing. Another fraction wider, and Severus had verified this fact. The floor was carpeted beige, and it was indeed strewn.

It was not his floor. It was, however, his clothing.

And that--Merlin save him--was a hand slinking over his thigh.

Wholly disoriented by the absence of a wand or other weapon in that hand, Severus let it slink as he rapidly recollected prior events. It was but the work of a moment. In the next, Severus was prepared to commence thrashing like an eel.

"Potter," he said instead. "Remove your hand from my thigh. At once." He'd started out raspy but finished steely-clear, and the response was instantaneous. The slinking hand halted, clutched an unthinkable area beneath Severus' buttock, then was withdrawn with such haste that the mattress springs positively squealed as Potter slipped from the bed and thudded to the floor with a hearty fuck. Unhappily for Severus, Potter had taken the comforter with him.

Severus remained sprawled with his cheek pressed to Potter's wrinkled pillow, his eyes opened to Potter's carpet, and his bare back exposed to Potter's bedroom air. Deliberately, he turned and raised himself onto his elbows. The mattress groaned again, in sympathy with Severus.

"Oh fuck, Professor--" Potter stared across at him, swaddled in the comforter that he'd bunched against his chest. He was standing several feet from the edge of the bed, almost to the wall, looking ready to run despite his disheveled state, his uncorrected vision, and the ungainly clumps of goosedown saddling his hips.

"Yes?" Severus queried coldly when several seconds had passed, with Potter's expression unchanged. Severus was intensely aware of his own unfetteredness, as well as the marked draft from behind him to the left.

"Um," Potter finally said, in a strangled tone. "Hi."

Severus stared back at Potter's anxious face and taut narrow shoulders; then, with none of the speed that Potter had displayed, he shifted his legs to the side of the bed and bent to retrieve his pants. After putting them on, Severus set to work on his shirt and trousers with measured movements, in stark contrast with the previous evening, which he could recall with more than ample clarity.

"I, um," Potter started, when Severus was in the midst of shrugging his waistcoat on. "I'll go make us breakfast."

"It won't be necessary for my sake," Severus snapped. The business of fastening his waistcoat was fortifying; when he was through he accio'ed his robes from where they’d been discarded near the open bedroom door.

"Um, okay," Potter answered. He hadn't moved from where he stood, with his ridiculous hair and his ridiculous comforter. "So--are we--?" Potter hesitated. "Icallyoulater?"

Severus sneered and punched an arm through a sleeve. "Whatever for?"

"To--" Potter responded quickly. Severus glanced over in the midst of buttoning his robes, with the intent of stoppering whatever drivel was sure to leak from Potter's mouth next. "--nothing," Potter finished. "Never mind."

Potter looked defiant, and crushed. Severus decided this was adequate and swept to the bedroom door, refusing to think about whether the boy would follow.

"Good day," he said, passing through it. He strode through the living room to the front hallway and let himself out.

The Morning After The Morning After

Following a sequence of deliberations more improbable than the events that had led him to Potter’s bed, Severus found himself at Potter’s doorstep, noting with displeasure the brass lion’s head that formed the knocker. Someone (presumably Potter) had adorned it with a miniature Santa Claus hat.

He pinched his lips and made forceful use of the knocker. The hat didn’t budge.

After several moments, Severus still could discern no sound from within—it didn’t seem likely that Potter would be out this early on a Sunday (what could he be doing? where could the fool boy be?). Severus tried again, doubly irritated at himself for being compelled to come here (but in vain had he struggled!). Voices and crunching footsteps came from behind him—Severus whirled around. At the far end of the otherwise silent street, Potter was rounding the corner. By his side was Hermione Granger.

With a flick of his wand Severus had Disillusioned himself and leapt away from the door—there was no need for Granger to be privy to the conversation he wished to have with Potter. The pair proceeded up the path, engaged in earnest discussion. They were carrying coffee cups and crinkly paper bags, and as they approached, Severus observed the purple shadows ringing Harry’s eyes. Granger was frowning concernedly.

“It’s only been a day—he’s probably still, hm, out-of-sorts about it as well.” She glanced at Potter. “Are you going to go talk to him?”

“No,” Potter answered vehemently.

“But shouldn’t you tell him—”

“Trust me, I told him plenty the other night!” Potter interrupted fiercely, which, Severus thought, was a fair statement. He watched Potter shut his eyes with a sigh; the defeat in the slump of his shoulders was obvious. “Anyway, he wouldn't care. I should never have—ugh, and now—I can’t figure out how any of this could’ve happened!”

Granger nodded. “Well, I won’t say I wasn’t surprised—I mean, I noticed you sat with him all night at the banquet but I thought it was just because you, er, wanted to talk to him; I had no idea that you’d actually—”

“Okay, can you not say it aloud?” Potter cut in, agitated. He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be such an arse. It’s just—Snape—and then when you told me about—you know, it’s a bit of a shock. Before today, I hadn’t the faintest clue that guys could even get pregnant!”

Severus saw Harry look down at his own abdomen, then look up with a feeble grin. “Hard to believe, huh?” he said to Granger. What she replied, Severus would never know. He Disapparated, taking care not to give away his presence by suppressing the loud crack, and his violent urge to be sick on the spot.

Back in his quarters, Severus regained himself by setting upon the proof he'd been marking when Minerva had interrupted him. A night of passion with Potter was laughable in itself--Severus would've doubted his own memory of it, except the utter degradation of waking in Potter's bed was still fresh, and undeniable. But a child! Potter would have a child? His child! It was impossible--Potter was little more than a child himself! There must be some mistake; surely Severus had misinterpreted...There was a faint snap!; his quill nib had broken. Severus threw the quill across the room with a snarl; it stuck in the carpet, upright, near the closet. He rubbed at his face, closing his eyes as he did so, feeling the sag of the skin beneath his fingertips. He'd been pushing along so admirably, taking up a post as professor emeritus in order to retain his lodgings at the school; he'd begun publishing in journals, not only on potions, but on dark artefacts as well. He interacted sparingly with students, teaching a Potions class only at the Headmistress' special (and rare) request, and he had all of Hogwarts' facilities and laboratories at his disposal. Whilst it was far from an ideal arrangement, Severus found it suitable for his purposes, and thought it highly unlikely that any more favorable circumstances should fall to him. He had therefore planned to pass the remainder of his life in this manner.

And now, there was Potter.

Severus let his hands drop to the parchment; he pushed himself from the chair to fetch the quill, and something to drink. It should not have been unexpected, he thought as he picked up the decanter. Potter had long been an irritant, a hazard, a fouler-up of Severus' plans, both large and small. And yet, Severus had never had the remotest glimmer, the barest inkling, that Potter could--much less would--employ this precise route for disarraying Severus' day-to-day routine. If only the blasted banquet had been an hour shorter, his patience an hour longer; if only his mood had been less sour, and Potter's, less--amusing; if only he had recognized the curious gleam in Potter's smile when the boy had murmured an inebriated I'm bored (though to be fair, Severus wasn't particularly familiar with smiles of such a nature)...

Severus sipped his drink and settled into an armchair in front of the fireplace, to determine, in orderly fashion, the best course of action for confronting Potter about the possibility (false! surely!) of their child.

The Time In Between

Severus entered the Defense class toward the end, without bothering to shut the door quietly behind him. It clanged loudly, interrupting the guest lecturer's rapid speech and stilling his wildly waving wand.

"Can I help you?" Potter asked, a definite frost in his tone.

"I'd like a word," Severus replied, surveying the grubby lot in front of him. They had turned round to stare at Severus. Unsurprisingly, he didn't miss this one whit. "At your earliest convenience."

Potter's jaw tightened visibly. "Right," he replied. "Come back when I'm through in..." he paused to consult the clock. Severus took the opportunity to say, "If you'd be so kind as to see me in my office," before exiting the room.

+++++

Severus was searching his bookshelves for a volume of Prendergast's--damned elf must've misplaced it--when a single sharp knock sounded on his door. He noted the time (it was nearly dinner; Potter's stint at teaching was to have ended hours ago) and opened it with a wave of his hand.

"Mr. Potter," he said, flicking through pages until he found the one he needed. "I'm quite obliged; I had almost given up hope of seeing you at all--you must be terribly busy." He turned to face the door with a sleek smile. It was still ajar, and Potter was standing in front of it in a way that reminded Severus forcibly of the boy's years as a student.

"What do you want?" Potter asked, sounding every bit as mutinous as he had in Severus' classes.

Severus had returned his eyes to the book, apparently scanning the text for the relevant passage. In truth, he was--gathering himself for what promised to be a distinctly awkward exchange. More than a week's worth of ruminations on the subject had done little to accustom Severus to the notion of Potter, pregnant, and by his--er, hand.

"Well?" Potter demanded, shifting. Severus jerked his head up, his features carefully arranged. "I thought perhaps we'd discuss the--affair of last week's banquet. That is, following the banquet," Severus amended. "I understand there may have been certain unintended, and certainly unanticipated, ramifi--"

"You said you didn't want to talk about it," Potter interrupted. His voice was composed, though the effort showed.

"There was nothing to talk about immediately after the fact," Severus pointed out. Potter obviously failed to see the reasonableness of this assertion because his brows knitted thickly and he swallowed.

"What, you needed time to consider other options? Not sure whether I'd be worth the trouble for more than a night?" he asked, his lip crooking in a brittle smile. "You could've firecalled, or owled, if you had something to say--or god forbid, you could've stopped by. It's not as if you don't know where I live."

Severus pursed his mouth; he had, truth be told, gone to Potter's home no less than five times in the eleven days prior, in addition to the visit during which he'd inadvertently learned of the putative pregnancy. On those occasions when he had given indications of his presence (four), Potter had not opened the door. Severus did not bother to correct Potter's misimpression, and did not bother to inquire as to what in blue blazes Potter had been up to on each of those instances.

"Firecalls and owls are absolutely out of the question," Severus said abruptly, contemplating Potter's reaction to media coverage of such an issue. "If the press were to get wind of this--"

"Is that what you're scared of?" Potter broke in with a harsh clipped laugh. "In case you hadn't noticed, Professor," he continued, stressing the last, "I haven't been talking to the press about my private life, and I don't mean to start doing it just because we had a one-off, right?"

Severus flipped his hand up in a curt gesture; Harry jumped as the door slammed shut behind him.

"That must explain why your every move is shrouded in perpetual mystery," Severus said, unable to keep his lip from curling. The boy was a complete imbecile! If he left Potter to his own devices for a single year, what would be the result? More critically, why should he be concerned? The question brought Severus' attention back to the thorny topic at hand. "Sit down," he ordered. He motioned at a chair distractedly, so intent on weighing his next words and judging whether they were fit that he failed to notice the way the chair had shot out toward Potter, or the way Potter had cast it aside with little more than a glare.

"No, thank you,” Potter returned, voice cracking. “You don’t have to worry, right? Your secret’s safe with me. Now I’ve really got to get going.”

Severus had expected Potter to be unreasonable, but he was somewhat taken aback at Potter's vehemence. It was too soon, surely, for symptoms to have manifested…? He made a mental note to himself to consult the authorities on male pregnancy—the library would have appropriate resources. Meanwhile, Potter was spinning about and marching to the door. He wrenched at the handle and jerked, to no avail.

“I’ve had enough, Snape!” he shouted, jutting his chin out furiously over his shoulder.

“Really,” Snape murmured abstractedly. "If I remember, you were of the opposite view when last we spoke." Those reference materials demanded his prompt attention—he seemed to recall that Savoyard’s Guide to All Aspects of Male Gestation was said to be fairly comprehensible to the uninitiated.

There was a sharp bang—Potter was punching through the lock on his front door, eyes crazed, wand out. Severus closed on him angrily.

“How dare you—” he hissed, whipping his own wand out to repair the damage—but Potter was gone, stomping his way down the corridor, peaks of unruly hair wavering in the torchlight.

+++++

Severus was vastly irked. Potter's abbreviated visit had been followed by a conversation with Minerva that was less vitriolic but also five times as long, and no less vexing than the one he had embarked upon, but not finished, with Potter.

"Was that Harry I passed in the stairwell just now?" she'd greeted him. "He seemed to be in a terrible rush. Fairly fleeing." She'd fastened an austere eye on Severus. "You're to blame, no doubt. Truly, Severus, you hardly see him anymore--is meager civility too burdensome a request?"

"When have you known me to be civil?" he'd answered, not bothering to look up from the refreshment he was pouring himself. She sniffed, and Severus raised his glass to her briefly before tipping it to his lips. Her mouth flattened; she marched across his room and helped herself to the decanter.

"You ought to make an effort," she said in her sternest tones. "Else I fear your triviality may begin to show itself." Minerva turned about, looking dry as her drink. Severus merely swirled his glass and dropped into an armchair, to await the inevitable imposition on his good nature. "I've noticed Harry has, at least, overcome his initial prejudice against you rather admirably, given that it wasn't entirely unfounded--unlike your own silly attitude. Even you must see that the boy suffers the attention--"

"I must see no such thing," Severus interrupted, "and I'd be gravely disappointed if you've imposed yourself on me for the pleasure of my company. Unless it was the mediocre liquor you sought?"

Minerva threw him a prune-like look. "Of course not," she replied, easing herself, to Severus' dismay, into the chair across from him. "I have a request." Severus didn't stifle his groan. "After the next fortnight," she continued unperturbed, "Maureen will be unable to continue lessons for those of her students in the fourth year and above for the remainder of the academic year, and unfortunately, the gentleman who had agreed to take over that portion of her duties informed me two days ago of his most regrettable encounter with a nest of African Stinging Ants. It will be some time before he's in a position to open his eyes, much less to teach a class of any kind."

"You ask too much of me," Severus said grumpily. "A fortnight isn't near enough time to prepare for the rest of the year. And with O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. revisions--"

"I'm hopeful that you won't be needed in this capacity for more than a month; two, at the most," Minerva answered, sounding far too decisive for Severus' taste. "I only need a few weeks to turn up other suitable candidates--"

"I'm assuming that you've already pursued whatever options may be more immediately at hand?" Severus snapped, silently cursing the Defense professor for her blatant abrogation of responsibility. "What is the matter with Whitling that she requires such a lengthy leave? She seemed in perfect health the last time I saw her."

"She is indeed in perfect health," Minerva said, finishing her drink in a bold swallow. "The purpose of her leave is to ensure she remains so. As you would recall had you been present for the last staff meeting, which I had strongly advised you to attend, Maureen is expecting a blessed event, and the Dark magic exercises used in the advanced Defense classes could have ill effects on the child. Be assured I only came to you as a last resort--in fact I'd been all but certain that Harry would take it on."

Severus' head shot up as if yanked by a string. "Potter? He refused? Did he say why?"

Minerva looked surprised by Severus' sudden interest in the conversation. "No, he didn't. He was rather apologetic about it--"

"And you did explain the circumstances of Whitling's departure?" Severus asked sharply.

"Yes, I told him it was merely a temporary arrangement," Minerva said, still nonplussed. "Is there something wrong?"

"I'm just astonished that Potter would turn down a woman in need," Severus muttered, glaring back down at his glass. "Particularly one in Professor Whitling's condition. Not exactly the soul of heroism anymore, is he?" He maintained a healthy sneer as dread crawled over his belly like a horrendous steroidal squid. Surely Potter couldn't be--but he wouldn't risk exposure to Dark magic any more than Whitling if he were also--

Minverva's clipped sigh--more a shot of air through her nostrils--brought Severus from his burst of controlled panic. "Had he been able to accept, I'm sure he would've done so a good deal more graciously than you," she said, setting down her glass and rising to her feet.

"He didn't give the faintest indication of exactly why he's unable--"

"No, Severus, he did not and I had no desire to pry!" Minerva cut in impatiently. "Now if you insist on making my life much more difficult than it already is at the moment then perhaps some other of our colleagues might be more accommodating, despite being markedly less qualified than you--"

Severus shook his head. "No need," he muttered, striving to appear as ungracious as possible. There was no point in encouraging this sort of behavior from the woman. "I am, as ever, at your disposal, Headmistress." He creased his face in a mock-smile, to which Minerva responded with an acidic one of her own. But her tone, when she said "Thank you, Professor," was only exasperated, and grateful.

So after a brief supper Severus found himself skulking about the library stacks, more vastly irked than he had expected to be, what with the lesson plans he had to write up and the possibility of parenthood darkening his every thought. He tried to remind himself, as he plucked volumes from the shelves with an abandon that would've had Pince in seizures, that nothing was confirmed. But Severus' instinct, honed by a lifetime of imagining the worst and being right, told him that his years of being shackled to Potter were far from done. In all likelihood there would be a child, and Potter would want to keep it, and there was no chance whatsoever of Severus allowing Potter to rear their child according to his own reckless whims--the very idea had Severus scowling. Why, Potter hadn't even the sense to speak coherently about it to Severus--how on earth could he be expected to shoulder a task of such magnitude, alone? The proposition was ludicrous. Severus dismissed it out of hand.

He pulled a last leathered spine from the shelf of Ds--Baringer's Primer on Wandless Defense (12th Edition, Revised)--and, books stacked high in the crook of one arm, whisked himself grimly towards the shelf of Ps. The materials on male pregnancy wouldn't be extensive there, but Severus thought it prudent to begin at the beginning. An introduction to the essentials would be useful before he plunged headlong into the intricacies of manwombs and prenatal care. He spied the correct aisle and strode through the shelves--and was startled to a halt by the sound of soft voices from several yards ahead.

"What about this one?" It was Potter. As always. "It's got color pictures. See here, it doesn't look too bad."

Severus ducked and stretched to see past the ridges of books; his pulse was inexplicably brisk. He stepped quickly to one end where the less-imposing volumes were kept, affording him a partially-obscured view of the speakers. Ronald Weasley's face was a portrait of disgust.

"Sorry, but that looks like a bloke crapping out a baby. That's sick."

"Ron," came a decidedly warning tone. Ah, Granger, censorious as usual. "Don't be like that."

"He's not crapping it out," Potter continued, pushing the book across to Weasley. "See, the baby emerges from a special opening that--"

"Ugh, don't say 'opening'!" Weasley hissed. "And put that away, it's bloody awful." Severus couldn't see Potter's face, but the book was drawn back hastily.

"Sorry," Potter said. "Look, here's a list of stuff to do before the baby really starts to, er, show..." The tentative undertone had Severus momentarily clenching the books in his arm. "So stomach exercises, that makes sense, flushing draughts of lovage and heartsease, those shouldn't be hard to find..."

"Can I see?" Granger asked, leaning across the table. Potter turned the book about. Severus suspected it was the very same he had intended to examine--particularly now that it was clear. Potter was with child. Their child. He was dimly aware that his fingers had gone cold. He reminded himself that the revelation could've been far ghastlier than this--at least he'd had a chance to become acquainted with the idea. Now he could arrange the binding ceremony with a minimum of fuss, and more significantly, avoid keeling over during the recitation of oaths that would secure him to Potter--and Potter to him. Severus steeled himslf against an abrupt moment of dizziness.

"Hmm...it says the draughts and other supplements are best when prepared fresh," Granger was saying. "You're supposed to make them yourself." She looked at Potter expectantly, who reached for the volume.

"Oh, okay," he replied, bending over the page. "Well, I guess I can do that. Are they hard?"

Severus bristled; he noted Granger's dubious glance toward Weasley. "Actually," she began slowly, "I was thinking that it might be a better idea if you asked Professor Snape to help..."

Severus' brow arched of its own accord. Potter's back stiffened. "Hermione," he said, almost too low for Severus to hear. "I told you, he doesn't--I made a mistake, okay? I'm not about to throw myself in his path every chance I get--"

"I know, but think of the baby--"

"Snape isn't the only potions maker in the world," Potter retorted. "I'm sure there are plenty of them out there; I'm sure I can even find one that makes house calls, so no worries, right? I'll get someone good. And it says you don't even need to start taking them right away--"

"No, but it might be better," Granger said firmly. "Pregnancy isn't an easy thing, Harry, if you can't already tell." She stared resolutely at Potter.

"All right, you're right," he sighed, looking back at both of them. "I'll go ask someone at St. Mungo's--they'll know the real experts." He slid from his chair, then paused, pushing his chair back in. "I'm glad you guys are here," he said, a tinge of contrition in his voice. "And I'll get the best draughts money can buy, okay?" He went round the table to embrace his friends. Severus saw his faint smile; he thought the boy looked fatigued. "See you later," Potter said, and headed down the center aisle. With a pass of his wand, Severus concealed himself and his Defense books, and set off after him.

+++++

"Potter," he called, striding around assorted students as they neared the main hall. Potter was headed toward a Floo. He turned, his form becoming guarded the instant he caught sight of Severus. "I must speak with you before you go." He advanced on Potter with great purpose, so as to scatter the nearby onlookers.

"You already did," Potter answered rigidly without changing expression.

Severus lifted a brow. "Hardly. I recall exchanging pleasantries; then you blasted a hole through my door and scampered off--"

"So that's what that was," Potter laughed without humor. "Pleasantries. Strange, all I remember is you telling me I'm an idiot, which I suppose I ought to be used to by now, and then me deciding I didn't have to take that sort of thing from you anymore. And I still don't." He turned back to the Floo. On reflex, Severus snatched at his arm, and caught it.

"It is imperative that we speak," he said lowly, cognizant of the inquisitive eyes that were being trained on them from all sides. "In private." He cast a meaningful glance at the boy's stomach--tried to picture it distended, carrying their child--then returned his gaze to Potter's face. Potter was looking back at him, mouth pale with loathing.

"So that's what you want," he half-whispered. Severus blinked--the boy appeared truly anguished. "You think because I--" Harry pressed his mouth shut and his eyes were bright, as if he were accusing Severus of--of what? The boy was thinking of that night, Severus knew; and the things he'd said that night. "It doesn't mean I'll just come when you call," he finished. The side of his mouth twitched up in a misfit of a sneer. "In fact I'd really rather not see you again, so you'll have to find yourself another fuck. And stay away from the kids." He jerked free of Severus' grasp, which had slackened, out of disquiet, to nearly nothing.

"Potter," Severus growled, reacting when Harry's sleeve slipped from his hand. "As usual, you haven't the slightest idea of what you're talking about!" Severus couldn't help but raise his voice, though he had no intention of announcing his excessively private feelings on the subject to the fifth- and sixth-years in audience. "I insist that you--Harry!"

But the ridiculous creature had dashed the powder into the grate and jumped in with both feet, leaving Severus glaring at the fireplace and resolving to learn, immediately, whether Floo trips posed any risk for father or child.

+++++

"Good day," Pomona Sprout said, somewhat breathlessly, from behind the spiky red-leafed limbs she was pruning. "I don't often see you roundabout here these days; I fancy owl order has kept you well-stocked?" She smiled, though she kept her eyes on the plant. Severus wasn't certain how something so potted could appear so ominous--but he left the incredulity out of his voice as he nodded in return. "Yes, more or less. Of course, with regard to the quality of certain more commonplace items, your greenhouses have no compare in the catalogues." At this, Pomona did raise her eyes. The plant sensed its chance and swiped at her; she foiled it with a lightning-quick snip of the shears and grinned.

"Only because mine are within walking distance, eh?" she said, cutting off a retailiatory shoot.

"Just so. Therefore, I have a request," Severus replied, disproportionately pleased at being able to say this, despite the fact that he wasn't addressing Minerva. "I'd like to take a few clippings--nothing exotic, only of garden-variety plants." He indicated the small basket hanging from his left hand.

"Be my guest," Pomona said, jabbing at another rebellious set of spikes. "What will you be gathering?"

"Oh, a few herbs and the like. Good day." Severus moved off in the direction of the lovage.

He had considered, over the course of the previous night, sending Potter an owl, to rectify the fool's misapprehensions, because it seemed his intentions vis-a-vis a binding ceremony might require some introduction (despite the fact that such a ceremony was the logical thing to do). He had gone so far as to sit at his desk, shove aside a half-formed lesson plan, and drip a quill over parchment. Then he'd regained the slice of sanity that 4 a.m. tended to strip from a man and put the quill down, because a letter would be fruitless. The boy had been angry; he would incinerate it unopened, or disbelieve what he'd read. Severus had sat, frowning; then he'd gotten dressed, warmly, before leaving school grounds. He'd Disapparated to Sydney, where the bookshops were open and full of excellent materials on male pregnancy, as well as nettlesome shopgirls who took egregious delight in congratulating him (entirely unsolicited!) at every turn.

He stepped around the masses of lovage spreading thickly green to his shoulder, looking closely at the yellow flowers, the stalks, the saw-edged leaves, before selecting a section for his basket. He could sense the tiredness behind his eyes--one didn't perform transcontinental Disapparation on a lark--but now he was in a position to brew the draughts for Harry, which would be unquantifiably superior to whatever rubbish the boy might purchase. Severus walked to the other side of the lovage bed, inspecting the plants quickly and carefully. Fortunately, this one wouldn't take long to brew; he expected to have it decanted and delivered before noon.

Severus finished collecting his ingredients and began winding his way around the wild tentaculas to return to the castle.

"That wasn't much at all!" Pomona said cheerily, popping up from a thick trunk of tentacula, a bucket of soil in one arm. "You're welcome to more." She eyed his basket and immediately Severus wished he'd thought to cover the contents. "Why, you've only got a few bundles of heartsease, masterwort...hmm, lovage--and is that tansy...?" She trailed off and raised a questioning eye, heavy with the sort of question Severus most decidedly wouldn't answer.

"The Headmistress has asked me, at short notice, to take on some classes," he said. He offered a curt nod and swept past, leaving her to her own conclusions.

+++++

Severus hadn't settled on a particular response to expect from Harry; rather, he'd envisioned a number of reactions. Harry might send it back; he might pretend confusion and scribble some nonsensical demand for explanation. He mightn't reply to the owl at all, in which case Severus planned to continue sending the draughts, and all other necessities within his power to provide, until the deuced child was born. Certainly gratitude was too much to be hoped for. In any event, Severus was in a fine mood--exhausted from producing the potion, deeply concerned by the shape of things to come, aggravated at the way his mind's eye was fixed on the sad twist of Harry's mouth the last time they'd spoken--and to add yet another layer of grief, he was exorbitantly behind on lesson planning. Thus, he was ill-prepared for it when there came a knock on his door, which he abstained from answering, and it was followed by the sound of his wards being forcefully pried apart.

He leapt to the door and flung it wide, wand ready.

"What is this?" Potter marched in, thrusting the flask at Severus. "Were you spying on me?"

"You could've seriously injured yourself by tampering with those wards," Severus returned, barely able to speak for his anger, "not to mention the--"

"How long were you there?" Potter practically shouted. His whole body shook. "Why are you doing this? Is it that amusing to you, saying you want to talk but then only to laugh at me, following me around so I can't fucking get you out of my mind, sending me this shit to tell me you've been watching? Is it supposed to be payback for when I was a kid? Or is it some kind of bizarre power trip?"

Severus, at a loss, remained still where he stood. Keeping silent was typically a wise course of action in such circumstances, and also the easiest.

"I don't know what you're playing at," Harry heaved, after Severus had allowed the pause to continue unbroken, "but it's a poor game and I think you're a fucking sadistic bastard who--if you would just stop--" He faltered and paused; looked away and took a breath and when he began again he was strained but not shouting. "I know you wish nothing had happened with us but I can't go back and change it so if you could leave me alone, that would be--I think it'd be best."

Severus had located a strand of coherence by this time and was able to reply, with perfect dignity, "I disagree. Come in."

Harry's gaze had darted up and he seemed ready to jump back from the door, but Severus was determined to have this conversation no matter how difficult or discomfitting he found it. He touched the boy's hand, which remained clenched around the bottle. "Please come in," he said, entreating.

Harry's look was troubled, distrustful as he hesitated in the doorway. His face worked for an instant; Severus perceived it to be a critical juncture and withdrew into the room, gesturing at the chairs by the fireplace as he did so. "If you would care to sit down...?" he said, going to his little shelf of liquors, for the safety of habit. The glass clinked gently as he removed the stopper. "Can I offer you a--no, of course not," he muttered under his breath, scowling at his own scattered state. "What am I doing?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Potter said behind him, which both unnerved Severus and relieved him. He replaced the stopper and picked up his drink unhurriedly, composing himself. Then he turned around. Potter had shut the door and was waiting, spine defensive, beside a chair. Severus looked at him steadily and took a slow sip. His thoughts flew, for an instant, down a thousand different paths, searching for the single best path to ease Potter's distress, and his own. They all ended in catastrophe. Severus forced himself to speak.

"Were you sincere in your expressions, the night we spent together?" he asked bluntly. Harry's eyes rounded; his skin pinked, his throat swallowed and he sucked in sharply and exhaled, and furrowed his forehead as if gathering strength to refute. Severus' stomach fell.

"Yes," Harry ground out. "You know I was."

"If I knew," Severus responded automatically, "I wouldn't have asked."

Harry's jaw flexed. "I thought there was more to you, that if I could just--" He gave Severus that distorted sneer again. "I should've known the cruelty wasn't an act even if most everything else turned out to be--I guess I really am a dunce, aren't I?" His features shifted unhappily. Severus felt his pulse rise.

"You regret it then," he murmured, holding his glass with whitened fingertips. "It's a critical point, so you'll forgive my inquiring, but if such is not the case, I had a proposal in mind," he continued, speaking softly, swiftly, because he had no wish to hear the boy's interjections. "You'll need care," he said. "I offer it. You'll need assistance; I offer it. You'll need companionship, affection--I offer these, and more. Some things should not be done alone, and in this regard, I ask you to consider a long-term arrangement; permanent, in fact. A binding. Between us."

Severus stopped. The glass in his hand was very near shattering. Harry's mouth had parted; he appeared confounded. "What?"

Severus' anxiety, extravagant, took the form of impatience. "It's a plain enough suggestion! A ritual binding, to formalize union and commitment! You're familiar with the concept, are you not, of sharing a home and the mundane affairs of life such as children with another? Or do you really intend to go on by yourself?"

Harry's frown deepened. "Wha--well, yes, I mean no, not forever but I do have friends, in fact Ron and Hermione are--and I--are you kidding?"

Severus smiled bitterly, turning away to surrender his drink to a shelf--the glass would not bear up. "I take it, then, that such an arrangement has not once crossed your mind, " he said. He commended himself on his unflinching tone. "I'm compelled to remind you that I protected and tended to you from the earliest days, and if it's in my nature to antagonize then it was all for the good. On that score you surely agree, in light of all the relevant circumstances." He fixed his eye on the line of his drink, curving slight and yellow against the clear facets. "But this is a momentous decision; perhaps you aren't so dunderheaded in these affairs as you can be elsewhere. Binding yourself to me--doubtless you'd be questioning your sanity not five minutes after. There must be legions of others who could fulfil the role in a more appropriate manner." This last was a lie; Severus was absolutely certain of it.

Harry merely blinked and gaped, as if stunned. After a few moments, Severus was obliged to say, dryly, "It's customary to give a sign of whether the proposal has met with favor, requires further thought, or must be declined."

The silence that ensued was almost unendurable. It became truly so when Harry finally replied. "I--you can't be serious," he said, stammering. "It's--I can't believe you. Are you serious? It's--I couldn't do that." He paused as if stupefied. "Bind? I couldn't. I mean, you don't even like me."

It was lost, then. Harry. The child. Perseverance Severus possessed in shovels and spades, but--not for this. The compression in his chest was distinguishable as the peculiar brand of sorrow he'd encountered once and had hoped, devoutly, never to feel again. Severus stared at the fireplace mantel and passed a grimace for a smile. "Like has nothing to do with it," he said. It was of no significance. He was well-versed in futility, falling short of the mark. At least this occasion was free of bloodshed or fatality. Severus reached for his drink and tossed back what was left. "However. I quite understand your choice. If you would be so good as to show yourself out." He moved to the decanter without looking up.

Harry's steps were maddeningly faint behind him, and Severus nearly mispoured his second drink when Harry spoke up from not a foot away.

"So--so you were in the library when I was talking to Ron and Hermione about--you know--and, um, you made this for me?" The flask floated into Severus' peripheral view, held up by an uncertain hand. Severus glanced at it and resumed readying his beverage. He had already decided to consume the full contents of the decanter.

"Was it," Harry said slowly, still hovering so damnably near, "was it because you thought I'd say yes? I mean, to your, er. Proposal?"

There was an airy numbness in Severus' head. He took a large mouthful of alcohol, to enhance it. "I realize you think me the most callous of men," he said roughly, "but I would've brewed that for you no matter your answer. The child's health requires it."

"Oh," Harry mumbled. The flask dipped from Severus' sight. "That's really. Um. Thank you."

Severus took another hefty swallow and continued to stare straight ahead at the mantel. He wondered how long this would last--he could, at some point, redirect his gaze to the grate, but eventually he would need to sit down. Or topple over. He didn't have a strong preference as to which.

"So, uh, if, say, I needed more of this stuff--"

"It's a flushing draught of lovage, Potter, get it right," Severus monotoned reflexively.

"--sorry, right, if I needed more flushing draught, you know, for the baby, then would it be okay if I came by here and--"

"I'll owl it to you directly," Severus said, tilting his glass again.

"Okay but really, I can come here to get it--"

"Don't trouble yourself."

"--and of course I'll pay for the cost of the--"

Severus set down his empty glass with a solid thunk. "Would you rob me of the smallest opportunity to provide for the child?" The rapid intake of drink must've bolstered him because he swiveled to glare at Harry in the face. "Do you imagine me to be completely unconcerned?"

Harry's mouth was open in shock. "I--well at first I didn't even know you knew, but yeah, I am kind of surprised that you'd be--"

"Taking an interest in my own child?" Severus was now unquestionably incensed. He could feel the blood rushing to his lungs, the air filling his throat and by god it was good because the fury would enable him to articulate without effort. "I may not be the dauntless champion of all good in this world but I--"

"Wait." Harry's eyes had gone enormous. "Your child?" He bit down on his lip with an indescribable expression, and the truth split through Severus like a dull-ended club. It wasn't his child. Potter had--but of course Potter had gone about with some other man--other men, in all probability, scads of them--Potter had gone and got himself in this way with one of them and the other party responsible had left Potter in the lurch, for Severus would've noticed it on the front page, most definitely, if Potter and this person were cheerfully anticipating the new arrival together. Unless Potter was shielding the man from the media?

"Who is he?" Severus demanded, the sounds grating painfully on his ear. Potter had been lying, out and out lying, when he'd said a few moments ago that his declarations were geniune--and Severus, riddled with his own accursed self-doubt, had been too preoccupied to see it. "Who's the father?" Severus barked. Whoever he was, Severus had already decided to kill him. He would polish off the rest of the decanter, then kill him.

Potter was looking confused and not inclined to answer, which was utterly unacceptable to Severus. He gripped the boy's shoulders and would've shaken teeth loose but for the necessity of handling him with care. "Who is the father?" Severus roared.

"What?" Potter gasped, pushing the flats of his hands against Severus' chest as if he could somehow wrench himself free, which he couldn't. "What are you talking--"

"Quiet!" Severus shouted. "Whose child are you carrying?"

Harry's wide eyes widened. "No one's!" he choked. "Ron's pregnant and Hermione's the mum!"

Severus reeled.

"I thought you knew!" Harry rushed on. "Weren't you listening to all that stuff about the baby? Didn't you hear Ron and Hermione talking? They were going on and on about breastfeeding and milk pumping and how men still can't do that so the whole process afterwards is a lot faster and there's less risk of infection and things going pear-shaped in--places--" He gulped in a great breath. "Were you not there for that?"

Severus' silence condemned him; the next second Harry's eyebrow was crooking in a most unflattering fashion. "So...this whole time you've been thinking that, what?" Harry asked, with Severus' grip sunk into place at his shoulderblades. "That I was pregnant? And--oh my god. Oh my god! You thought you'd--that we were--"

Severus couldn't move a muscle as Harry fell against him laughing, laughing as no untidy-haired, bespectacled, perfectly preposterous urchin ought ever to laugh.

The End (or, The Beginning of the Rest of Their Lives)

"It was only one time," Harry said. He sat in the chair across from Severus', and his eyes were downcast as he fiddled with his wand, poking it into the frayed hem of a sleeve. Severus caught the reminiscent smirk that played across his face. "Did you really think it could've happened with just the one time?"

Severus had tried to throw him out, of course, but in vain. His unmitigated mortification probably had something to do with it--it dampened his authority. "How richly you've been blessed with the folly of youth," he said in a grandly sour tone. "Just how many times do you suppose it requires?"

Harry's smirk, still aimed at his sleeve, lit into a bona fide smile. "I read in one of those books that it usually takes a year. Of, you know. Concerted efforts."

"It depends greatly on the specific individuals involved," Severus pointed out, "and their particular environments, their magical resonances, the compatibility of their magic, their desire to conceive...it's a complex variety of factors, Potter, it's not merely a matter of concerted efforts." He shut his mouth and stared moodily into the fireplace. How could he have been so thoroughly mistaken? He'd been poised to bind himself in a way he'd never before done; his conviction to do so had been unshakeable.

"That's how long it took them," Potter said mildly, toying with his cuff. "I had no idea they were doing it--well, I knew they were, er--they're married, so, yeah, but I mean I didn't know they were trying. Much less that Ron was the one who'd get. Um. Pregnant." He laughed to himself, shaking his head. "I thought they were joking when they first told me. When I realized they weren't, I almost passed out--I was that surprised."

Severus' features took on a dour dimension. That must've been the day he'd overheard them, Granger and Potter, from the front steps of Potter's house.

"But I don't think anyone could've been shocked as you," Potter went on. "If you could've seen your face! You had this look of--I can't explain it. It was beyond horror." Harry chuckled, and this time Severus permitted the sound to draw his gaze. The boy seemed intent on dismantling his sleeve; if he'd noticed Severus looking over, he didn't let on. The laughter faded into a soft smile, and then into another expression entirely. Severus thought it might be wistful.

"What in Merlin's name could possess Weasley to do such a thing," he snapped, to re-cast the curve of Harry's mouth. "It was Granger's idea?"

Harry's lips lifted, to Severus' liking. "It's Granger-Weasley," he informed Severus, still studying his hem, "and I don't think so. I know she was nervous about what it'd be like...I can't say I blame her. I think she was probably a little--not scared, exactly, but. Anyway, Ron said he'd do it." He shrugged a shoulder; the edges of his teeth glinted as he gave another brief smile. "He'd do anything for her, though. He really loves her."

Severus' sharp eye raked from Harry's averted face to his unremarkable fingers, worrying at what remained of the hem. Harry tore off a dangling string.

"I'd say his bravado got the best of him," Severus snorted. The fingers paused in tattered fabric as Harry finally tilted his head up, and the movement had Severus doing the same.

"Maybe," Harry grinned at him. He opened his mouth as if about to continue, then shook his head and closed it.

"What?" Severus said.

"Nothing," the boy answered, clearly trying not to smile.

"What?" Severus insisted.

Harry glanced sidelong back, then said, "It's just--for a second back there when you were ranting about your child--I had a sudden awful thought that it really was yours and that you and Ron had somehow--"

"Mr. Potter," Severus cut in scathingly, "I do not rant and your insinuation is too hideous to contemplate, much less to speak aloud."

This had Harry laughing again, which satisfied Severus rather well. "Yeah, I think you're right," Harry said. "Plus, I would've been horribly sad and jealous," he added in an overtly jesting manner.

"And yet you refused me without exception," Severus returned in similar vein.

His intent must've been unclear (damn his stoic self!) because Harry was flushing, turning away and jabbing hard at his sleeve. "Well I--that was really unexpected when you came out with that, I mean I had no idea that you'd been thinking of--although it makes a lot more sense now," Harry mumbled, bobbing his head as he reasoned, "if you'd thought that I was, um, having your baby." His face scrunched abruptly. "Okay, that sounds WAY weird--I'm not saying it again."

"Mind you don't," Severus put in, concurring whole-heartedly. An uncomfortable silence ensued.

"I believe I'll take advantage of your winsome nature," Severus began, "and satisfy myself as to one small point." Potter met his glance for a moment with a small smile, as if to acknowledge some sarcasm that wasn't there. Severus tasked himself with instilling rudimentary Legilimency in the boy at the earliest opportunity, then sallied forth with his question.

"Why didn't the offer merit consideration?" He kept his tone neutral--it was a perfectly legitimate query--though he found his gaze reverting to the fire. "Assuming that, consummate liar though you are"--that was facetiousness, Severus couldn't refrain--"you were being forthright as to certain...sentiments."

Harry adjusted his seat on the chair, and started plucking--to Severus' vague consternation--at his other sleeve. He was biting his lip.

"Yeah," he said slowly, with an equally slow nod. "Well. I could tell you were just being--I don't know. Nice." His mouth curved for an instant at the obvious humor, then he shrugged. "You were doing the honorable thing."

Severus grunted disbelievingly. "Making an honest man of you? Really. First, I've never done anything for the sake of honor, as it is a figment of some resourceful imagination, designed to exploit the hopelessly misguided, and second, you weren't aware of my"--he pursed his lips--"misunderstanding until after the suggestion had been made and rejected. Once more, Potter, and it should be truthful--or at the very minimum, plausible."

His challenge seemed to have rattled the boy, for Harry's shoulders tensed; he squashed himself into the chair as far from Severus as he could be. "I already told you," Harry answered, reluctance in every line of his figure. "It wouldn't be--fair. I wouldn't want you to--" He shook his head. "It wouldn't have worked."

"Ah," Severus murmured, sliding his eyes up to the boy's face, which revealed everything. "You were doing the honorable thing. That's plausible indeed." He let his gaze rest upon the boy, taking in the unkempt hair, the rumpled collar, the forlorn chin, the angled-away glasses. A strange and lovely sphere of laughter began swelling gently in his chest. "Idiotic, and entirely plausible."

"Right," Harry muttered, tearing a bit of lining from his sleeve and thumbing it to the floor. "Absolutely." He pushed himself from the chair and stumbled in the general direction of the door. "So now that that's settled, I should go home and be idiotic on my own time instead of wasting yours. Glad I could clear things--"

On the strength of his long stride, Severus cut short Harry's mumblings by blocking the way out.

"Of your diverse and inconceivable failings," Severus baldly stated, staring down, "your credulity takes the prize for most appalling. I can confidently say I have never seen its equal."

Harry had been startled off-balance, but he regained his footing quickly and made to sidestep Severus. "Narrowed it down to just one, did you?" He smiled as though his heart was breaking. "I didn't think that--"

Severus's hand darted out and caught the boy's wrist, which felt small through the sleeve. "Do you actually believe I would suggest binding with someone whom I don't even like?"

Harry didn't move; his eyes were large, almost fearful, Severus saw, when he stepped around to look into Harry's face. He hadn't released the boy's wrist and now he placed his other palm (carefully, lest his fingers be seen trembling) at Harry's neck. It was very warm. Severus' expression remained painstakingly calm.

"Do you?" Severus asked.

Harry didn't--couldn't--seem to reply as he looked up at Severus, in utter disconsolation. When Severus couldn't bear it an instant longer he slid his thumb to Harry's jaw and stroked across the skin. It brought Harry around him, his cheek to Severus' shoulder and his hair to Severus' ear. Severus felt the distinct points of fingertips dig into his back; he felt the press of Harry's rapid heart against him and he knew his own, pressed to Harry, must resolve all the boy's doubt.

"Severus," the boy said, muffled by Severus' shoulder. It made Severus jump a little--he wasn't used to that. "Yes?" he answered, when he had recollected himself. He adjusted his head so the unruly hair nestled his cheek.

"I thought you hated me."

Severus slipped his free arm around Harry. "Indeed I did," he replied. He gently touched Harry's jaw where it lay on his shoulder, so to raise the boy's face, so to kiss the boy's mouth.

Semantics

dracofiend@gmail.com — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 21:48:37 GMT

Title: Semantics
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: H/D
Rating: G
Genre: Infidelity
Summary: You might say Harry isn't unfaithful. You might say he is.

It's not a night, not a date, not a hurried non-breakfast in the abrupt hours of the morning or a casual cup of coffee on a dozy workday afternoon. It's not even a kiss.

What it is, though, is a look. A lot of looks. A touch. A blurry line; more a stripe, a patch, a--an area, a gray, a heavily gray area that Harry doesn't cross but perhaps, if one is arguing semantics, is in the midst of crossing when he mistakenly opens a door that should've been locked, that would've been locked if the latch had been working in the creaking sagging thing that is Mortimer's aunt's home. She lives near Barley, where the day-long race ends, where Harry should not have stayed. Harry should not have come. But Mortimer offered, and Mortimer is his boss, and the race is set to start at a god-forsakenly early hour. It's for charity, for a very good cause. An excellent cause, Draco said, placing the flyer in Harry's in-box without looking up. I'm going. Then he looked up.

Harry had decided that he would run the race. He'd mentioned it to his partner later that night, while climbing into bed. That's a long way to go on nothing but your feet, his partner had said. Good on you. They'd kissed good night and pulled up the covers. Beneath the comforter their hands touched, and his partner was the one to fall asleep first.

On the big day the sky is nothing short of foreboding but nothing happens, no rain. Reaching the finish line is incomparably exhausting; stepping beyond it, slowing his aching thighs to a walk, is even more incomparably so. But the race is good. The cheering at the end is good, the ice-cold, unlimited PowerJuice is good. All of it is good, until Harry thinks the water's been off a while and he creaks down the wooden floor in Mortimer's aunt's house and knocks on the shower door and doesn't get an answer. In all honesty his only thinking in the moments before he opens the door is about how damned tired he is of smelling himself and how brilliant it'll feel to get into the shower. He opens the door and Draco is there.

I'm sorry, Harry blurts, I didn't know--

It's all right, Draco says quickly, I was--

I knocked, Harry asserts, but--

I didn't hear, Draco claims.

I'll go, Harry says.

No, don't, Draco answers. It's all yours. His gesture is slight and vague.

He's not wearing a shirt yet, which Harry could plainly see but which he only notices when Draco steps near. Suddenly Harry is sixteen again, watching numbly, heart beating, terrified, as Draco bleeds and bleeds from a thousand fine lines crossing criss crossing criss crossing his chest. Harry raises a hand to stop it, stop the flow of the blood, stop the flow of himself to the flow the blood--

What? Draco murmurs, a faint twist to his smile.

Harry's hand falls, landing lightly on the skin. It is whole, and it rises under his fingertips. Draco exhales then, deeply, leaving Harry's palm alone in the air.

Harry thinks of staying still for Draco's next inhale; if he does their skin would touch again, and then their mouths would touch. And then their hands would touch.

Hey, Draco says softly, his chest bumping Harry's hand, which Harry drops at once with an apologetic, I smell. Draco's clear eyes widen; he copies Harry and steps back.

You do, he agrees, with a single laugh.

I should probably shower, Harry says, feeling the thread of his pulse and the space between each blink and the desperate dryness of his throat despite the steam in the room. None of this is allowed, none of it, none but the tenets of want won't bend to his will, unlike his limbs or his neck as he nods and moves past Draco. From the edge of his eye he sees Draco pick up his toiletry kit and his towel.

See you downstairs, Draco says, slipping through the door. Harry bites his tongue. He turns on the water and tries not to think of Draco's most familiar smile, sad and tilted sideways with a certain quiet recognition. He gets into the stall, jerks the curtain shut, and when he's done showering he sends an owl home, to say he'll be back in time for dinner after all.

Renaissance

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 06:41:16 GMT

Title: Renaissance
Rating: PG
Pairing: HP/SS
Summary: Romance. A few words, to revive a long love.
A/N: For dementordelta’s birthday! *puts on party hat* Have tons of fun at that ren faire and watch some jousting for me! ♥

Familiarity, Harry thought as he pulled the towel from its rung, doesn’t really breed contempt. He pushed it against his dripping chest, over his arms, his waist, his legs. It was more like discontent, but not quite, because he knew he really had nothing at all to complain about. He stepped out of the shower, onto the matted rectangle of rug, and began toweling his hair. Familiarity breeds a vague suggestion of guilt-inducing, unjustified discontent. It didn’t have much of a ring to it, he supposed.

“I’m through,” he called out, so as to be heard in the bedroom. “Your turn—and hurry up because we’re going to be late.” He finished drying himself and re-hung the towel, then moved to the sink and put his glasses on. The lenses were fogged over; when he’d cleared them, Severus was still nowhere to be seen.

“Come on! Severus!”

He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling distinctly cross. Mornings. He bent forward, tilting up his jaw, and considered going a third day without shaving. Severus hated it when those hairs were left unchecked—but then Severus wasn’t being especially cooperative at the moment. Harry turned his face from one side to the other, then dropped his chin. He slid his toothbrush from its place next to Severus’, loaded it with toothpaste, and foamed up his mouth, studying the lines under his eyes that appeared more prominent each day. The ravages of time, Harry thought as he brushed. Time with Severus. He cleared his mouth into the sink, changing his mind. No, just time. He rinsed his teeth, his toothbrush, his face once again, pressing it dry on a hand towel. When he raised his head, he was still alone in the bathroom.

Harry’s feet slapped softly against the soothing tile; they padded silently across short carpeting, carrying him to the edge of the bed and to the great lump that breathed gently in and out. “Severus,” he said, looking down at the lump, the wrinkly sheets, the gray-black tangles spread over a double thickness of pillows. Severus always co-opted Harry’s in the mornings; he never left bed until the latest possible moment. Harry had spoken his name quietly, but by now he was irrevocably put out. He remembered a time, perhaps years ago, when the man would’ve leapt from cozy slumber directly into a pit of fire and crocodiles at the merest word from him. Harry prodded, once, at the center of the lump. Those days were apparently long gone.

He waited a few more moments; the wrinkly sheets rustled and the black-gray hair slid some ways down the pillow, but no further progress appeared forthcoming. Harry padded to the dresser, to put on boxers. He padded to the closet, to put on a shirt.

The gushing of the tap startled him; Harry yanked the shirt down over his damp hair, upsetting his glasses. He fixed them on his nose and looked over to see Severus, standing at the sink, toothbrush in hand, staring bleary-eyed at his naturally cantankerous reflection. Harry put on his trousers and listened to Severus brushing his teeth, turning on the shower.

He’d finally located his Ministry authentication badge in the pocket of a pair of trousers on the floor and was just putting on his robes when he heard Severus step into the closet, behind him.

“Harry,” he said.

“What,” Harry mumbled, frowning as he concentrated on the fiddly clasps down his front. He hated these clasps with an irrational passion.

“You,” Severus said in his careful, measured tone, “are the love of all my yesterdays and tomorrows.”

Harry’s tired fingers paused; a hook slipped from where it was half-jammed into its eye.

“If you had a jot of common sense you would’ve learned by now,” Severus told him. Firm hands grasped his shoulders and turned him lightly around. The damp ends of Severus’ hair were pitchdark and clean-scented; they leaked droplets of water onto his lax sallow skin as he did up Harry’s clasps with much-practiced ease. “It’s not possible to fasten those robes yourself.” He smoothed Harry’s collar and bent his face near.

“You should shave,” he said, so that their cheeks brushed roughly. Severus kissed Harry’s neck, bumping his nose into Harry’s ear, which made Harry smile because it never failed to tickle, just a bit. Then he drew upright and moved aside to put on clothes. Harry watched Severus step into faded underwear, balancing on one foot, then the other, and it occurred to him, anew, that familiarity breeds familiarity—and there was nothing better in the whole world than that.

A meme! A meme!

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 02:44:41 GMT

Ta da. This may be like, the second meme I've ever done. :D By the kind courtesy of frances_veritas. *loves*

1. There are 30 questions.
2. Next to each number, write only the name of the person who fits.
3. Answer one question with one name.
4. Don't tell the questions to anyone who isn't doing the meme.

Clearly I took some slight liberties with rule 2, but they're very slight, hardly noticeable, really! :)
1. dacro
2. daisakura
3. who_la_hoop
4. nqdonne
5. mijan
6. the_con_cept
7. fitofpique
8. moonlitdark
9. megyal
10. scrtkpr
11. japanpeterpan
12. icykins
13. dementordelta
14. tracy_loo_who
15. chaeche (latex snape ftw!)
16. geoviki
17. autumnlecroix
18. tray_la_la
19. aliciamasters
20. piratesmile331
21. sinick
22. mordyn4
23. No one I know in fandom! :D
24. djin7 :D in a good way!
25. purplefluffycat
26. petness
27. snapetoy
28. ziasudra
29. perverse_idyll
30. When in doubt, deny! Deny deny deny!

Morning After

dracofiend@gmail.com — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 21:01:16 GMT

Title: Morning After
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: H/D
Genre: Romance
Summary: Truth is a curse. Draco suffers.
A/N: For rurounihime. I promised this little ficlet to you long, long ago; I hope it fits! ♥

I have to leave, is what Malfoy says the instant Harry's eyes open, in crusty wonderment at being cramped all night on the far edge of his bed because someone else--Draco--had taken up the rest. Malfoy is rumpled, frowning, jerking on clothes like he's late for a train and Harry hasn't even had a chance to clear his throat or sit up. Fuck, Malfoy mutters. Fuckity fuck. There's a problem with a clasp or a zipper or a button; Harry can't tell. He pushes himself up and gets his glasses on.

Morning, sunshine, he says with blatant cheer, in a fuzzy attempt to cover the slow-moving awkwardness sinking into his limbs. Malfoy's clothing rustles loudly; he makes a frustrated growl. Harry tries a laugh, trying to brazen it out. Not turning into some weird daytime werewolf, are you? he asks, sliding over the rucked-up sheets to where the narrow shoulders are hunched. At his touch (so light), Malfoy turns sharply, his jaw cutting the air, and Harry stops immediately.

It's nothing, really--except Malfoy had told him (he'd been unsure when Harry had asked, last night, but he'd nodded, looking away)--and Harry thought this was it, the triumphant beginning of the rest of their lives. There'd been so many fights, with the Weasleys, the Ministry, the press, the world, and at the end of them all was Draco, pale and guarded, lips sneering, fingers unresisting when Harry gently picked them up. Is this okay? Harry asked. Yes, Draco had told him.

It seems that Draco had lied.

I should not have stayed, Malfoy mutters, his teeth so firmly clenched that Harry can't think how he said anything at all. I should not have stayed. Malfoy's shaking his head, which is lowered to the door; he's got past the difficulty with the clasp or zipper or button and he's grabbing at his robes in his haste to put them on. He's pushing to the door next and he'd be through it in beat, but Harry's there first, heart wild, hands cold.

What are you doing? he demands, aware his breath is foul, aware his body's shaking, aware of the regret bristling in Malfoy's glare. The sting of that look won't fade for some time, but at the moment Harry hasn't time to dwell. Malfoy's pulling out his wand.

Move, Malfoy orders. Harry reaches for his wrist but Malfoy sweeps it back; with a flick Harry finds himself yanked aside.

Harry lunges, furious; Malfoy cries Don't touch me! in a breaking plaintive voice. It has Harry skidding in a desperate effort to obey but Draco is unswift and Harry can't turn back momentum. They collide. Harry's arms circle Draco and Draco shouts Don't with such anguish Harry feels it in his chest--and then he realizes Draco isn't shouting, isn't whispering a word.

He's dazed, leaning hard against Malfoy, who's crushed to the ground beneath the arch of the doorway. Draco? he asks, but he can hardly hear himself over the torrent of Draco's thoughts, Draco's fears flowing too thick and warm to be fully comprehensible save for he knows, he knows. What's...? Harry asks. And then, he simply knows.

It was punishment, Harry knows, for Draco can't help but tell. Punishment for his mother--for lying, deceiving the Dark Lord in what should have been, could yet have been, his moment of glory. The Dark Lord had been near--the true savior he was!--a mere heartbeat from delivering his cherished world from chaos--but Draco's mother had laid soft hands upon Potter and proclaimed him dead, to save her son, her son, her selfishness had undone them all. She would never lie again.

Truth is a curse, and Harry wonders how the curse came to Draco. Draco obliges at once, with barely a shudder in Harry's shock-stiff arms. It was meant to lay bare Narcissa Malfoy's duplicity, surrendering it to the vengeance of the Loyal, but Draco saw them gather about his mother's proud head and shamed though he was, disgraced and cowardly and useless though he was, he could do this one act, he could suffer this one strike...

It wasn't like this before, Harry thinks without thought. I couldn't hear you before--

Draco responds accordingly. A potion--it suppresses the curse, for a little while, affording him archipelagos of time when his thoughts are his own. He's studying methods to enhance its effects, but the work is deadly dull and there is no hope in Draco's mind, no hope, no hope--

Don't say that, Harry thinks, forgetting Draco has not uttered a sound. It was a courageous thing you did, he says aloud, self-consciously, squeezing Draco's middle. A part of him wonders if Draco wishes now that he hadn't rushed in--

Yes, is the answer that darts to Harry's chest. Yes, I wish I hadn't. And Stop is the word ringing in Harry's mind, Stop! I wish I hadn't.

Harry shifts, startled. He lets Draco go, knowing what it is to bear just that kind of guilt and how it doesn't matter that the good deed is done; Draco scrambles up, out of Harry's arms, slings himself down the hall and through the living room like an arrow, dripping thoughts all the while as he wings to the door. Harry follows, throat prickling with the things that Draco is desperate not to think (Potter scares me, I shouldn't have, so fucking stupid just once, this is just once it'll never happen again it isn't happening again) and that last one--Harry has to know whether it's true or not.

Draco's answer comes, wordlessly, as he's blasting open the front door. I'm not coming back here. It feels rough in Harry's head. I wish I could.

Harry watches Draco leap through the wide rip in the wards; the rush of Draco's panic breaks off with an inaudible snap. He must've Disapparated, Harry realizes numbly, moving toward the front door to fix the lock. He summons his wand from the bedroom and casts the necessary spells. Then he goes to his desk, sits down in his boxers, and fishes out a piece of clean parchment from the third drawer he tries.

The potion, he writes, after considering for a moment and finding nothing better. I want to help. He isn't sure what else to add; he puts If it's okay? and sends it off. It comes back the next evening with Malfoy's yes. There is a list of books. Harry examines it, making plans to visit the library's special collection tomorrow and reflecting on what will happen if he can't make the potion any better. He imagines what it'd be like, if Draco didn't mind.

Indetermination, Chapter 5

dracofiend@gmail.com — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 03:06:25 GMT

Yes, it's been months! But here at last--the next chapter of the H/D, H/G (Gregory Goyle!) collab fic that moonlitdark and I have begun!

Title: Indetermination, Chapter 5
Author: dracofiend
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Greg
Rating: NC-17. Please note the header info, except for the summary, relates to the entire chaptered fic, not to individual chapters.
Summary: Harry and Greg have another guys' night out.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

“So Mum wanted to know if you wanted trifle or treacle sponge for pudding,” Ron said, poking his head out from the fridge.

“Oh, uh,” Harry said. He’d been hoping to avoid this. “I think I might pass on dinner tonight. Can you get me one too?”

“Going out again?” Ron asked, too casually. He reached back into the fridge and fetched out a second pumpkin soda.

Harry shrugged. From the corner of his eye he sensed Hermione’s fingers pause in their flipping of magazine pages. “Yeah,” he answered. “Might do.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting out of the house more,” Hermione said brightly, lowering the magazine to her lap. “Molly will be happy to hear that.”

There was a pause—Ron walked over to the couch and handed him the can. Harry waited for someone to ask the inevitable question. He cracked open his soda; the fsszz filled the room. He took a long drink.

“So who you going with?” Ron said abruptly.

The carbonation fizzled unpleasantly in Harry’s throat. He turned the can in his palm, crossed a leg over his knee. “Goyle. Maybe some of his friends,” he added, though it wasn’t entirely true. Greg had mentioned other friends—but he hadn’t seemed inclined to invite them. Maybe he didn’t want to make Harry think about Draco. Not that it mattered. Harry shifted on the couch, feeling the slight crinkling in his back pocket of the parchment tucked inside.

“Oh,” Ron grunted. “Where?”

“I dunno,” Harry said, trying to be nonchalant. “Bowling, maybe.” Greg seemed to have a penchant for random Muggle sports—Harry had commented on it once, and laughed.

Ron raised a ginger brow. “Nice.” He took a swig of soda. “So just come to dinner after, then. Or will you have eaten?”

“Ron,” Hermione put in. “Don’t be nosy.”

Harry glanced over, relieved, although he knew she was wondering the same. He decided to take advantage of her tact. “Yeah, Ron. Don’t be nosy,” he said, with a jokey grin.

“I see,” Ron countered. “Well if it’s so private…”

“Let him be,” Hermione said. “Sorry, Harry—it’s just, we want to make sure things are all right, and—”

“And it’s a bit weird, the way you’re suddenly big chums with Goyle,” Ron interrupted. “I mean, I don’t think it’s a good way to get Malf—” Hermione shot him a sharp look and Ron stopped short. “Er…to get back on track,” he amended.

Harry shook his head wearily. It was a bit weird, the situation with Greg—the truth was that he didn’t quite know what to make of it himself. Mostly it was nice to have someone new to hang out with, someone other than Ron and Hermione. Or Draco. “Look, I’m fine,” he told them for the millionth time. “And I’m not big chums with Goyle, right? Just because I’m going bowling with him doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends…” He glanced around the room distractedly, and his eyes settled on the clock mounted on the opposite wall.

“Anyway, I said I’d be there at six—”

“Six? What time is it now?” Hermione turned, her mouth dropping half-open when she saw the clock. “Ron! I said we’d be there early to help with the cooking!”

“I know,” Ron answered, puzzled. “Dinner’s not ‘til half seven—Dad’s working late, remember?”

“She’s making Magical Mini-Quiche and she showed me the recipe—the greens have to be shaved by hand just prior to sauteeing.” Hermione plucked the soda from Ron’s fingers and hurriedly picked up her bag.

“Shaved?” Ron asked, sounding rather skeptical. “By hand?”

“Yes, you’ll see!” Hermione answered, with more of a straight face than Harry could manage. There was no better woman in the world, he thought, trying to bite down his smile.

“We’ve got to go! It was nice chatting, Harry—we’ll tell Molly you’re doing well—and that you’ll probably turn up next week, hm?” She spoke rapidly as she went to the closet and pulled out their coats; Ron trailed her more slowly until she gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, and I want to hear about the bowling,” Ron muttered, pulling on a sleeve with a dubious expression.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Harry said as Hermione herded Ron out the door. “Have a good time.”

“You too!” she sang out before spinning around to add a breathless, “Be careful!”

Harry waved her off with a smile, and stuck a hand in his back pocket. The folded parchment crinkled familiarly beneath his fingers. He took it out, unfolding and immediately re-folding it into its crooked square. He padded off for a quick shower, the scrawled words inked into his mind.

***

“Hey,” Greg said, greeting him from through the shoe rental queue with a smile and a nod. “Bad traffic?” he joked.

Harry made his way around a few sock-footed folk to join his friend. “Hideous,” he answered. “Major splinching on the M6,” he grinned, then shook his head apologetically. “Sorry I’m so late, I completely lost track of time.”

“No worries, mate,” Greg replied easily, leading them to the end of the queue. “You had me thinking at first that I’d be bowling alone—and believe me, there’s nothing sadder than going up to the till to request a lane for one—but I should’ve known better.” He looked at Harry with the odd smirk that meant he was jesting. “There’s plenty of suitable company to be had around here,” he said, glancing deliberately at the rather fit Muggle dispensing the shoes.

“Oh, I absolutely agree,” Harry nodded, twisting his head around. “I think those ten-year-olds would be just your speed—and they’re having a birthday, look!”

Greg looked. “Reckon they’ve got ice cream cake?”

Harry laughed, and was glad that he’d decided to show up after all.

It turned out he was notably more gifted at bowling than at snow-boarding; Greg, not so much. After ten frames, Harry had a respectable score of 175; Greg, a dismal 98.

“You started out fairly well,” Harry said encouragingly as they sat in their plastic seats and watched the pin-setter come down. “You got a strike in the first round.”

“That was you,” Greg said, with a wry smile.

“Oh,” Harry blinked. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Oh. Well. You want to go again?”

Greg looked at Harry, then got to his feet. He locked his fingers together and, stretching out his arms, cracked his knuckles. Through his shirt sleeves, Harry could see his considerable biceps flex.

“Get ready to have your arse kicked, Potter.”

Harry grinned and stood up too.

Eight frames in, Harry was on pace to bowl a sterling 200 and Greg was on pace to take a bite out of his bowling ball.

“WHY won’t you go straight?” he growled to it fiercely. “Straight, dammit, straight!” Then he swung the ball out behind him, far too vigorously, and launched it down the lane.

By the ball rack, Harry chuckled and watched the ball skew left as it neared the pins, knocking four down before vanishing to one side. “I could be wrong, but I bet it doesn’t like being yelled at,” he grinned when Greg turned from the lane with a disgruntled expression. “Or maybe it’s just your horrendous technique.”

“Yeah?” Greg asked, looking heavy-browed and aggressive. “What do you know about technique?”

Harry shrugged, hiding his amusement. “Well, unlike some, I’m on the verge of besting my own record...”

“That’s because you’re cheating,” Greg said obstinately. “You’re using magic—”

“I don’t see a wand!” Harry cut in, spreading his empty hands.

“—wandless magic, to make the ball go right so you can get 34 billion bloody strikes in a row—”

“We’ve only played 20 frames!”

“—in order to be declared Best Bowler of the Week and get your picture put on the wall and unlimited free beers on Wednesdays from 2 to 4 pm for the rest of the month—”

Harry started laughing. “Okay, okay! You’re on to me!”

“Knew it,” Greg said, crossing his arms with a satisfied smile.

“How’d you guess?” Harry asked, coughing away the remnants of his laughter. He tried to dead-pan it, unsuccessfully.

“I can recognize the glint of an ambitious eye when I see it,” Greg answered smugly. “It’s a shame you didn’t make it into Slytherin—you could’ve really made something of yourself, you know?”

He was only kidding again, but Harry’s returning grin was weak. He’d often wondered, in recent days, how much Greg knew about him from talking to Draco, about his likes and dislikes and his stupid little stories from when he was a kid, all of which he’d poured out to Draco like stale water from a drain. Apparently this was one of the things Draco had mentioned. “Yeah,” he said to Greg, unconsciously raising a palm to rub the back of his neck. “I could’ve really done something with my life, right?” He forced his smile higher.

Greg cocked his head; his forehead wrinkled slightly. For a second it seemed he was about to ask something—but then he only smiled in his awkward way. “I used to wish you’d been put in Slytherin.”

That surprised Harry out of his discomfort. “You did? Why? Because no one would’ve stopped you from beating me to a pulp?”

Instead of laughing, Greg looked alarmed. “No! Because we could’ve been friends!” He paused, and Harry got the distinct sense he was embarrassed. Harry certainly was. He debated the best way to defuse the situation with humor. Greg got there first.

“And they called me thick,” Greg grunted. “Obviously I wouldn’t do that to a housemate.”

“How was I to know?” Harry asked. “I thought you guys ate your own young.”

“Shut up and bowl.”

So Harry did. He made it through the ninth frame with a strike and a spare. Unsolicited, he then began coaching Greg through his turn.

“Remember, don’t bowl with anger,” Harry urged as Greg hefted his massive bowling ball into position. “Be the ball. Be the lane. Easy now, and focus.”

Greg stopped with his arm crooked at the elbow, two fingers and a thumb sunk into the ball. “One. I am not a fucking bowling ball. Two. Even if I were, I could not possibly accommodate the demands of being both a bowling ball AND a lane—simultaneously. Three. I don’t need your advice and I don’t need you standing that bloody close when I’m trying to throw this little shit of a ball.”

“What? Why?” Harry asked, pretending innocence. “I only want—”

“Because,” Greg said lowly, bending his head and adjusting his stance, “it’s distracting.” Without looking up, he took several quick strides forward and released the ball.

Harry whooped as it struck down all ten pins with a clatter and slapped at Greg’s shoulder as the pin-setter cleared them away. “Distracting, my arse! My advice worked brilliantly!”

“You’re a man of genius,” Greg said, sounding utterly insincere, his mouth widened into a grin.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone all along,” Harry said, going to the ball return to retrieve Greg’s ball. “Let’s do it again.” He shoved the ball into Greg’s arms, then stepped back. “Right. Now. Be the ball. Be the—”

“I remember,” Greg interrupted. “Just—give me some room.”

“Right,” Harry answered in a stage whisper. “Master at work. I’ll be quiet, shall I?”

Greg didn’t respond, but merely narrowed his eyes at the end of the lane, took a deep breath, and bowled.

“Yessss!” Harry cheered and jumped when all the pins tumbled and rolled free once more. “Bang on! Super job, mate! Two strikes in a row! Keep this up and you’ll be sure to hit triple digits this time!”

“Lovely,” was all Greg said, but when Harry looked over, he could tell Greg was really pleased. His broad cheeks were curved as if they were holding something in, and Greg always looked like that—like he was stifling a sneeze—when he was happy about something.

“What? No victory jig?” Harry prodded.

“We still have one more round,” Greg answered, heading to the ball return and leaning down for Harry’s ball. “It’s not over ‘til it’s over.”

“Even you couldn’t bowl less than a four!” Harry insisted. “This is your jig,” Harry said, bobbing his head about, “by proxy.”

That got Greg snickering, then guffawing as Harry threw his hips into it, momentarily.

“Enough! You’re scaring the children!” Greg said, lumbering forward with Harry’s ball.

“Nope,” Harry said. “That’s you.”

“Bastard. Hey, you dropped something...”

Before Harry could look to realize what it was, before he could smack his palm against his back pocket, Greg was plucking the square of parchment from the gleaming floor and the skin on his forehead was puckering with recognition at the telltale family crest and Harry was stumbling to close his own fist over it, squeezing the uneven creases of parchment in his hand, feeling the sharpness of the folded points and the laxness of Greg’s wrist as Greg relinquished the letter that Draco had sent.

Harry crammed it into his pocket. “That’s—” he started automatically, for the sake of saying something, but he couldn’t finish when he raised his head to Greg’s eyes. Greg was looking at him, frowning, except his mouth wasn’t down. It was flat, and his jaw was flat, and the skin around his eyes seemed to tighten as Greg’s gaze flicked across Harry’s face. Harry was dizzy—he hadn’t wanted Greg to see.

“Here’s your ball,” Greg said, his voice deep and hollow. He extended it; Harry glanced down and reflexively opened his hands.

Greg placed the ball very gently in Harry’s palms. “Got it?”

Harry could barely hear the words, so low were they pitched, but he could see them leaving Greg’s imperfectly-shaped mouth. He nodded, feeling bloodless, and turned to the lane.

After they had finished, they returned the rental shoes, left the bowling alley, and walked through the carpark to find a discreet corner where Disapparating wizards could Disapparate unseen.

“I had—” Harry said before catching himself. I had a good time sounded like they’d been on a date when they hadn’t been. “This was a good idea,” he said instead, making an effort to look directly at his friend. “Bowling’s fun.”

The corner of Greg’s mouth pulled to one side. “Right up your alley, I think.”

“Awful,” Harry said, with a bad-pun groan. “Really terrible.”

“I know,” Greg said. Abruptly, he craned his neck up at the sky, exposing his throat, then quickly looked over to the cluster of cars by the building. “Well, I suppose you’d better get going—I’m sure you’ve got things to do. People to see.” His forehead furrowed and smoothed in nearly the same instant and his eyes remained fixed on the cars, glittering under the bright fluorescent carpark lights. “I’m glad you had fun. I did, too.”

He swiveled his head back to Harry, with a subdued smile. “Have a good one,” he said. “Bye.” And without waiting for Harry’s answering bye, he shifted away, to Disapparate.

Chapter 6

Angle

dracofiend@gmail.com — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 04:34:10 GMT

This one's for alisanne, who's completely terrific and whose beaded Snape face bag is FAR more amazing than "beaded Snape face bag" would have one believe at first glance. :D Happy late birthday--it's real short but all romance! ♥

Title: Angle
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance

He’s bending down to pick up something that fell to the ground when he turns his head and sees Harry, leaning over the desk, peering at the calendar pinned to the wall. From where Draco’s looking with his head near the floor, Harry’s standing sideways and for an odd disorienting second Draco’s toes press into the carpet as his eyes glide up and over the bare curve of Harry’s back, his bottom, his pale sturdy thighs. For a breath he seems a stranger, unfamiliar and appealing, someone Draco’s never met but already likes a lot. Draco stares; the moment passes. It must’ve been the angle. Draco straightens up, the thing (pen? used dryer sheet? grocery list?) in his hand, and feels his face tingling as his blood flows down again.

“Hey, we have that dinner tomorrow,” Harry says, leaning away from the desk. He rubs absently at his hip. “I almost forgot.”

Draco moves across the room and slides his arms around Harry. The give of the muscles beneath him is utterly well-known; Harry smells like he’s freshly woken up. He grins—Draco feels it; their cheeks are scruff-on-scruff.

“Love you too,” Harry says, kissing Draco near an eye. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he announces, then he cocks a suggestive brow. “Care to join me?”

Draco laughs, enchanted still by the same old joke, and says yes.

Surface

dracofiend@gmail.com — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 14:29:40 GMT

Title: Surface
Author: dracofiend
Pairing: HP/SS
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Infidelity
Summary: It’s the end of the end.
A/N: For the Steal series: Steal, Strangle, Stricken, Sink

Severus didn’t want to go, but it was getting late—half eight already, and Harry had forgot his hunger in the vigors of exercise. It was the tilt of the world’s axis, its orbit around the sun, drawing the light out until it stretched past supper time. That was all, Severus repeated silently, eyes flicking once more to the kitchen clock’s hands. That was all.

The new restorative Severus had concocted was most effective with a meal and not too near bed. Delaying any further would not be wise. He refreshed the warming charm on the covered pot on the stove, then went to the closet, pulled Harry’s cloak from its depths, and shut the door. The flask of potion in his pocket shifted heavily as he spun in the hallway, to Disapparate.

The grass was damp and grown wild in the place where Severus appeared, a short distance from the pitch, above which several flying figures streamed. The breeze was cool, not yet sharp, as Severus paced through it toward the low benches, stacked in dark planks around the trimmed green. It was light enough to make out the handful of onlookers and their reddish hair, seated in a small clump at the far end of the highest row. Severus firmed his jaw and continued. His eyes returned to the dimming sky and found Harry again, ascending, one arm outstretched. Severus narrowed his eyes—the fine black outline resolved into a leather glove, a wind-pressed sleeve. Harry’s mouth was tight with concentration. Severus watched Harry dart ahead in a burst of speed; he elongated over his broom, cast yearning fingers toward a Snitch that was invisible from the ground—he lunged along the shaft, thrusting his fingertips forward—

“Severus.”

Severus snapped his head down. Faint cheers went up somewhere high overhead; a single clap and an oh! came from the lookers on the bench. Oblivious to it all was Molly Weasley, whose arms were crossed over her drab green knitted shawl.

“Harry will be having dinner with us.” She faced him with a frown, with her back very straight and her hair a nest of ringlets, frizzing into the twilight air. The fury in her eyes made her appear nearly cruel. “He insisted.”

“I see,” he said. His chest did not heave as it seized. “His draught for the night.” Severus brought out the potion; the beat of his heart was unendurable. “And his cloak.”

“It was wrong from the start,” Molly hissed suddenly, rapidly, under her breath. “From the very start. And even if you’d cared for him—even then it wouldn’t have been right but you let him carry on when you bloody well knew better. I haven’t the words for your kind of wickedness but if I could afford to spend my life in Azkaban I would’ve killed you the moment you showed your face on this pitch.”

The lines around Severus’ mouth deepened. There was a shriveling, a painful withdrawal in his middle, a heightened form of the sensation that had plagued him since the moment he’d returned home from his last abominable appointment with Lucius to find Harry listless, pale, disoriented on the couch. For all he had borne in his overlong and weary life, Severus had never harbored despair such as this. He managed, inexplicably, to concede nothing more to the woman before him.

Molly’s fists were unclenching in the weave of her shawl, ready to take up Harry’s potion and cloak, when a whoosh of air and a dull thud sounded beside them. The smell of high wind and leather coated Severus’ next breath.

“Hi!” Harry said, unstraddling his broom. His face was ruddy and his exhales loud as he moved close to Severus. “Did you see my catch?” He held up the golden ball with an expectant smile. His hairline was dark with sweat; Severus caught its scent when Harry hugged him, one-armed.

“Oh no—did I miss my potion?” Harry’s face creased, troubled, at the sight of the flask in Severus’ hand. “What time is it?”

The spike of panic in his tone furrowed Molly’s brow. “Harry,” she said, her voice gentle as a dove—but Harry was looking at Severus uncertainly. The flicking of his lashes burst something hot in Severus’ throat.

“Calm yourself,” he murmured, touching the boy’s back, too lightly to feel the damp. “You haven’t missed anything—I was simply telling Molly that it’s to be taken with food—”

“Yes, dear, I told him you’ll be coming home with us,” the be-shawled woman said in soothing tones.

“What?” Harry blinked at her, startled. “I didn’t—I’m not…I’m going home,” he finished, sounding defensive. “With Severus.” He grabbed at Severus’ hand.

“But dear, I asked before, remember?” Molly answered, even more soothingly than before. Severus’ shoulders ached. “I said we were having shepherd’s pie, and you said it was your favorite? And I said you were more than welcome to join us—you always are, Harry—and you said you would?”

“I—did I?” Harry looked confused. His gloved fingers dug into Severus’ palm. The piercing pain in his temples had eased at Harry’s clutching—but now it resumed.

“Yes,” Molly said, nodding with a tentative smile. Behind her, others now hovered, some dismounting from their brooms with soft thumps to the ground. They all looked at Harry with sympathy and concern. “I was getting your potion,” Molly continued, “so you could have it with the pie, and I have treacle sponge for pudding, dear.”

“Oh,” Harry said, biting his lip. His eyes swiveled to Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, who waited, full of familiar discomfort, resigned sorrow. Their hesitant smiles matched Molly’s.

“You did,” Hermione said, with a small nod. She met Severus’ eyes briefly, looking agitated, then focused on Harry and shifted on her feet. “You sounded like you really wanted to come.”

Severus’ eyelids fell and opened; he thought of Harry, who stayed away longer each evening with his broom and his sport; with his loyal, watchful friends. Severus uncurled his hand from Harry’s and held the potion and the cloak out to Molly. “He’ll need to finish all of it,” he said, and his voice seemed oddly distant to himself. “He’s not to go to bed for at least an hour afterwards.”

“No, I think I’ll go back with Severus,” Harry announced, finding Severus’ cuff. He slid his covered hand against Severus’ palm; the buckles on the glove cut coldly into the grooves.

“But we were going to try Fred and George’s new snackboxes!” Ronald put in anxiously. “They’ve got vertigo pops now, remember? And hoarsehound drops?”

“Yeah, and consumption crisps,” one of the Weasley brothers added brightly, twisting his broomhandle. “You were keen on those, right? You said you’d help us with the experimentation—they can’t go to market without proper experimentation!”

Severus looked from the peering freckled faces to Harry, whose fingers still lay clenched in Severus’ hand. Severus’ lips thinned to bloodlessness—they were upsetting him, couldn’t they see? But he couldn’t speak without the boy’s acquiescence any longer and the fact of it rose in him, tightening his stomach, silencing his words.

Harry didn’t answer; then he said, slowly, “I’ve changed my mind.” The quietness of his voice was a warning to Severus—it was Harry’s effort to retain self-control in the midst of spinning thoughts, short breaths, blurring vision—it was crushing, enveloping, darkening his mind and Severus could sense all of it, he’d seen it before, days and nights he’d seen it but now he was helpless because Harry faltered when reaching for him; Harry couldn’t look at him without glancing away.

“Dear, I think—” Molly began, stopping short as Harry’s face contorted. He turned to Severus, his eyes suddenly wet, accusing—he tore his hand free, whirled and leapt onto his broom, kicking forward with such force that clumps of grassy dirt shot from his heels.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted aloud as Ronald and his brothers moved to mount their brooms. Severus shot out a hand and wrested the nearest broomstick to him. The boy’s anguish called to him, calling forth his voice.

“Go home, all of you,” Severus growled, flinging himself over the shaft. “I’ll send an owl.”

“But—” someone protested.

“Go!” Severus shouted angrily without looking back—then he was speeding through the air, squinting into the wind as his eyes started stinging.

+++++

Distrait gave unnatural speed to Harry’s erratic path between treetops, and also to Severus’. He caught the boy in the air halfway to the house, drew alongside the narrow figure hunched miserably over the broom.

“Slow down!” Severus commanded. “You’ll run yourself into—”

Harry’s broom leapt forward as he re-tightened his gloved fists over the handle. Severus followed, ignoring the snap of a bough as it broke against his knee. The sudden pain was numb before it bloomed ferociously but his eyes remained fixed on Harry’s face, white and low to the broom.

“Harry, stop!” Severus shouted, pulling himself closer. The edge of his robe whipped toward Harry, who was dipping below a thatch of leaves, swerving around a trunk, veering away from Severus in a wild arch. Severus wrenched himself to follow, weaving through branches, bellowing at him to stop, stop, before he—

Severus heard the loud crack and thunderous rustling, and his throat dropped to the ground, faster than his broom as he raced to the dark form fallen amongst the stripped leaves. He waded forward, frenzied, and scooped Harry up.

“You’re all right,” Severus said, his voice still stiff with the fading fear once he had ascertained that bruising would be the worst of it. “You’re all right.” He passed a hand over Harry’s head to the slight slope of his neck, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse fluttering through the boy’s damp skin. He knew his own must be the same though he had no sense of it whatsoever. “Accio glasses.”

They flew into his open palm with a dry scuttle of leaves, bent into an odd angle that Severus could easily repair. He stroked Harry’s back and pressed a cheek to the disarrayed hair.

Harry shook and sweated in Severus’ arms. Then he broke away and ran.

It didn’t take long for Severus to catch him a second time—the boy was hobbled without his glasses and his disoriented dashing put little distance between them. Severus snatched at the knitted jumper as Harry dodged over thick roots and spun him around.

“If this is another clever attempt at killing yourself—” he hissed, only to have himself thrust back with the jolt of a hex. He stumbled, tripping, and landed hard on the ground. Harry stood where he’d been caught, his wand held in front of him.

“You weren’t coming for me,” he said, breathing forcefully, his eyes fiercely alight and unfocused.

“I’ve been chasing you through this blasted forest,” Severus returned, winded and heartsick, “for the last half—”

“You weren’t coming for me!” Harry shouted with a strike of his wand. Sparks flew from the end and fizzled without reaching the ground. “You were going to let me stay on that bloody pitch all night while you—”

“No,” Severus protested, scrambling to his feet. He could sense the ripples of magic flowing from the boy’s body, bunching together in angry invisible gobs, ready to set the woods or Harry or Severus on fire, or perhaps all of them together in a bright, magnificent blaze.

“I’ve been trying to get over it,” Harry continued, voice spiraling into a low moan. “I haven’t been talking about it, yeah? I mean, I think I’ve been doing a good job of being normal.”

Harry paused to choke; his wand wavered and Severus took a quick step forward.

“You were going to give me away!” Harry shouted. His wand flashed and sputtered in Severus’ direction.

“That is not true!” Severus shouted back, drawing his own wand with a swing of his sleeve. “You’re talking utter non—”

“I loved you!” Harry went on, unhearing. “I did! Didn’t you know? You were the only reason I stayed when—but now I can’t stop thinking of Lucius Malfoy and how you—so I can’t be here—I suppose that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” He raised dazed eyes to Severus—they were opened large, surfaced with dislocated terror and there was no spell, no magic word that Severus could summon to undo what he had done so he stood, helpless, and watched as Harry’s mouth quavered into a forlorn smile.

“As I was saying,” Severus forced himself to reply. He managed a reasonable facsimile of irritation, and it steadied him. “You are talking utter nonsense. Giving you away—what a fool-headed notion! I took the trouble to prepare your ridiculous chicken pie—yes, using the school house-elfs’ recipe—which has undoubtedly grown stone cold during the course of this purposeless rigmarole! And you have the audacity to raise your wand at me?” He strode to Harry in great crunching steps, towering over him, not a blink out of place as he stared down. Harry’s eyes were imploring.

“Inconsiderate child!” Severus thundered. “Put that away!” He closed his fingers around Harry’s rigid wand-hand, caressed the valley between each protruding knuckle. “Immediately. And pick up your broom.” He guided Harry’s arm until the wand was re-sheathed; Harry watched his own elbow bend and unbend. He nodded beneath the hollow of Severus’ palm.

+++++

The pie was re-warmed and eaten and the dishes cleaned and stacked, and Harry was having a shower when Severus finally found himself alone. He sat on the bed—their bed, still—and slumped.

Perhaps he dozed off, or perhaps he simply was too far lost in thought—re-living the day he had returned to find Harry, the nights he regretted more than any he had known—but whatever the case, he had no sense that Harry had come into the room until the boy’s quiet voice sounded near his ear.

“Tired?”

Severus jerked up, jouncing the bedsprings. Harry stood by him, unclothed, holding a towel. His hair seemed almost dry.

“Yes,” Severus replied, taking the boy against him. “Have you been standing there long? It’s drafty just there; you’re in the path of the door.” He draped the towel around Harry’s back, and finding it too damp, muttered a drying charm at it.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, putting his chin to Severus’ shoulder.

“Accio Harry’s pyjamas,” Severus said, relishing the feel of Harry tucked safely between his knees.

“Sleep with me?” Harry mumbled. The stubble on his cheek was softened from his shower, and it rasped reassuringly into Severus’ skin.

“Of course,” Severus agreed. He laid the pyjamas on the mattress beside him and folded Harry closely to his chest before angling the boy to the clothing. Harry reached for it and averted his face.

“All night?” Harry asked, without inflection. He was looking down at one foot and pulling on a pant leg. “You’ll stay all night?”

The space between the slats of Severus’ ribs seemed to vanish, leaving exorbitant bone, overdense flesh, and nothing to use for the next jump of his heart. His forehead creased; he parted his mouth. He could mince words more finely than nettles; he could shape the pitch and timbre of his voice to coax souls into bottles—but no power in the world could aid him in the transcription of his intent into sound.

“Hey,” Harry said, unexpectedly cutting off Severus’ contemplation of the impossible. He was at Severus’ chin, holding his pyjama shirt, a vague sideways tilt to his lips that allowed Severus’ ribcage to unknit. “Aren’t—you—” Harry spoke haltingly as he tugged on the shirt and for a second there was only a wild tuft of hair bobbing at Severus from a stretching collar and two cotton sleeves wrestling with the air. “—going to get ready too?”

Severus stirred; he nodded and arose.

“Let me help,” Harry said quickly as Severus turned to unfasten the front of his robe. Severus’ chest leapt oddly, as if the boy’s palms had never fluttered there, as if the boy’s fingers had never indented the narrow folds or picked apart the slim buttons. But they had, on occasions uncounted—and then, Harry did something entirely new.

“You’ve got knots,” he said quietly. His hand had formed a rough-toothed comb and it was pushing slowly down the slope of Severus’ scalp, dragging through the snarls to Severus’ shoulder. Half-unbuttoned, the robe’s seam there was loosening from the white sleeve underneath. Harry cocked his head; Severus looked down past the blotch of his own nose to absorb the creature he loved so well, and unwell.

“It seems so,” Severus answered.

“I never noticed before,” Harry said. “I’ll undo them?” His gaze settled on Severus’ eyes, determined, hesitant. Severus slid an arm around the boy, bringing Harry closer; he saw Harry blinking against his outgoing breath.

“Please,” Severus said.

Harry raised his hand to Severus’ hair, to begin again.

Those Who Are Vigilant - Part 8

dracofiend@gmail.com — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 02:33:25 GMT

We're all done posting! :D Hope you like the ending!!

TITLE: Those Who Are Vigilant
AUTHORS: dracofiend and the_con_cept (aka AbstractConcept)
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Post-war AU; some themes relating to infidelity.
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc. etc.
BETA: angela_snape, and all remaining errors are ours.
SUMMARY: The defeat of Voldemort leads to the rise of an authoritarian regime within the wizarding world. As Scrimgeour’s Ministry grows ever more oppressive, Harry finds himself being pressed into a new battle by two men: one ambitious and untested, the other embittered and cynical.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Harry awoke in St. Mungo’s with a strange, instant knowledge of where he was, though he wasn’t entirely certain how he’d got there. He had vague, kaleidoscopic memories of Snape’s arms around him, Snape’s voice in his ear, not gently encouraging Harry to hang on, but viciously berating him for his weakness and demanding that he stay conscious. In light of Snape’s apparent fury and in pure terror of this anger, Harry had managed to stay more or less awake until he’d been dragged out into the searing sunlight, at which point he’d had to shut his eyes, and hadn’t managed to open them again.

Harry felt a dreadful thirst and sat up, looking round for an orderly or a glass of water. To his relief, there was half a glass of water on the table—just looking at it made him run a tongue over dry lips, but when he went to reach for it, he found both his hands were mummified, swaddled in thick bandages. They were wrapped so that he couldn’t even wiggle his fingers. He looked like he had cotton buds for arms. Examining his bandages more closely, Harry saw that a small amount of blood had darkened the gauze, even as thickly wrapped as his hands were. He shuddered a little, trying not to think of the implications.

Instead he turned his attention to the glass of water, and grimly made an effort to lift the thing to his lips. God, this was impossible. He couldn’t even feel the glass; he was afraid he’d break it, holding too tightly. All the same, he clumsily managed to get it as far as his lips.

“As always, you seem to choose the most difficult course of action,” a cold voice said from the doorway.

Harry jerked in surprise and the glass slipped, clattering off the side table and shattering on the floor. Harry swore loudly, then turned to face Snape. “As always, you have a lousy sense of timing,” Harry said. “And anyway, I don’t see why trying to get a drink is such a bad idea. I’m dying of thirst.”

With a thin smile, Snape strode into the room and repaired the glass. “The poor choice was in your obstinate serving of yourself,” the man said as he conjured more water. “You could have asked for help, you know.”

Harry watched him put away his wand. “Didn’t think anyone was around.”

They both looked at the glass in Snape’s hands, then at Harry’s useless ones. Snape cleared his throat. “Here,” he finally said, lifting the glass none too gently to Harry’s mouth. The man’s movement was so brusque that some of it spilled down Harry’s chin, but Harry didn’t mind; he drank eagerly.

Snape started to lower the glass, but Harry gulped a breath and begged, “More,” so Snape had little choice to oblige. Harry’s eyes closed in bliss as he swallowed as much of the cool water as he could. “Thanks,” he finally said rather breathlessly when the glass was empty.

Snape looked indifferent and set the glass on the table. “Well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose,” he said, his lips rather pinched.

Harry tilted his head. “Did it end well?” he asked anxiously. “What happened?”

Unable to suppress one end of his mouth curling up, Snape half-shrugged. “A public relations nightmare for the Ministry, that’s what happened,” he said. “Your little Ethan did well and came out flaming with glory and a most impressive set of injuries. He’s been talking to the press nonstop, of course, and they’re absolutely eating it up. The unjust arrest, the martyred Martin, the pictures in the Prophet of the shell-shocked children . . . oh, it’s all a little slice of heaven for Crawford,” Snape said bitterly.

“You know that’s unfair,” Harry countered in a soft voice, his head swimming with relief at hearing about Ethan. He suppressed the sharp twinge of unease that hit him at the same time. “He really cares, you know. Maybe he cares too much and gets caught up sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“Quite lucky for him this is still the case, with the curses he took,” Snape said, completely unimpressed. “He’s the darling of the Movement.” After a moment’s reflection he added, “More power to him.”

“More power to all of us,” Harry said firmly, fumbling to put his glasses on. After sighing in exasperation, Snape snatched them out of his hands and plunked them on his nose.

“Yes, more power to him. He’s the latest pretty poster-boy. He hasn’t glossed over your contributions, but one might safely say you’ve been overshadowed, for once. You’ll have to reach greater feats of stunning idiocy if you want the focus back on you again.”

Harry blinked. “He’s—Ethan? Really?”

“The press is eating him up, and he’s basking in the attention. Crawford and the camera--they were made for each other.”

Harry couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. “Seriously?”

Snape’s lip curled as he gestured to Harry’s bed and said, voice heavy with cynicism, “Justice does not help those who slumber, but helps only those who are vigilant.”

Harry smiled, bemused. “I think it’s more the press than Justice.”

Lips pursed as if he’d been eating lemons, Snape shook his head. “There’s no such thing as Justice anyway, any more than there are such mythical beasts as Freedom, True Love or A Free Lunch.”

“We won, yeah?” Harry said. “All of the effort you’ve made over the past several months? It meant something, didn’t it?”

Curtly, Snape nodded. “Scrimgeour is hastily setting up committees and bowing to the demand of transparency and oversight. I doubt he’ll manage to win another turn, but hopefully the damage to our justice system will be reversed. Eventually.”

“And you?” Harry asked.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “What about me?”

“Are they still . . . are you still . . . you know, the villain of the story?”

Snape managed a bitter smirk. “I imagine I’ll always be the villain, but they’re treating me rather more carefully at the moment. They’re very aware of their position, the Ministry, and Crawford did build me up ridiculously in his little interviews.”

“Did he?” Harry said in surprise. He didn’t think Ethan was the type to cling to ill-will, but he hadn’t expected Ethan to be—kind to Snape. He flushed as Snape looked at him curiously. “It’s just that the last time we were all together, he wasn’t, er . . . especially fond of you.”

After seeming to think this over for a moment, Snape nodded grudgingly. “Nor am I especially fond of him,” he acknowledged. “But men like Crawford have an unassailable moral code, or at least an unbending one. He may be a reckless fool, but he is not the sort to withhold credit where credit is due. It would diminish him in his own eyes.”

Harry smiled softly. “It would, wouldn’t it? He’s one of the most honourable people I know.”

Snape looked sour. “Is he?”

“So are you,” Harry added quickly. He wondered if maybe Snape was—jealous. Some part of him hoped so. He pushed it aside. “So . . . what about my condition?”

Snape avoided his eyes. “There will be damage. Possibly permanent damage,” he said, not mincing words. “The text was imbued with powerful magic. The wounds cannot simply be banished with a wand wave.”

Harry swallowed, looking down at the stubby cotton rolls stuck to the ends of his arms. “Muggle medicine can’t treat something like this,” he muttered. “And how would I explain it? Does it look like a normal—”

“It seems a clear sign that you are to rejoin the wizarding world, at least for the duration,” Snape interrupted dismissively. “You’ll take therapy here and be accorded your hero status and protected from the general public. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bite your tongue and accept it like a man,” Snape added severely.

“What about us?”

“What ‘us’?”

“This us, you idiot,” Harry said, exasperated.

“I wasn’t aware of any us,” Snape replied with a lift of his lip. “There is me, there is you, there is Crawford--”

Harry scowled. “If it comes to that, what about all your rebel underlings?” he snapped.

“That was different!”

“Why?” Harry demanded.

“That was--that was—” Snape’s hand gestured impatiently. “That was different. That didn’t signify anything,” he spat.

Harry stared at him for a moment before a slow smile began to dawn on his face. “And this does? We do?”

“I meant Crawford and yourself,” Snape said icily.

Harry’s smile faded a little. “Well, I don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.” He looked down at his hands. “Where is he? Has he . . . even been to see me?” Harry asked, unable to stop himself. Something dipped in his chest when he caught the look that bloomed on Severus’ face before being firmly quashed.

“Repeatedly,” the man told him abruptly.

Harry blinked in surprise.

“I’ve turned him out,” Snape added. He huffily gathered his robes around him, hunched his shoulders and turned away, looking like a large, disgruntled buzzard.

Harry’s lips twitched, in relief and regret. Snape had stayed with him. “You mean you threw him out?”

“More than once,” Snape spat. “He knew you were recovering well. I let him in long enough to examine you and see that the sleep we put you in could only do you good. I let him wring his hands and tell you how sorry he was and blather on about how improved his status is—oh, I’m sorry, he must have meant the status of the wizarding world--he seems to confuse the two so often . . . and then I sent him away and told him if he ever touched you—ever so much as touched you again,” Snape said, his tone turning vicious.

“I get it, I get it,” Harry said tiredly. “You had a great big blow up.”

“No,” Snape returned scornfully. “As I said, I simply turned him out. To his credit, he went. I can’t fathom why he keeps coming back to check in on you--” Snape suddenly broke off with a scowl and eventually added, “but I have my suspicions.”

“Look, I’m pretty sure anything between Ethan and me is well and truly dead,” Harry said, though, if he were honest, it hurt a bit to say it. “If there was anything real between us in the first place.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean? You slept with him, didn’t you?” Snape demanded, lowering his voice only a little. “You pledged your undying love?” he sneered.

Harry sighed. “It wasn’t like that. Not for me, anyway,” he said, more gently. That was unquestionable. “And sex isn’t everything, you know. I liked him. I won’t lie about that. But I was hoping for something more. I kept thinking—I would sometimes wonder if Ethan wasn’t—but then I’d tell myself I was crazy for even thinking it…”

Snape stared at him, uncomprehending.

“I mean—” Harry started. “Do you know what I mean?” It was obvious Snape didn’t. “It’s hard to explain,” Harry sighed, frustrated. He looked away, out the window and into the endless blue sky. “Do you know what it’s like to be hungry? So hungry you can’t even think or sleep and you just lie there, thinking how hungry you are?” he asked suddenly.

Snape frowned. “Do you know what it’s like to try to hold a serious conversation with a bedlamite who goes off on irrelevant tangents?” he returned.

“It’s not irrelevant,” Harry replied softly. “And maybe you do know what it’s like. I do too. The Dursleys taught me that,” he added bitterly. “Being locked in my cupboard--or my room, later--and having nothing but what they saw fit to give me. I didn’t starve, but it wasn’t . . . enough to feel full. Not by far.” He paused, uncertain, then plunged on before Snape could interrupt.

“Being with you—it’s kind of like that. After you’ve finished with me I lie there and--and—I’m not—I get sent away still hungry--” Harry broke off, feeling his face flush with angry embarrassment. “I suppose I was lonely. So yes, I went to Ethan. And I liked being with him because he listened to me, he didn’t kick me out of bed the minute after we—after.” Harry’s voice rose, precariously. “He treated me like someone important—”

“If that’s what you want I’ve good news for you—you’re Harry Potter and you’re in public favour again—”

“Important to him!” Harry burst out, aggravated beyond measure. Snape was being deliberately obtuse, provoking him and sneering and Harry couldn’t bear it for one second more. “Like I was more than just a reliable shag!”

“Potter—” Snape began, but Harry stumbled on to avoid the derision that would surely be in Snape’s words. “Only it wasn’t enough with Ethan, either,” he continued, trying to keep the distress from his voice. “He was so nice, and that wasn’t enough. I don’t know why. It was like I was getting what I wanted, but not—not from the right person.”

“How sentimental,” Snape said evenly.

Harry gave a ragged sigh, deflated by the thought that there wasn’t any point. Snape didn’t want to understand. “Okay,” he murmured at his sheets, lost and exhausted.

Snape was silent. Then he said bluntly, “You keep stammering on about romance and other abstract nonsense. You certainly never expressed any such sentiments to me. Am I expected to read your mind? We both know you hate it when I do that. If there is something more I can give, it’s your fault for not asking,” Snape finished with a scowl.

Startled, Harry’s head shot up. He looked at Snape for a long time, his pulse fast. “So all I have to do is ask?”

Shrugging, Snape glanced away. “That depends on what you ask for.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Harry burst out. “That’s no answer and you know it—”

“I need a clearer indication of what’s in your thick head!” Snape shouted over him. Harry fell quiet at once, taken aback by the abrupt change in Snape’s irritatingly cool demeanour. Suddenly Harry got the feeling that perhaps Snape wasn’t quite as collected as he had appeared to be.

Snape shifted as if gathering himself. When he spoke again, his voice was deliberately calm. He was looking down at himself, straightening his robes. “What is it you want?”

“I . . . don’t know, exactly,” Harry said helplessly. “More. Than sex,” he added when Snape scowled impatiently.

“It seems to me, from the context, that you are looking for additional affection and attention outside the scope of sex. Is this a good summary?”

Harry ducked his head. “Something like that.”

“What would that entail? To your satisfaction, that is.”

Harry stared uncertainly at Snape, watching him tug sharply at the cuffs of his sleeves. Snape finally looked up.

“Well?” he asked curtly. “If you don’t know what it is you find so lacking in me then I’m afraid there’s really not much to be—”

“You never touch me!” Harry heaved out, unable to stomach Snape’s abrasive tone. “Unless we’re fucking!” He could feel his face twisting, embarrassingly, and he tilted his head away from Snape’s intrusive glare. “You never—it’s as if I don’t exist to you unless you’ve got your cock in me and don’t get me wrong, that’s great and all but sometimes, a lot of times, I wish it didn’t have to be the reason, the only reason you care and I know it’s stupid, I know it wouldn’t work but I can’t help but want things to be—” Harry hesitated, slowing in his struggle to articulate. “I just wish we could be more…”

“Intimate?” Snape suggested with an arch of his brow.

Harry’s eyes darted back to him, surprised. That was exactly what he wanted and it was a shock that Snape could name it. He nodded and looked away.

“I see.” Snape came and sat beside Harry on the bed, looking reflective. A few moments passed without either of them speaking. “I suppose it is not—wholly—unexpected,” Snape said at last. “I admit I’m a bit dubious that you would want such a thing with me.”

Harry shrugged, gazing down at the wads of bandages on his hands. “Well, I do,” he said, feeling sick inside as he wondered if Snape would simply refuse to believe him.

The silence grew heavy, and still Snape sat beside him, motionless as the gauze wrapped around Harry’s hands.

“Would you—” Harry finally asked. “Can’t I—can’t we at least try?”

Snape stirred as if from a reverie. He looked askance at Harry. “No,” he said slowly.

Harry felt the air leave him. The next second it returned, stale—he’d been expecting as much, of course Snape would say no, no, Snape wasn’t the sort—

“What you describe is impossible,” the man went on in the same intent manner, “because it is unaccompanied by obligations.”

Harry’s heart had half-lifted when Snape had started talking again, but now his forehead furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you act as if intimacy were based on affectionate gestures, given randomly and generously without particular care.” Snape’s eyes narrowed at the sheet on Harry’s lap. “That, I cannot do. Anything between us must be all or nothing, and you’re not in a position to make the commitment I require.”

“But Ethan and I aren’t—”

Snape shook his head dismissively. “You’re on the cusp of two worlds, and you’re trying to walk along the edge as though it were some sort of tightrope. You have to choose, Potter. You have to stop burying your head in the sand and telling everyone you’ve already done your bit.”

Harry frowned. “You mean you want me to be a hero again? Run for Minister, that type of thing?”

“God forbid. I simply meant that you have to be in this world and of it, and if there’s something you don’t like about it, then you change it or tolerate it instead of running away. I won’t urge you stand up and make speeches, but if you wish for—my intimacy, then . . . you have to actually stay with me. On a permanent basis.”

Harry bit his lip, thinking. He liked living as a Muggle, liked the anonymity, the possibility it afforded as compared to the claustrophobically small wizarding world. The wonder of magic had worn off long ago and some days, life just seemed…better—more normal—without it. He couldn’t hold back a wry half-smile—wouldn’t the Dursleys be proud of him now?

“I understand,” he said. Snape wouldn’t leave magic; Harry didn’t have a choice.

“Do you?” Snape asked, scrutinizing Harry. He paused, then pushed himself closer, his eyes fixed on Harry more intensely than before. “You will need to do more than simply return to the wizarding world. I will demand your total devotion. Anything you ask of me I will get back in full. Consider it carefully, Potter—only say the word and you will have all you desire from me. I will give it to you in absolute measure. But make no mistake—I will not tolerate doubts or half-heartedness—or dalliances of any kind, whether with men, women, or political ambitions.”

Under the piercing discomfort of Snape’s unmoving stare, Harry smiled crookedly. Snape’s frightening tone couldn’t change what he would say. He tried to flex his aching fingers, but they wouldn’t move. “Can I think about it?”

For an instant, Snape hardened. Then he glanced away and slid back, shrugging. “A wise course of action,” he said with faux indifference.

“Yes,” Harry said. Snape turned to him sharply with an arched brow. “I want you—” he ducked his head as an odd ripple of shyness swooped in his belly. “I want to be with you,” he continued more firmly.

Snape looked at him steadily. “You agree to my conditions?”

Harry nodded, resolute. The shyness had gone—he was lighter. Happy. “Where do I sign?” he asked, lifting a hand—only to see the thick bandages with their dark stains. He half-smiled at them, resignedly—then long fingers closed lightly around his covered ones, and Harry’s eyes flicked to Snape’s, suddenly near.

“Very well,” Snape said lowly. He laid a palm at Harry’s jaw and passed a thumb over Harry’s cheek. The tenderness of the touch was startling. Harry went still.

OoOoOoOoO

“Today marks the beginning of a new era at the Ministry,” Crawford declared, striking a remarkable figure behind the podium. “An era of true openness, of accountability.” The wind ruffled his hair, and faint traces of spell-burns laced one side of his face. “I happen to be standing here speaking to you because of the bravery and the convictions of a few tremendous individuals, but any one of you could be doing the same,” Crawford continued, his voice ringing across the crowd.

Severus snorted as the cameras up front popped and flashed. Well done, he thought dryly, casting his eyes over the intent faces of the listeners. It seemed that Crawford had everything he wanted—his picture in all the papers, his name on every tongue, a new post with the Ministry as some type of special counsel. Crawford had all the world at his fingers, and if Severus judged correctly, that made him imminently unqualified for Harry Potter’s purposes.

Severus’ mouth curved grimly. He thought of Crawford’s continued visits to Harry’s sickroom and prepared to be mistaken.

“I look forward to working with you, and serving you, to the very best of my ability,” Crawford was saying, to rising applause. “Thank you for your kind attention, and your continued support of our ideals, and most importantly, of our shared freedoms.”

Cheers and whistles went up; Severus grimaced in annoyance and stepped to the side to avoid being gouged in the eye by high-handed clappers. He scanned the stage as Crawford waved, grinned, waved, and finally began moving from the podium. Harry was supposed to be meeting the man, after the speech. We haven’t properly spoken, Harry had said, not since Azkaban…

Severus had objected—Crawford was obviously far too occupied with press junkets and career plans to be concerned with the past. When Harry admitted to receiving an owl from Crawford shortly after being released from St. Mungo’s, Severus had lost no time and wasted no breath in expressing his displeasure. You chose, he’d hissed in a rage akin to terror, you chose me! I will NOT abide second-guesses—I believe I was clear on that point and yet here you are, flying off to see Crawford again—you breach our agreement! I should have known—

Harry had tugged at one sleeve of his robe then, and leaned in with an indecipherable expression. Severus, he’d said gently, I’m asking your permission.

Severus had allowed himself to be placated.

He raised himself onto his toes—a cluster of journalists was waiting off-stage and Severus couldn’t see where Crawford had disappeared. He dodged impatiently around the wizards in front of him and strode around the outskirts of the slowly dispersing crowd, heading toward the stage. As he made his way up, he found temporary barricades had been erected nearer to the dais, forcing Severus to re-route himself toward the rear of the stage. He was still many yards away when he caught sight of Harry, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest, half-hidden by a curtain.

It seemed the media hadn’t discovered him, for he was quite alone, and Severus began walking purposefully toward him. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps, though, before he saw Crawford emerge. Severus stopped and narrowed his eyes—he watched Crawford’s face stretch into an easy smile.

From this distance Severus couldn’t hear what was being said, but he thought he could guess. Harry stood awkwardly as Crawford embraced him. Severus stiffened; his stomach knotted as he observed Harry returning the gesture. But the boy was clearly uncomfortable; perhaps he sensed Severus was watching. Now Crawford was speaking; Severus saw him lean closer, looking earnest, concerned.

Very good, Severus thought as Harry shrugged, gazing down at the ground. A few moments later Harry glanced up; he started talking and Crawford stopped.

The boy talked at some length and gestured once or twice. Severus thought perhaps Harry was being apologetic. The notion galled and satisfied at once—and when it seemed Harry was finally done, Crawford was standing very still and very straight.

A man rebuffed, Severus thought idly to himself. He couldn’t deny that he was appeased by this turn of events—the young were known to be flighty and Potter was nothing if not young—

His eyes narrowed again as a new surge of noise floated from the stage. The reporters had found them—they were babbling out questions, snapping photographs. Severus’ jaw tightened when Crawford threw an arm around Harry, the easy grin back in place. Crawford answered some questions—Severus saw Harry nod a few times, wearing his uncertain—most appealing—smile. More pictures were taken, more questions shouted out. Harry bent his head toward Crawford’s ear, mouthing words; Crawford removed his arm from Harry’s shoulder and shook Harry’s hand, with his pleasant expression entirely natural, never once out of place. The man said something to the press, raising his voice over their questions, and they all scuttled off with him as he moved away, leaving Harry free to dart from the stage.

“What was that all about?” Severus demanded the instant Harry came within earshot. He strode forward and grabbed the boy’s arm, pulling them out of the path of others. “Was Crawford announcing your engagement to the press?” he sneered, struggling to pass off his unreasonable anger as sarcasm.

Harry shook off Severus’ hand. “No.”

Severus glowered and prepared to unleash the long list of reasons that had gathered in his mind as to why Harry should not have agreed to any meeting at all. He opened his mouth, clenched his fingers—

—and found Harry unclenching them, with careful hands.

“Don’t do that,” Severus said shortly, as Harry’s fingers twined with his. “You’ll aggravate the burns. They’re far from fully healed—”

“It’s okay,” the boy said, stepping a bit closer. “Holding hands with you makes it better.”

Severus huffed out a sceptical sound.

“I’m siphoning off your magic, see?” Harry looked over with his green eyes bright.

“Well, stop it,” Severus answered, sharpening his voice because he was feeling, too much, the softness in that gaze. To stop himself from pulling Harry to him, he asked, “What did you and Crawford discuss?”

Harry dropped his eyes.

“Did he ask to see you again?” Severus said roughly. “You did refuse him—”

“He didn’t ask to see me again!” Harry snapped. Severus peered at him, suspicious and perturbed, until Harry looked up. “All right!” Harry sighed. “He might’ve done but I explained the situation, you know, between us, and I said it wasn’t likely to change, and he asked me some things, and I told him what I thought—”

“The situation between you and me, or between you and Crawford?” Severus interrupted harshly. Harry’s cautious language and fidgeting feet indicated he was hiding something, and Severus could sense his own mind coiling for Legilimency.

“What, exactly, did you tell your enterprising young man?” He had dropped his voice to its quietest—most dangerous—tone.

He expected the boy to tense up; perhaps jerk away. Severus was aware that while it was no longer possible to retrieve all of himself, he could, at least, preserve his dignity—if Harry had left the way open for Crawford, however subtly, then perhaps a few heated words now would end the matter for good and spare Severus whatever agonies awaited in the future. He couldn’t be certain, but he had the strong premonition that a much-delayed change of heart by the boy would be—beyond tolerance. Severus would not find out.

To his surprise, Harry remained where he was, his eyes downcast and his fingers locked about Severus’.

“I told him I wouldn’t be thinking of anyone but you,” he murmured to the ground. Severus’ face didn’t register the surprise—and warmth—coursing through him at the words. He watched Harry’s chest rise as he inhaled, deeply. “And,”—the boy exhaled—”and that I love you.”

Harry shrugged a shoulder as he said this, his lowered lashes flicking a bit as he blinked. Severus blinked too—he realized suddenly, without probing the boy’s mind, that Harry was waiting. The little dolt was unsure, despite all Severus had done to make it perfectly clear.

“Are you seriously questioning whether your feelings are reciprocated?” Severus asked brusquely. He regretted it almost at once. The boy’s head had come up with a wide smile that was all the more pained for its patent falseness.

“Apologies,” Severus muttered, his throat flexing strangely. “I didn’t mean to be unkind.”

At this, Harry’s smile lit genuinely, and Severus’ throat eased. Then Harry laughed.

“Wow,” he said, eyes crinkling happily. “Unbelievable. So you’re actually going to be nice to me from now on, too? What more could I ask for?”

Severus drew the boy against him at last and cupped an arm around his back. “Nothing,” he growled, and he tilted his mouth down.

Those Who Are Vigilant - Part 6

dracofiend@gmail.com — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 02:16:29 GMT

TITLE: Those Who Are Vigilant
AUTHORS: dracofiend and the_con_cept (aka AbstractConcept)
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: Post-war AU; some themes relating to infidelity.
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc. etc.
BETA: angela_snape, and all remaining errors are ours.
SUMMARY: The defeat of Voldemort leads to the rise of an authoritarian regime within the wizarding world. As Scrimgeour’s Ministry grows ever more oppressive, Harry finds himself being pressed into a new battle by two men: one ambitious and untested, the other embittered and cynical.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Harry spent the next night with Ethan, curled on the couch, watching an old film and trying to pretend everything was normal. Everything was normal. Snape was being an utter bastard; how was that different than usual?

“You’re going to come to the protest outside Gringotts, aren’t you?” Ethan purred in his ear.

Harry blinked a little. Being at one of those stupid things would mean facing Snape, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see the man again. “I don’t think so,” he grunted.

“Come on,” Ethan cajoled. “It’s really big this time. I mean, we have a lot of people. They’re seizing assets, Harry. Even the goblins are furious. Think about it; it’s like overturning Switzerland, if Switzerland happened to be run by a lot of terrifying swarthy midgets. It’ll be in all the papers.”

“That’s just what I need,” Harry groaned.

Ethan took the opportunity to kiss Harry’s open mouth. “It might be. Just say you’ll drop in. Bring me lunch, would you? I’ll be there all day.”

Harry knew he was being had, but he had to admit there was something to be said for being had. Ethan’s tongue swept over the roof of his mouth, his fingers playing in the folds of Harry’s shirt. Small touches—touches that Harry ate up. God, he was starving for this. He reached up, pulled Ethan down into the kiss, tongue and lips and fingertips searching for something that wasn’t there. He groaned as Ethan’s hands skimmed down to his hips, which automatically canted up.

Harry sighed as Ethan mouthed a hot trail down the side of Harry’s neck.

On-screen, the black-and-white film rolled on, the blonde woman shaking her head, tears rolling down her face. Harry had no idea what was going on any more—not in the film, and not in real life. The woman seemed to be crying over the fact that the man she loved was leaving her for another woman—but she’d just got finished telling him she never wanted to see him again! If she really meant it . . . oh. On second thought, it did make a sort of sense. Sometimes it was just easier to push people away. Sometimes Harry wished he could push the whole fucking world away.

A bird flew past the window and Harry half sat up, thinking it was an owl.

“Everything all right?” Ethan asked solicitously.

Harry frowned, sinking back into Ethan’s arms. He’d never felt so hopelessly disconnected from the magical world.

“You’ll come, won’t you, Harry?” Ethan’s warm voice murmured in his ear.

“Maybe I’ll stop by,” Harry mumbled. “Just for a moment.”

Ethan’s mouth moved over Harry’s throat again, whispering or kissing, Harry couldn’t tell. He moved to the nape of Harry’s neck, sending a shivering army of goosepimples marching up and down Harry’s skin.

From the corner of his eye, Harry caught another flicker of movement outside the window, a fluttering velveteen shadow. His breath stopped, his eyes dilated, and his ears strained to hear anything out of place.

“What was that?” he muttered.

Ethan groaned in disappointment. “If you don’t want to, you only have to say,” he began, but Harry shoved him off like a sack of potatoes and shot to his feet. It was an owl!

Harry ran to the window and threw it open and the bird took flight, its great wings beating mighty arcs. Harry stared breathlessly after it. He wondered whom it belonged to. Then he glanced down and saw that, on the windowsill was a strange little thing, a fat thread of some kind. His hand went to it—he picked it up. It was an Extendable Ear, but not like the ones he’d seen in the past. This was almost unrecognizable, modified or charmed to blend into its background and to change in girth where Harry pinched it. It went right into the apartment.

Someone had heard all those little, meaningless incidents that made up Harry’s life. They’d eavesdropped on who knew what—ordering take-out, chatting with his boyfriend, having tea and watching the telly—all the trivial moments that, taken as a whole, stretched out into forever.

Shaking, Harry snatched up the thing and banished it, wandlessly.

“Harry? Everything all right?” Ethan sounded concerned.

Harry shut his eyes tightly, a knot of betrayal twisting like living poison in his stomach. He knew who’d put the Extendable Ear there. He knew perfectly well.

“No,” he ground out. “Everything is not all right.”

Ethan jumped to Harry’s side at once. “What? What is it?” he asked in alarm, seizing Harry’s arm.

Harry shook his head and held Ethan’s hand tightly. “No, it’s nothing like that—it’s—” He broke off, his mouth dry, and looked over at Ethan. “Just—I’ll be happy to come to Gringott’s tomorrow, okay? Just tell me what to do.”

OoOoOoOoO

The crowd was a many-headed beast, a writhing mishmash of colour and noise. Harry stared out at the shouting people and waving placards in bewilderment. “I’m so glad you’re here, Harry,” Ethan yelled over the noise, a mad gleam of excitement in his eyes. “We wouldn’t have gotten half so many to take notice if you hadn’t come.”

Harry’s heart was pounding furiously, his mouth dry. He abhorred being the centre of attention and felt miserable that they’d all come just to see him, as though he had some sort of special mental capabilities for decision-making that they did not. He was furious with the Ministry, but people should be able to figure right from wrong on their own.

There were Ministry officials hovering at the edges of the crowd like vultures—they’d been there before Harry and the others even turned up. Harry smiled sourly. Well, they knew what was planned, didn’t they? He probably wasn’t the only one whose home was being watched.

The crowd was growing restless, waiting for someone to get things rolling. Harry didn’t know what to do. Snape was supposed to speak today. Snape was supposed to go first. Harry didn’t relish the idea of meeting the man again, but they were both on the same side and he was mature enough to deal with it. But where was Snape? Surely he hadn’t chickened out? Just because he and Harry had had a fallout?

Harry watched as Fred and George pushed their way through the crowd and hurried up to the makeshift stage, followed closely by Hermione, who was tugging Ron along. Fred grabbed Ethan and hissed something into his ear. “What’s going on?” Harry asked, his stomach abruptly feeling shivery. Something wasn’t right. “Ron—aren’t you supposed to be at the Ministry?”

“He’s resigned his position,” Hermione said, sounding determined despite her obvious anxiety. “He can’t continue his employment there in good conscience.”

“Oh,” Harry said, glancing at Ron.

“Right,” Ron muttered, through a somewhat pained expression. “Er,” he continued as Hermione turned to him with assessing eyes. “The Ministry are blatantly usurping ordinary freedoms merely for the sake of reinforcing the status quo.” He paused in his recital, then admitted in a lower voice, “It’s—it’s got to be quite bad, actually. Some of the documentation I’ve seen—inadvertently, of course—well, I don’t know, Harry, but it seems the world may be due for another saving.”

Harry looked at him dubiously. “In that case,” he answered, “where the fuck is Snape?”

“They took him last night!” George said, while Fred and Ethan carried on with their fierce gesticulations.

“They what?” Harry burst out. “How? On what charge?”

“Don’t really bother with that sort of thing any more, do they? Listen Harry,” George continued anxiously. “We’d arranged to meet with Kingsley before all this with Snape happened—it’s getting out of hand. And now we’ve got to go see him before the Ministry makes it impossible for Kingsley to help—I don’t think he knows yet about Snape. If it’s okay, we’ll meet up with you here afterwards to regroup—think you’ll be all right?” Harry nodded immediately; George clapped Harry’s shoulder firmly, then turned to his brothers and Hermione. The four of them hurried from the stage, looking unnerved.

Harry was furious and frightened. He turned to Ethan. “What do we do?”

Ethan looked grimly determined. “They think we’re leaderless without him. We’ll show them! We can more than take up the slack!”

Harry ground his teeth. “But what’ll we do about Snape?”

Ethan looked surprised. “He knows the risks. I suppose we could take the anarchists’ route and try to take Azkaban, but even with the public back on our side, I don’t think it’d work.”

“Wait—so we’re not going to get him—” Harry began angrily, but suddenly there was a strong grip on his arm and he looked up to see Savage. “What are you doing?” he demanded as the Auror struggled to get him off the stage.

“You’re under arrest for inciting a rebellion, fraternizing with Death Eaters, and treason against the Wizarding government!” he said loudly. “We’ve been watching your movements very closely, Mr. Potter,” he added. “We have substantial proof that you intended to overturn the government and seat yourself at the head!” he shouted for the benefit of the crowd.

Harry laboured to get free, but the man had an inhuman grip—probably some kind of charm. When Harry tried to speak, he was magically silenced. Looking over his shoulder he could see the others who’d been waiting at the edge of the stage being dragged along.

“We know everything about you!” Savage was roaring. “All about your homosexual trysts and sado-masochistic games!”

Harry thrashed, uselessly, his anger overwhelming the silencing charm placed on him. “What the FUCK are you talking about? That has nothing to do with—and what’ve you done with Snape?” he shouted into Savage’s ear. “I don’t know what you’ve been telling everyone—what the Ministry has been telling you—” Harry turned to holler at the crowd, whose placard-waving had wilted as the confused people looked on—”but none of it’s TRUE! I don’t care about your stupid government—I never HAVE! Getting rid of Voldemort was just something I had to do because he was going to kill everyone I—”

“So it was all you, then, was it?” sounded an outraged anonymous voice from the crowd. “You and you alone defeated You-Know-Who, eh? And what about my son? What about my Davy who was killed by a Death Eater, trying to help Harry Potter in his—”

But the rest of the words were drowned out by wails—deep calls of hatred, of protest, of heartbroken families, thundering, too deafening for Harry to overcome.

“NO!” Harry tried anyway, wriggling in the grasp of the Auror as he was dragged across the wooden boards. “No! That’s not what I meant! I’m just—I’m not trying to take OVER, you have to LISTEN to me, please! Please!”

The Auror jerked him roughly and Harry choked on his unheard defences, thinking of Snape and where he was and realizing, all at once, that Snape would’ve known this was exactly how it’d end.

Harry twisted around to glance despairingly over the crowd, which was shouting angrily and milling about in confusion. Rita Skeeter was writing furiously; with her spin the entire rebellion could be quashed by tomorrow morning’s news.

Savage’s arms wrapped tightly around him, almost a parody of a loving embrace. Harry grimaced and wished he knew where he was being taken. As though he could hear Harry’s thoughts, the Auror explained. “You’re all going to Azkaban, of course,” he said, a smile in his voice.

OoOoOoOoO

Snape sat with his back to the wall, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. The last time he’d been in Azkaban, he had been prepared to die. Now it was worse. Now, despite himself, there were things he cared about, things he wanted to see accomplished. He didn’t doubt they’d execute him soon, damn his brilliant intellect and the sense he’d tried to make them see. Man was nothing if not wasteful.

Strangely, it was the rabble-rousers that stood out in his mind. He kept trying to think about all the things he’d never have to suffer again, like Malfoy’s shudder-inducing whinging, empty promises and empty beds, but like a phoenix, the memory of the rabble-rousers kept growing wings and taking flight, burning away all other thought.

They were only children.

What had he gotten them into?

Severus was plunged into fits of shivering as Dementors swirled outside his window, sending his stomach plummeting. When the Dementors glided on, the anger rose up in his chest, hot black bile and acid fury. He vacillated between the two extremes, rocking a little against the stone and feeling clammy and bitter.

He should have given up long ago. He should have moved on and left them to themselves. They had to learn the hard way, all of them—especially Potter.

Snape’s face twisted as he envisioned Potter looking down at him—looking down on him. The wretched creature was so credulous he’d gulp down whatever story the Ministry fed him. And Snape hadn’t helped matters with his jealousy and tantrums. It had been stupid, refusing to see Potter again—Potter had been the one good ally he’d had, and of course he’d ruined things.

Here in the gloomy chill, he found himself ruefully unfurling the tapestry of his memories—Potter curled up to his back, warm body pressed close, Potter and his puppyish smile and unflagging good cheer; Potter and his adventurous nature, his adventurous hands, his adventurous tongue . . .

Snape shook his head to clear the cobwebs of silly, schoolboy love away. That Potter was gone. He’d been too gregarious, too naive. He’d been taken over by the establishment, now ready to use his toothy grin as the poster-boy of the new Ministry. He was too easily swayed—although his boyfriend—Severus’ lip rose in a sneer—might’ve put an end to that. Crawford had had a persuasive way of speaking—Severus recalled the shine in his face as he’d laid out his proposals, the familiar glint of ambition that underlay the ready smile. Severus had known better than to place unqualified trust in that sort of smile—but then, he’d been taken in by such things before. If only he’d been able to get to Potter first—to convince him, win him over…but he’d been unwilling to plead and then he’d cut the boy out and now…

Potter had obviously moved on, anyway. God only knew how many other men he’d been fucking. The next time they met, if they should meet again, Harry would probably be cold, reserved. He would give Snape that baleful glare he’d offered up so often as a child, unable to see that, while not necessarily nice, Snape was still perfectly capable of being good. Of being right.

Snape could picture the revulsion on Harry’s face . . .

“Snape?” The dumbfounded voice snapped the man from his self-indulgent anguish, and he looked up to see Harry, not hateful or cold, but surprised and very annoyed.

“Potter?”

The boy was pushed into the cell, followed by others—Crawford, Martin, and nearly all of Snape’s little minions. They looked very small and frightened. Azkaban often had that effect.

“I suppose no introductions are needed,” Savage said with a laugh. He and a fellow Auror shut the cell door with a clang, still grinning widely as they walked away.

Snape schooled his face, gazing coolly at Potter. For a moment, he thought Harry would throw himself into Snape’s arms, but the time for it passed unrealised. “I can’t turn my back on you for a moment, can I?” he asked archly.

Harry shifted miserably from one foot to the other. “I didn’t even know they’d taken you,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Standing, Snape brushed himself off. “I did not expect you to,” he replied sourly. “I’ve learnt to expect nothing from you.”

He might as well have stuck a knife in the boy. The wide, wounded eyes that raked Snape made the man look away. “I would have done something, you know,” Harry said quietly.

“Celebrate, no doubt.”

“Fuck, why do you always have to be such a mean shit?” Harry burst out.

Crawford reached out instantly to steel the boy, his strong hands gripping Harry’s shoulders. He pulled Harry back, soothing, murmuring. Harry shut his eyes briefly and Snape felt a throb of aching envy that Crawford could manage that—could tame Harry, charm him, placate him when all Severus had ever managed was to bring Harry to greater heights of ire.

Potter, for all his strength and bloody stubbornness, was like a bird, something built to be fast and free, something meant to have its own way. Perhaps Crawford had understood that, had allowed Harry to alight when he would, without pushing for more. Severus had tried, tried his damnedest to do the same, resisting the urge to call for Harry, to track him, to uncover every hidden thing he claimed he didn’t care to know. And now he wanted nothing more than to snap the brittle bones, tear them from Crawford and crush them in his own hands.

Snape sighed. It was sick, he knew it. He resolved to stop indulging in such ludicrous sentiments.

He didn’t realize he was staring at Harry until the boy’s face softened a little. “You’re bloody good at being prickly, you know that?” Harry said. “It’s almost like it’s an art with you.”

“Still less obnoxious than neo-cubism,” Snape retorted, slightly more at ease.

“Shouldn’t we be figuring out what to do next?” Ethan broke in.

“We sit and we rot,” Snape replied hotly, beginning to pace. “What was your plan? We can’t exactly stroll out of here.”

“Yes, we can.”

Snape looked up sharply.

Martin was beside the cell door, his eyes alight with excitement. The door was open wide. “They left it unlocked,” he said breathlessly.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, because it amuses them to see the more brainless of their captives run into the arms of the Dementors. They’ve already put in their bets on who’ll be first—I believe you’re the current favourite.”

“Oh,” Martin said quietly. He swung the door shut again, taking care not to let it clang.

Harry frowned—there was no call for that attitude when Martin and the rest of them were obviously terrified. He remembered what it was like to suddenly be in way over his head and opened his mouth to tell Snape to lay off, but Ethan spoke first.

“We’re obviously not going to hang around here,” Ethan said grimly, striding through the scared faces up to Snape. He turned to them with the defiant expression of a rebel leader, his jaw set with grime and courage, his fists knotted at his sides. “The first thing we have to do is calm down and think—we have to get past the Dementors and up the stairs where we came—”

“A task so simple I waited for you lot to arrive,” Snape said dryly, “as it’s so much more exciting to do when others are watching.”

“—and then we’ll have to get past the Aurors,” Ethan continued, talking over Snape. “It won’t be easy—” he paused briefly and flicked his eyes to where Snape stood “—but I know we’re going to do it. We’ve worked too hard, fought too long against the Ministry to be silenced and stuffed away in Azkaban like this.” His voice thickened into a warm, resounding sound that echoed like a lantern in the dark. “They have no right to do this to us, or to anyone out there—because just as magic is not might, might does not make right—and we are the ones who can’t let people forget. We are the ones who have to make it back outside—only we know what’s really going on here. And we will. We will make it back out. All of us.”

There was a damp, heavy silence. Snape snorted.

“Right,” Ethan said, ignoring it. “Severus, can you tell us what you’ve learned so far?”

“Other than the fact that you’ll get them all killed?” Snape responded icily. “Spouting rubbish like that—”

“Do you how many Dementors they’ve got around here?” Ethan asked, only the faintest trace of impatience bleeding through his tone. “And how many Aurors are stationed here at a time?”

Harry and the youth held their collective breath when Snape didn’t respond. There was a snapping of robes—then Snape’s tight voice said, “Yes.”

OoOoOoOoO

They were huddled in the dank of a cell—not the one they’d been shut in, but one a bit farther up, a bit closer to the stairwell that led to the doorway to freedom. The strength of their combined Patronuses had been just enough to keep the Dementors at bay long enough for them to dart through—but the Dementors would be back, and soon.

“We’ve rested enough. We have to keep moving,” Ethan muttered aloud. He was in charge now, and it seemed to suit him well. Harry wasn’t surprised—what did surprise him was Snape’s apparent willingness to let Ethan go ahead. It was if Snape didn’t care if they made it out or not—but Harry knew that wasn’t true. Maybe Snape had a plan that he was keeping to himself—maybe it was something he knew Ethan wouldn’t like and he didn’t want to argue in front of Martin and his friends…Not for the first time, Harry wished Ron and Hermione were with him.

“So move,” Snape returned, shifting in the far corner. Harry imagined he was shivering like the rest of them—he was sure Ethan was too, though he gripped Harry’s hand too tightly for Harry to be sure.

“We can’t all go at once,” Ethan replied after a moment. “I think the Dementors can sense us more strongly when we’re in the corridors, so we’ll have to be quicker.” He fell silent, as if waiting for Snape to interject. When no scornful noise came from the other wall, Ethan went on. “I’ll go first and take half of you with me—we’ll head for the largest cell five blocks down, on the left. I’ll send my Patronus down when the coast is clear, and the rest of you can follow.” He stopped again, squeezing Harry’s hand in his. Harry thought it felt slightly warmer, and squeezed back.

“Who wants to come with me?” Ethan asked. The scurrying of feet started up immediately as Martin and all his friends stood up together. Beneath the scuffling, Harry heard Snape’s low chuckle.

Ethan chuckled as well. “You can’t all come,” he said, sounding pleased. “Why don’t—” He rose and grouped most of the youths into a cluster—“you all come with me. The rest of you wait—Severus will take you after. Get your wands ready—be ready to focus—we’re making history here, just remember that—” He broke off as Harry’s fingers slipped from his palm.

“Good idea, Harry, why don’t you bring up the rear,” Ethan said as he moved toward the cell door, trailed by the kids.

“Actually,” Harry began, trying not to sound hesitant. Now wasn’t the time. “I think I’d better go with the second group. You know—because the Dementors will already know we’re on the move again once you’ve gone…”

Ethan looked at Harry—his eyes moved to Snape, in the corner behind. For an instant, Harry felt every vein constrict—Ethan knew he knew he was leaning close to say he knew—

“Look, you can count on Severus—he’ll get them through all right,” Ethan murmured, smiling against Harry’s cheek.

Ethan stepped back—Harry’s eyes flared wide in relief, and the rush was so great he didn’t think to point out that he did count on Snape, unquestionably.

“All right,” Ethan said, for everyone to hear. “That makes sense—you go with Severus. Everyone else, come with me.” He reached up and squeezed Harry’s shoulder—for a second Harry thought Ethan was about to kiss him and he started to duck away, instinctively—but the other man only nodded and turned to the door. “Let’s go.”

The little cluster gathered around Ethan—a wave of his raised wand and they melted into the hall.

Harry watched them slink away, the tense ball in his stomach expanding heavily. If anything should happen, Ethan would be first—he was in front, and the others behind him wouldn’t know what to do…Harry crouched down where he’d been sitting with Ethan, already missing the comfort of the body beside him. The rebel youths who’d remained were whispering to each other, standing near the door but not too near, as if afraid a Dementor might pop out of thin air. Harry didn’t have the energy to tell them not to worry, Dementors didn’t need the element of surprise—but it was pointless, anyway. It was easier on them all if they just waited, and worried, until Ethan’s Patronus came to summon them.

Harry glanced over to where Snape sat, his arms around his knees, barely visible in the low light. The paleness of his forehead stood out starkly beneath his hair, which clung to his jaw in so many dirty skeins. Harry found himself thinking of how they felt on his neck.

“Don’t bloody stare, Potter,” Snape suddenly muttered. The rebels at the door went quiet at the sound. “You can carry on, I was talking to Potter,” Snape snapped at them, raising his head. They were hushed a moment more, then resumed their rapid-fire whispering.

Harry shifted his legs, debating whether to go over. He didn’t have anything to say, really, but he didn’t like sitting alone.

“Then come here, twit,” Snape muttered irritably. “Your lack of sparkling conversation never stopped you before.”

Harry’s eyes shot up—he glared with hostility at Snape’s obscured face.

“Doing a little Legilimency to pass the time?” he hissed, stalking across to Snape. He noticed Snape’s followers had stopped whispering again and were looking at him, but he didn’t care.

“Hardly,” Snape drawled. “There’s no need for Legilimency when eyes will do. You’ve been gazing rather longingly at this bit of mouldy prison cell—I suppose the grass is always greener, eh?” The mocking voice turned sneering as Snape lifted his chin.

Harry had opened his mouth in aggravation—now he closed it and dropped to the flagstones beside Snape. “I wasn’t staring,” he mumbled.

Snape let out a sound of contempt.

“I just—don’t see the point of…of staying over there when we might well die any second—”

“Careful,” Snape cut in, still mocking. “Crawford wouldn’t approve of sensible talk like that.”

Harry’s brows went up as he whipped his neck around. “What are y—Ethan’s trying to get us out of here and you know he’s smart, he knows what he’s doing—”

“Smart, yes,” Snape said softly. “Smart enough to ensnare you; I’m not certain, however—”

“Ensnare?” Harry had to force his voice down. “You know, I don’t fucking get you, Snape. I’ve known you practically all my life and I just don’t get you—not that it makes any difference because you’ve never trusted me with anything, not even when we were fucking—”

Snape moved suddenly—jerked up an arm—and Harry clamped his mouth closed for a beat before rushing on. “Not that it matters to you—nothing about—about me has ever really mattered to you—but he didn’t ensnare me any more than you did.”

Harry had run out of air saying this; he could do nothing but gulp in fury and horror at the words that had slipped out.

Snape’s eyes had turned to him, black and judgemental and pressing down on him hard—his lips pursed, deepening the lines in his face.

“I beg to differ,” he said slowly, and denial immediately flooded Harry’s throat, too fast and rough for Harry to cough up, but the fact was that he hadn’t, Ethan hadn’t ensnared him, whatever Snape thought, and Harry was still reeling at the realization that yes, he cared about Ethan but that wasn’t it, Ethan wasn’t it—

“They made it!” called out a trembling voice by the door. “Look!”

Harry and Snape swivelled their heads to look—a magnificent silver falcon was swooping down the corridor, its wingtips of light brushing the rusted bars. The rebel youths gazed, entranced, then scrambled to follow as it circled back from where it came.

“Stop!” Snape barked, striding to the door in a whirl of black. He pushed through the youths and stepped into the hall—Harry had come with him, but now he stayed by the cell door to keep the others back, although he was well-aware the bars would provide little protection if it was a trap.

Snape gestured with a wrist without glancing back. “Come quickly—Potter, you’re last. If I cast, then do the same. If Potter and I are incapacitated, then scatter—look for Crawford five blocks down, to the left.” He set off without another word.

OoOoOoOoO

Snape cut soundlessly through the musty air of the hall, holding his wand at the ready as his eyes swept from one stone arch to the next, straining for any sign of movement. He was certain he could sense Potter watching him, the gaze pinned to his neck, his back—Potter should’ve been watching the other children in front of him. Snape was tempted to say so aloud.

Instead, he continued forward, striding as swiftly as he dared. He didn’t spare a moment to glance at the youths behind him, or to regret his near-admission to Potter, in the cell. Severus appreciated the irony of it—the fact that only a reckless brat without any convictions could come so close to drawing such a thing from him, aided by neither potion nor charm.

Other than the charm of his incoherent babblings, some snide bit of his mind snickered at him. Severus narrowed his eyes at the undisturbed dust on the threshold he’d reached and stopped abruptly.

Someone bumped into him; he spun around.

“This isn’t the way,” he said sharply. “They must’ve changed course.”

“But Ethan said—”

“He changed his mind,” Severus cut whoever it was off. “No one has come this way for some time.” He pushed through the children to where Potter stood, looking determined and vaguely uncertain.

“Get back there,” Severus ordered. “We’re taking a different way out.”

Potter’s forehead crinkled. “I don’t think there’s another way—”

“This is Azkaban,” Severus answered shortly. “There’s always another way.”

Potter opened his mouth; Severus steeled himself for the challenge—but then the boy simply frowned and turned away.

“You heard him,” Potter told the others. “Let’s get back in line—keep your eyes open.”

“Do you think something happened to them?” someone half-whispered. Severus glanced down to an anxious face.

“It depends on whether Crawford is the flighty indecisive sort who would veer off course without warning,” Severus said crisply, “But I defer to Potter on that question.” He kept his expression unchanged except for a wry twitch at the corner of his mouth. No one saw but the boy, who was staring at him from across the little cluster of children who had still to re-form the line.

“He’s not,” Potter said stonily.

“Then in all probability something has happened to them and we shouldn’t waste any more time,” Severus said curtly. He whirled around and moved on. No one said anything as they rearranged themselves and fell into muffled steps behind him.

They had retraced their path to where another corridor intersected it; Severus led them to the right, toward the front of the prison. Several minutes passed in silence except for the hushed treading of their feet—not a sound, not a Dementor-made chill halted their progress.

“It’s too easy,” Severus muttered after several minutes more. They were well on their way to the stairwell, and they hadn’t seen any sign of the others. He’d been suspicious from the moment the child Martin had found the cell door unlocked, but surely the Ministry wouldn’t be so obvious as that? And yet, here they were, scurrying to apparent freedom without having confronted a single obstacle…Severus tightened the grip on his wand and hoped Potter was right about Crawford knowing what he was doing. Crawford was shrewd, he would’ve expected the Ministry to play these sorts of games—but he had led the others on ahead when he’d found the way clear…

“Be alert,” he hissed over his shoulder, startling the girl directly behind him. “This is likely a trap.”

“What?” the girl whispered—and the shout Severus had been waiting for rang out from the dark.

“STOP!” the voice bellowed from the hall past Potter. “Stop—”

But they’d already started running. Severus knew there were probably Aurors in every hallway around them, waiting to provoke them into firing the first curse. He led them away from the central door they’d been trying to reach, across uneven stone.

“Disarming spells ONLY!” he bellowed as they raced past empty cells. “No one casts a curse!” It would give the Aurors carte blanche to use anything they liked in the name of self-defence —the writing was on the wall and it told a plausible story of detainees held for mere questioning, a reckless few who tried fleeing instead of simply cooperating and had brought tragedy on themselves…

Severus whipped around a corner into three Aurors, their wands drawn.

“Gotcha,” one snarled, flicking his—

“EXPELLIARMUS!” Severus cried—as did Potter and the rest. The Aurors staggered back—their wands were yanked from their hands as if by an invisible fist. Severus rushed through them.

“Accio wands!” he shouted, catching the fallen wands in his left hand as they dodged down the hall.

“No!” someone screamed suddenly, a shrill frightened child. Severus spun at once to see the girl who’d been behind him struggling with an Auror. The Auror was wrenching her arm as she flailed in his grasp. “Relash—” Severus was casting when the girl swung with her wand.

“Reducto!” she screamed. The Auror was blasted back in a shower of orange sparks. They lit up his throat and Potter’s glasses as Potter darted to them and grabbed the girl’s hand.

“Come on!” he shouted—Severus raced on.

He glanced behind him now, every few seconds, to check on those behind him—that Auror had been injured, or possibly worse—his fellows would respond with spells considerably more severe. He had to get them all out; the longer the children remained the more likely they were to get killed…except perhaps for Potter, whose luck had yet to run its course. Severus cursed himself again for agreeing to that rally when he’d known all along that it was the wrong time for such a public demonstration—

“Ethan!” Potter shouted from several lengths behind. “Snape, they’re down there!”

Severus skidded to a stop as the youths behind him scrambled.

“Snape, there’s something—” Potter called as he vanished into the nearest side corridor. Severus dashed after the children who already dashing after the boy, grinding his teeth and fearing the worst. The faint sound of panicked yells quickened all of their steps as they threaded into the dim narrow space. Severus could barely make out Potter’s wild hair, its jagged outline bobbing as he ran well ahead.

“Potter!” Severus shouted, to call the boy back. Potter disappeared around the curve of the corridor. “Hurry!” barked Severus to the youths blocking his way.

They all tumbled into the vaguely brighter hall a few moments later to see Crawford and several others grappling with Aurors.

“No don’t!” Crawford was shouting as Harry flung out his wand. “Don’t attack—”

“STUPEFY!” Harry roared.

“Potter you idiot—” Severus shouted with Crawford, unheard as the boy roared “STUPEFY! STUPEFY!” The three Aurors flew into the cell bars behind them and crumpled to the ground.

“All you all right?” Potter panted, rushing to Crawford. Severus watched them embrace as the others surrounded them, fear and concern glistening in the sweat on their faces. Severus’ jaw flexed as Crawford’s face eased—he couldn’t bear to look at Potter’s undoubtedly adoring eyes as the blond reached up and squeezed Potter’s shoulder.

“We’re all right,” Crawford said, managing a slight smile. He wiped at a grimy streak on his forehead and glanced around. “A bit shaken, but intact. How about you?” He looked behind the boy to Severus, who stared back without a word.

“We’re fine,” the boy replied. Severus’ lips tightened at the breathless tone.

“We are not,” Severus gritted out. “Because you have just assaulted three of the Ministry’s finest in a clear act of treason. In a matter of hours the entire force will be down here to execute you on the spot.”

“I had to!” Potter began. “Let them come!” Crawford said grimly at almost the same time. “It’s what they wanted, isn’t it?” he said, looking at Severus now, his fingers still curled around Potter’s shoulder. “To force us into defending ourselves so they could try to wipe us out? It’s a pathetic excuse to set hundreds of Aurors against twenty of us—”

“Not so pathetic, considering Potter’s here,” Severus cut in dryly. “I don’t think anyone would blame the Ministry for taking extra precautions in securing the most powerful wizard alive, who has revealed a rabid devotion to the anarchists’ cause.”

“I’m not—”

“We’re not far from the stairwell,” Severus continued, ignoring Potter’s protest. “If we can make it to the upper level before reinforcements arrive we’ll have a much better chance of—”

“You’re still thinking of leaving?” Crawford interrupted. “No, Severus. We can’t leave now. It’s no good running—they’ll find us no matter what, hunt us down…retreating now will only give them time to manipulate the public—we should face up to them here, in the bowels of Azkaban—that’s the best way to get our point across—”

“It’s clear I’ve failed to get my point across,” Severus broke in harshly. “This is no longer about political ideology and cultivating rebellion—it’s about finding our way OUT of this hellhole before we have our souls sucked from our bodies!”

“How can you say that?” Crawford advanced toward him, releasing Potter’s shoulder, weaving past a few of the youths. “How can you lose sight of what we came here to do?”

“Came?” Severus nearly gaped. “None of us came here, Crawford—we were imprisoned. While you may see it as an ‘opportunity’ to turn the popular view to your favour, I am far more interested in staying alive—and ensuring that these children do the same.”

Crawford’ blue eyes went dangerously wide. “Not all of us care only about ourselves,” he said in a low almost-whisper. “Some of us are fully vested in promoting the greater—”

“I’m leaving,” Severus said abruptly. “Anyone who wishes to join me is welcome.” He spun around and stormed down the hall, toward where it joined the main corridor.

“You can’t just LEAVE!” Crawford’s voice rang out as the other man strode after him. “I thought you understood our goal requires cooperation—”

“Our goal—” Severus started snarling back, but then a coarse yell echoed from somewhere. There was a high-pitched yelp—an instant during which they all heard the clear scurrying of feet—a sickening thud and silence. Crawford darted out of sight toward where the sounds had come from; Potter went after him. Severus had no choice but to follow.

“Stupefy!”

Crawford had stunned a bearded Auror; he lay on his side at the far end of the square cell. The door to the cell hung partially open; Crawford and Potter and the rest clustered there, staring down.

“Martin?” someone whispered. “Oh my god….”

Severus pushed them aside roughly and crouched over the small form. It was the well-coiffed dim-witted one. Severus raised his head with a grimace.

“Is he dead?” Potter asked in a steady enough voice, though he’d gone paler than before.

Severus looked at him a moment, then nodded.

“Let’s go before more Aurors arrive,” he said quietly. He could see they were stunned to paralysis—all except Potter, and Crawford, whose jaw was working intently.

“We can’t,” Crawford said slowly. “This has gone too far. We’ve got to stay—show everyone we’re serious; we’re willing to die for what’s right.” He gazed around at them with glittering eyes while Severus looked on, incredulous that the man was still speaking.

“Listen to me—I know you’re all scared,” Crawford said, in a carefully distinct and gentle tone. “But if you ever knew Martin—if you ever cared about him—you’ll follow his example. He died for his beliefs—”

“His beliefs?” Severus finally regained his voice. “Martin has no beliefs because Martin is dead. Do you understand that? As we all will be, soon, if we continue indulging in your brand of short-sighted stupidity. Now come along, all of you—I won’t have any more of your blood on my hands…”

The children were hesitant, clearly frightened, but they edged toward Severus, most of them staring at Martin’s motionless body where it lay arched on the ground.

Crawford shook his head but came forward as well. “We shouldn’t stay here, you’re right about that much—but trying to escape is no longer the solution.” Surprisingly to Severus, he shut his mouth then and let Severus sweep to the front with the youths trailing behind. Severus glanced briefly over his shoulder and saw Crawford’s fingers circling Potter’s wrist. They whispered together—Severus looked away and forced the image of Martin—of Potter—from his mind.

OoOoOoOoO

“Are you all right?” Ethan murmured to him. Harry suppressed the flinch and let Ethan hold his hand.

“Fine,” he replied shortly. He’d watched plenty die during the battle against Voldemort. This was nothing new. Except it was, every time; it always felt fresh, somewhat different, and just as unbearable as it had been that first time.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Ethan said, leaning even closer.

Harry fought the urge to shake him off—he wanted to be alone, to let go a minute—but he knew that was impossible. “What for? It wasn’t your fault.”

“No. But I…” Ethan paused. Harry looked up and found him chewing on his lip, uncertain. It seemed strange on him. “I’m sorry all the same.”

Harry didn’t say anything and tried to walk a little faster. Snape was leading them toward the stairwell that led to the main floor; the flagstones underfoot were sloping ever so slightly upward. He couldn’t wait to get out. They continued winding their way in the low torchlight without speaking for a bit. Ethan had let go of Harry’s arm.

“Before…Martin told me you’d been spending a lot of time with Snape.”

The suddenness of the statement nearly had Harry stumbling. He kept his legs moving forward and his heart in his chest without quite knowing how.

“He said you used to see him just about every night.”

Harry was having trouble breathing—he couldn’t take this right now, with Martin’s dead body still vivid in his head, with Aurors and Dementors breathing down their backs, with the whole world hating him again…

“You’re with him, then?”

It was a question, and Ethan wasn’t talking any more. He was waiting for an answer, one that Harry knew he had long deserved to have. Harry took a deep chill breath through his nose.

“I meant to tell you sooner,” Harry started, feeling a little crazed but he had to start somewhere. “I—I really did. It was—it really all happened when we’d…when we—you and I— had stopped seeing each other, and I…I don’t know exactly why or how it all turned out the way it did but I ended up going back, a lot, you’re right, almost every night—”

He struggled to keep his lungs filled with air and dared a quick look over at Ethan, whose features were twisting with the flickering light.

“I couldn’t,” Harry shook his head, trying. “I couldn’t—stop. But then—then he found out about you, that night I ran into the two of you planning…and he hasn’t—we haven’t talked much since then.”

Ethan breathed heavily next to him. “You’ve—been sleeping with him,” he said in an oddly blank voice.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve—”

“I didn’t know.”

Harry’s chest caught. “You—” he choked, choked on the wrenching realization that Ethan had only been talking about politics, as always, as ever—

“I was only asking if you were on his side, or mine,” Ethan continued in the same disoriented tone. “As to whether we should stay or run.”

“Ethan…” Harry whispered, turning to look at the man’s neck. It was as far as he could get—his eyes wouldn’t travel farther.

“I guess…I have my answer.”

Harry saw Ethan’s throat swallow, then the blond ducked from Harry’s side and walked ahead briskly. Harry didn’t try to follow as he squeezed past a few others into the middle of the small throng.

OoOoOoOoO

There seemed to be extra tension in the air. Potter had hung back with Crawford, but now they had both caught up with the group and were being very careful not to meet each other’s eyes. Snape wished briefly that Potter would be more practical; they had quite enough on their plates without lovers’ spats.

Something glided down the corridor toward the group, and they found another passage branching off and took it quickly, feeling as though frost was forming on their backs. Snape’s entire body seemed to clench up in the effort to keep from shivering, the skin at the back of his neck all gooseflesh.

“Why are there so many Dementors?” one of the rebels moaned.

“And how do they keep them here, I wonder?” another added.

“They’re anchored,” Severus began to explain, then stopped. Someone walked into him from behind, nearly jarring the thought from his head.

“Anchored to what?” Potter asked obediently.

Snape didn’t answer for a long moment. “Dark magic,” he finally said. “Possibly a tome infused with dark magic, used to bind them here.”

Crawford looked irritated. “Does it really matter right now?”

Snape could feel himself tremble with anger—did the young fool really not understand? But then Potter spoke up, looking hesitant and pensive. “You want to use it for something else, don’t you?”

Letting out a long breath, Snape nodded. Of course Potter had seen the point straightaway—Potter knew Snape was looking for a weapon. “Destroying the book—the lynch pin, if you would—would almost certainly destroy the Dementors as well. There’s a good chance it would also bring Azkaban down round our ears, of course. Demolishing a powerful magical object releases its confined internal potent—”

“You mean it would blow up,” Harry interrupted, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Yes.”

“There would still be the Aurors to deal with,” Crawford pointed out impatiently.

“Not, I believe, for very long. Once the Dementors began winking out of existence they would almost certainly realize what had happened, and clear out. The chain reaction would take another few minutes, but it’s possible it would be enough to see—everyone—safely out.”

“You think we could destroy the book?” Harry asked.

“The Dementors would ‘wink’ out of existence?” Crawford asked. “How do you know? How can you be sure?” he challenged, glaring. Severus raised a brow at the man’s sudden vehemence. He ignored Crawford and focused his attention on Potter.

“It would take,” Snape said slowly, “a good deal of energy. Raw power, I think, concentrated and focused in exactly the correct place.”

One of the rabble nervously shifted weight from one foot to the other and back again. “So—so what do we have to do?”

“We will not be doing anything,” Snape said immediately. “You should all be gathering your wits, preparing to run when the moment strikes. If you can manage that much, I’ll be impressed indeed. I believe I’m the only one with the faintest clue of how to go about locating the anchor—”

“Just a minute—” Crawford cut in, bristling.

“—although destroying the object,” Snape went on, eyes drifting involuntarily toward Potter, “may require—”

“I’ll come with you,” Harry said firmly.

“You don’t even want to be here,” Snape retorted. “You think it’s a lot of nonsense.”

“Fighting is always a lot of nonsense,” Harry replied, setting his jaw. “That doesn’t keep anyone from doing it.”

“You haven’t the concentration for this sort of thing.”

“Snape, you can’t do it on your own, you said so yourself—”

“I wasn’t asking you to throw your hat in—”

“I’m going!”

There was a pregnant pause, and the entire group went still, and quiet for once. They all looked at Crawford, whose face had darkened with the force of his words.

“I’m going to get rid of the Dementors so we can face the Aurors, straight-on, and finally take the stand we’ve only been talking about for far too long,” Crawford spat, whirling to look at Severus and Harry, and the cluster of youths drew back slightly from him.

Severus kept his face impassive as Potter leapt forward.

“Ethan, don’t be stupid,” the boy hissed, grabbing Crawford’s arm. Snape pressed his lips together in comprehension—so Potter had chosen this time of crisis to reveal all, and pretty Ethan Crawford wasn’t taking the news well. He watched with growing irritation as Crawford shook Harry off.

“A little late for that, don’t you think?” Crawford was sneering. “Since I’ve been stupid all along, what difference will it make if I’m—”

“You don’t know what you’re doing—” Harry replied, whispering violently, though everyone could hear with perfect clarity what they were saying. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Severus would’ve laughed.

“I know exactly what I’m doing!” Crawford hissed back, yanking Potter aside for some semblance of privacy. “I’m going to go with Snape and we are going to blow up this magical anchor or tome or whatever so you can get your sorry arse out of here along with everyone else’s because even though you’ve been fucking around with me I actually care about you and I’m not letting you—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Potter broke in angrily. “I don’t know what you really care about, I can’t tell if it’s the cause or your own glory or—”

“That’s enough!” Snape snapped. He could tolerate no more of this and he moved swiftly between them. “Potter, you’re with me. Crawford, take the children. Find the safest way out and be ready to use it—”

“I don’t think so,” Crawford cut in dangerously. “You’re not cutting me out of this too—either you’re coming with me or I’m going alone—”

“I’m not on a personal crusade against you, Crawford—” Severus was in the midst of retorting when the blast of terror slammed through them all.

Severus knew immediately that it was a matter of seconds before the Dementors descended, a large flock of them, from every side. His lungs seized in fear—he had to get Potter out—all the children—

“Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, spinning. His Patronus charged forth on doe-light feet, streaking against the dark shapes in a broad silver arc. Behind him, Potter was yelling the same, and Severus felt the icy tremors ease as the swift swaths of brightness formed a circle around them. The others were shouting, panicking at the suddenness of the attack and the deluge of fears springing to life in their minds. Over the shrieks and scuffling feet, Severus could hear Crawford’s voice, commanding the children to summon their Patronuses.

The stag and doe matched each other stride for stride, galloping furiously to drive the Dementors away. Overhead a great falcon soared, diving at the billowing figures, which would leap back as if burned, but only for a moment.

“There are too many!” Potter yelled desperately, whipping his wand to drive his stag harder. Dementors seemed to be spilling from the ceiling, the floor, the cracks in the walls, rushing at them with greater number and speed as each second passed. Other silver forms were now joining the fray, but none were so blindingly substantial as the falcon, stag, and doe.

“We can’t let them hold us here!” Severus shouted, turning to glance behind him. Crawford was at the far side of passage, near to one exit with the children clustered close, guiding his Patronus with sharp flicks of his wand. Potter stood behind Severus still, not an arm’s length away. “The Aurors—”

The boy had been casting with his back to Severus and in the next instant a black-hooded figure was bearing down on the boy, one scaly hand reaching out to grasp. Fresh terror flooded Severus as Potter’s Patronus flickered and slowed.

“Potter!” Severus cried. “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Not one but two dazzling shapes descended, blasting the Dementor from its hold on Potter’s robes. Severus’ pulse returned when the boy shook his head, blinking, and Severus’ doe turned aside to fend off another Dementor as Crawford’s falcon looped back over Potter’s head.

“Harry!” Crawford shouted. Severus looked over to see Crawford lunging toward them. A girl’s scream stopped him cold.

“Behind you!” Severus barked at the same time Potter yelled “Watch out!”

The blond pivoted sharply, slicing the air with his wand—his falcon wheeled before him, buffeting three Dementors back. The girl screamed again—she was a few feet from Crawford, and at her feet slumped a boy, nearly obscured beneath the fluttering robes of the Dementor, crouching over him.

“Crawford, get them out of here!” Severus shouted as the silver falcon dipped, chasing the Dementor from the fallen boy’s form. Crawford was bending to lift the boy up; Potter was casting his Patronus rapid-fire—the fallen boy was on his feet, the girl was sobbing into Crawford’s sleeve, Crawford had his arms around them both and was snapping Your Patronuses! to all the children even while Severus shouted at him.

“Take the passage behind you!” Severus called urgently. “We—” He stopped to thrust his doe at oncoming Dementors. “We’ll keep the way clear—disperse the Dementors—”

“No!” Crawford hollered back desperately, taking his eyes from the struggle in front of him. “I’m going with you—”

“Ethan!” shouted a boy’s voice, followed by a frantic “Expecto Patronum!” The boy’s Patronus—a ram—was becoming indistinct; Dementors were closing in more quickly than the falcon could fly. Potter must’ve seen it too because the next second, the silver stag was dashing around Ethan and the children, its great antlers lowered outward at the tide of shadows. Severus focused on keeping his own Patronus close to Potter and himself—one wouldn’t be enough against this many Dementors for longer than a few moments.

“Go!” he ordered Crawford. “There’s no time to waste—you’ll know when we’ve gotten rid of the tome, make for the exit—”

“No!” Ethan shouted again, twisting and turning to defend. “No! Harry—”

“Please Ethan, just go!” Harry shouted back. “They won’t make it without you—none of us will—so please Ethan, please, hurry up and go!” The anguish in his voice was a lover’s plea and it jolted Severus’ teeth, even in the midst of fighting for their lives. Severus saw the blond look over at Potter; Ethan’s face was taut with fear. His brightened eyes flashed from Potter to Severus and back again, furious.

“I WON’T!” Crawford roared. The force of his words seemed to propel him forward, toward Potter, even as the Dementors pressed in. “You don’t deserve it but I won’t—”

“How much do you care for him?” Severus cut in, his voice impatient because they would perish and his chest thrumming because ah, yes, he’d found the proper screw to tighten and tighten it he would, for all their sakes’. “If it’s so little as Potter tells me then by all means, stay!”

He could feel Harry’s eyes swing fast to him as Crawford’s head turned to Potter. The rage in Crawford’s face condensed into a tormented hopelessness. Then he called to the others.

“All of you!” Crawford shouted, his voice ringing out. “With me! This way, through the hall!” He whirled and his falcon swooped low, keeping the Dementors from the mouth of the passage as the children ran for it. “Quickly! Watch your backs!” Severus heard him shout before he disappeared from sight, following the last of the children into the passageway. The silver falcon lingered, sweeping left and right across the opening of the passage, to be joined by the stag and doe.

“Potter!” Severus called, springing toward the opening. “We have to get the Dementors into as tight a cluster as possible.”

Potter was beside him, his wand held high.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he said, flicking his wand to withdraw the stag. “Told Ethan that—”

“You can reconcile later,” Severus barked, “if you pay attention now!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Potter!” He stabbed forward with his wand. The Dementors had formed a massive floating ball of blackness.

“We cast together,” Severus continued quickly. “We have to scatter them, stun them.” The falcon had faded. Potter nodded next to him.

“On three then,” Severus said grimly as the Dementors flocked toward them, a solid mass. “One. Two. Three.”

Together they shouted the incantation, and together the stag and doe blurred, leaping from their wands in wide columns of light that merged to form a single dazzling, towering, fleet-footed shape. The whole chamber lit up in a brilliant white as the Patronus struck, blowing apart the hovering black sphere. Streams of black shot back like blood spit from a gash—the Patronus reared and circled the remaining Dementors, which shivered and glided into the darkness, in haste.

Severus’ chest heaved—casting such a Patronus had strained him. Beside him, Potter panted and clutched at his ribs. The overpoweringly bright antlered creature cantered toward them, bowed its head, and slowly vanished.

“I didn’t know Patronuses could do that,” Potter said between breaths.

Severus said nothing. He hadn’t known either—he suspected it required a great deal of luck; a congruity of wands, a consonance of magic, a certain affinity between their Patronuses—between themselves…it boded well for the next task that loomed.

“They’ll come back if we hang around, right?” Potter asked, his breaths slowing slightly. “So where do we go now?”

Snape pursed his mouth.

“Where my life inevitably leads,” he replied. “Down.”