InsaneJournal

~*~*~*~

In the morning, Snape was gone.

Harry turned over, limp and bleary-eyed and a bit sore here and there, and blinked at the empty half of the bed for a moment, unable to remember how or when they’d even made it to the bed. Then he looked around the room, as empty as the other half of the bed.

He got up – right, more than a bit sore – and explored the rest of the cottage, then threw on his tatty bathrobe and went into the garden, walking all the way around the cot even though it was obvious that Snape was gone. He stood at the back, arms wrapped around himself, and looked at the still, mist-frosted lake, but he knew Snape wasn’t there. He was gone.

His first clue that he’d perhaps stood there an unreasonably long time was that when he breathed in, it hurt, as if he hadn’t inhaled, hadn’t moved, in hours. He dropped his clenched arms, shaking life back into his numb hands, and went inside.

In the kitchen he put the kettle on and stared at it, thinking over the night before, trying to figure out what he’d done, until the kettle screamed at him.

He made tea and took it into the front room. The blanket he’d wrapped Snape in lay crumpled like a corpse in front of the cold hearth. While his tea grew similarly cold, Harry sat with his hands curled helpless on his knees and thought what did I do? Nothing came to him, but that was hardly reassuring, given his practically flawless record of pissing Snape off without meaning to.

He got up, collecting the blanket, rolling it into a ball, cradling it in his arms. It had a musty smell combined of hearth smoke and lakewater. Harry closed his eyes and the scent became Snape’s scent, their scent together, their bodies together …

He forced his eyes open, dropping the blanket on the couch, looking blankly around the room, needing something, something else, to think about.

The cottage was in a fairly sorry state, cluttered with books and papers and unwashed items both hard and soft. He’d ignored the domestic basics during his time visiting Snape at St Mungo’s.

He picked up the blanket again. This he could do. This was easy, it was necessary, it would keep him moving, busy … life went on, didn’t it, no matter what happened, no matter who left you or why. So Snape had gone. Life went on, and his life would go on. After all, it was only Snape, wasn’t it?

He cleaned and dusted and washed and tidied for hours – as if he were possessed by the soul of a house elf this time, rather than Snape, he thought more than once.

He vaguely understood that he was grieving, daft though that seemed in regard to Snape, and that he should just give himself the chance to feel whatever he needed to feel and get over it (that sounded, in his head, as though he was possessed by Hermione, which thought brought him a smile). Unfortunately he didn’t know how to do that when he didn’t seem, on careful examination, to be feeling much of anything.

But that night, when he dreamed about arguing with Snape and woke up with tears on his face, he sat up in the darkness and laughed even as he wiped his damp cheeks.

Reckon you’re feeling something after all, eh?

~*~*~*~

Three mornings later he woke feeling a bit more lively; after breakfast, he ventured into the garden as if it were a neglected pet that might bite him.

A few weeds had started encroaching through the fence, so he started with those, taking some slight pleasure in ripping them out by their roots. That took the edge off his somewhat manic energy, and he settled for a few hours of blank-minded mulching, snipping, and plucking.

When he got to the yarrow, he paused for a break, wiping a dirty arm across his sweaty brow and looking across the small field of his day’s endeavours.

He’d planted alphabetically, thinking nothing of it at the time. Of course, he’d thought nothing about pretty much everything at the time. Now, though, he knelt in the rows and found himself mildly amused that anyone seeing this garden would wrongly think him both adept at gardening and severely anal retentive. Even though he’d planted it, it was really Snape’s garden.

But that didn’t seem right. After all, Snape had never had anything to do with it. And here he was, caring for it and even enjoying it a little, despite everything.

Maybe it was his and Snape’s, in a way.

He gazed at the feathery leaves in his hands. It was teatime, but he didn’t … Snape had enjoyed a hearty tea. Harry could take it or leave it; lately, taking it seemed rather lonely.  Perhaps he ought to go into Hogsmeade, or visit Ron and Hermione. He hadn’t talked to them in more than a week; it would do him good to remember there was more to life than Snape being gone.

Harry shook his head. How could it matter this much, that Snape had gone?

Had buggered him and then left without a word.

Harry laughed sourly and bunched the yarrow in both hands, squishing it a bit before dropping it into the basket on top of the witch hazel leaves that had dropped from the neglected plants. He’d go see Ron and Hermione today, or maybe tomorrow.

A blood-chilling shriek overhead made him duck and whip out his wand; he peered into the cloud-dotted sky as a rather scraggly bird soared downward, scarlet and grey, long tailfeathers trailing.

Fawkes.

The phoenix fluttered clumsily down to a fencepost, tucked its wings in demurely, and cocked its head at Harry, uttering a soft cry.

Harry stood up. Smiled, feeling like the sun had come out after a week of darkness.

Snape appeared with a pop. He wore properly fitted wizarding robes, as he had while at Hogwarts, and a startled expression, as though he hadn’t expected to see Harry right there in front of him.

“H’lo.”

Snape’s jaw worked for a moment, his brows seemingly unable to decide between a scowl or surprised arches. “I … if you…”

Harry brushed off his hands, hearing the defensiveness and sensing that he ought not overplay this. “Tea’ll be ready in a bit, if you’re hungry.” He headed for the door, glanced over his shoulder. Snape stepped forward, hesitant for one step, then two – then, clearly giving in to inertia, he followed Harry into the house.

Harry went to the cooker, picked up the bone-dry kettle, and went to the sink. “Half a minute.” He felt Snape’s eyes on him – a strangely comfortable thrill – as he filled the kettle and returned to the stove.

Snape’s words made him start.

“You weren’t having tea.”

Harry set the kettle down. Turned. “No. It’s … I don’t, usually.”

He watched Snape, knowing he comprehended his meaning but seeing no reaction. Then Snape came to him – three swift steps across the kitchen – and took Harry’s face in his hands. His eyes danced over Harry’s face, exploring, not probing so much as absorbing; Harry wondered what his expression was giving away, and found he didn’t much care. He didn’t mind Snape seeing him this naked.

A small sound, like surprise, escaped Snape’s lips before he brought their mouths together, kissing Harry as though he’d just made some breathless declaration of undying adoration.

It’s just tea, he thought, before grabbing Snape’s shoulders and pulling him closer, opening to Snape’s tongue, melting around it, under Snape’s hands …

Under a touch gentler than before. It took Harry a moment to know it, past his own body’s immediate response, but Snape was … touching him, and his lips were gentler on Harry’s, letting Harry deepen the kiss, letting Harry taste his mouth, his tongue. Pleased, surprised, Harry let his own hands slide down Snape’s back, down to the lean curve of his backside, pulling their bodies tight and feeling the hum of pleasure from Snape’s throat.

When Harry left Snape’s mouth to sample the soft skin of his throat, Snape snarled, “Fuck tea,” and pushed Harry toward the door.

This time Harry remembered the trip to the bed, though it was not memorable. Not in comparison to what happened once they got there.

“I want to undress you,” Harry said, and was instantly a little embarrassed and wondering if this was some weird kink left over from Snape’s hospital days.

Snape’s mouth curled – a grin, for him – and he held out his arms, a clear invitation.

Harry’s fingers shook a little as he worked the buttons loose; he could sense Snape’s amusement, like a barely restrained chuckle, and found himself smiling in response.

“I never said I was good at it,” he muttered into Snape’s throat, licking and nibbling while his hands continued to work farther down. At last he got Snape’s outer robe, and the lighter under robe, open, and he could slide his hands across the pale flesh and sparse hairs, and taste the dark nipples that perked under his tongue and teeth. Hearing Snape’s indrawn breath – a tiny one, just a hint – sent heat surging into Harry’s cock. He pushed the robes off Snape’s shoulders and slipped both hands into the loose drawers Snape wore, pushing them down and sinking to his knees.

Now that was a proper gasp, Harry thought as he watched Snape’s cock pulse and rise in front of his eyes. He smiled, and Snape’s cock pulsed again when he licked his lips. He waited, still smiling, until Snape’s erection was pointing at him and Snape’s hands were clenched on either side of his hips. Then he opened his mouth and took it in, as much and as deep as he could, thinking of how he liked it, how much he loved being sucked, how much he wanted to hear Snape make that needy sound again …

Another gasp, and Snape’s fingers knotted into his hair, but he didn’t push or pull, just held on as Harry got used to the feel of his cock, the silky-hard texture, the length of it as measured by his tongue. Then he sucked, hard, and Snape’s hips jerked, as if he couldn’t keep still.

Harry backed off, glancing up to see Snape watching him, his face rapt, unguarded. Knowing he was the cause made Harry feel bloody marvelous.

“Never done this before,” he said, giving Snape’s cock a cheeky lick. “I like it.”

“Do you?” Snape’s hand slid around the back of Harry’s neck and pulled him in – Harry let it happen, opening as wide as he could, feeling Snape’s cock press against the back of his throat. His gag reflex made him draw back, and he pulled off, saying, “Sorry,” but Snape just shook his head and pulled Harry to his feet, kissing him again, slow, wet, luxuriating kisses that erased Harry’s embarrassment.

When he stopped, it took only a speaking glance down his body for Snape to express to Harry that he was wearing too many clothes.

Harry kicked off his shoes while Snape laid claim to the bed, watching him and leisurely stroking his erection.

Harry stripped, clumsy in his haste, setting aside his wand only after accioing the lubricating potion. Then he crawled onto the bed and looked in wonder at Severus Snape, lying sprawled, pale and erect, one hand loosely coiled around his cock.

“You’re staring,” Snape said, his voice smoky.

Harry smiled, fumbling the bottle open and pouring the oil onto his hand. He had a moment of awkwardness tryin to recap the bottle until Snape, with a smirk, lifted it out of his hands and set it on the bedside table. When he had lain flat again, obviously letting Harry steer this encounter, Harry bathed both palms in the oil and wrapped them around Snape’s cock, one after the other, stroking, loving the way Snape’s breathing went fast and harsh, the way his stomach quivered, the suppressed signs of his enjoyment.

Nervous but determined, Harry positioned himself athwart Snape’s thighs, watching the surprise flash on and off Snape’s face as he wrapped his hand around Snape’s cock, then hesitated, not quite sure how to do this.

Snape’s hands stilled him, and he let go, looking up to see the man’s scowl.

“You had never …”

Harry shook his head. “No. But …. I … I liked it. I want you to …

Snape’s fingers curled hard into Harry’s hips. He thrust upward, slow, his cock sliding under Harry’s balls, then across his hole, back and forth, wet, teasing, tempting.

“Oh … yeah ...” Harry gulped. “I want you inside me.”

The black eyes fell shut, then opened, and Snape coaxed him forward. Willing, Harry moved, puzzled at first when Snape kept pulling – then flushing hot with sudden arousal when Snape sat up and took his cock into his mouth.

“Ohh…” There was no awkwardness, no lack of expertise, in Snape’s performance. His tongue pressed against the underside of Harry’s cock as he took him in, deep and hot and hard, his fingers digging into Harry’s arse. Harry grabbed the headboard for balance and pumped, panting, knowing he was shamefully close to coming already – then Snape pushed him back, letting his wet cock loose with a pop and pushing him back into position. Harry hardly had time to register that he wasn’t being magnificently sucked off any more before Snape grasped his thighs and drove, slow and slick, into his body. Harry arched, viscerally startled by the feeling, just like the last time, unable to breathe or move until his body eased around Snape’s cock and he settled with a sigh against Snape’s slowly working hips. The easy slide in and out seemed to pump heat through his body, filling his cock to aching hardness while it made the rest of him bend limp over Snape’s chest, as though all his blood, all his awareness, was in his arse and his cock. Breathing fast, now, through his teeth, Snape curled his fingers around Harry’s cock and Harry all but wailed at the sudden hard compression.

Snape threw his head back, ramming his cock deep and fast while he pulled, just as frantic, at Harry’s cock. Harry exploded into orgasm, shuddering, his vision blurring even as he watched his own come splatter thick across Snape’s hand and chest. Snape stopped, jerked, and arched up, his face tight, mouth open, clutching at Harry as he came with a low, drawn-out groan.

Harry slumped and Snape pulled him close, held him with sudden fierce strength as their bodies shuddered against each other, then eased into stillness.

~*~*~*~

After a while, and with no small effort, Harry sat up and looked down at Snape, his white skin, angular face, the black hairs on his chest, the black, unreadable eyes. If this man, whose soul he’d carried, whose self he’d been, was still such a mystery to him, he wondered if it was even possible for one person to ever really know another.

“What?”

“Where’d you go?” Harry blinked, touched Snape’s arm. “You don’t have to answer—”

“Really?”

Harry made a face. “But … well, you didn’t say anything. And after we’d … you know. Made me feel a bit odd.” He breathed. “More than a bit. Worried. Thought I did something wrong.”

“It was nothing to do with you,” Snape said.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

“I have … matters I left undone. I wanted them done. I want to be free of …”

“Everything?” Harry guessed.

“As regards previous debts and entanglements, yes.”

“How’d you apparate without a wand?”

Snape shrugged, a surprisingly sexy gesture, Harry thought, when indulged in nude and horizontal.

“Fawkes, I think. The phoenix has … chosen me.” His expression twisted; it took Harry a moment to realise he was trying not to smile.

“Why’d you leave without saying anything? I mean, ‘bye,’ or ‘see you later’ or something like that.” In another snap of insight, Harry knew the answer. Snape had had no plans to return. Possibly had firmly intended not to.

And still, he’d come back.

Harry grinned and Snape squinted suspiciously at him, probably aware Harry’d figured him out.

“So can I call you Severus now?”

Snape pillowed his head on his hands and closed his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t.”

~*~*~*~

At the faint scrape of the gate against the flags, Harry dropped the foxglove into the basket and looked up.

Malfoy.

Harry waited, on one knee, for the swell of loathing to burn through his body and push him to his feet.

It didn’t happen. He and Malfoy simply looked at one another for a moment. Draco was taller, thinner; dressed in plain dark greys, he looked much like his father. Or a slightly gaunt, slightly less elegant version, at least.

Lacking fury to propel him, Harry simply dusted off his hands and got up. “Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Draco’s voice had grown up, too, deeper, a bit rough, showing, like his face, the scar tissue of experience.

After dismissing “what can I do for you?” and – barely – “what do you want?” Harry settled on the neutral, “What brings you here?”

“I –” Draco blinked. Imperiousness had never come to him as it came to his parents, Harry thought.

“I understand that Professor Snape … that he was here.”

“He is.”

“Why?”

Harry brushed off his hands. “If you’d like to speak to him, I’ll get him.” Let him tell you why. If he even knows. Merlin knows I don’t.

But the door opened when his hand was inches from the handle, and he stepped aside as Snape came out onto the walk.

“Professor,” Draco said, respectful, and Harry remembered how he’d called Severus’ name the night before, desperate, intimate, a thousand miles from Draco’s decorous address.

“Mr Malfoy,” Snape returned in the same tone. “You are looking well.”

“I’m glad to see you, sir. Surprised to see you here, though.”

“No more surprised than myself,” Snape said smoothly.

“I’ve come to issue an invitation to you,” Draco said, somehow formal and sullen at the same time. “The Malfoy family invites you to our home. I – we all – owe you a life debt and would be happy to have you as an honored guest in our home for as long as you wish to stay.”

Harry snapped shut his suddenly open mouth and looked at Snape.

He stood very still, arms wrapped around his thin frame. The breeze tugged at his loose shirt, whipping strands of hair across his face, obscuring his eyes. He looked … a bit lost, Harry thought. As if he’d just had a choice not offered, but taken away.

Draco waited, eyebrows up, obviously surprised at Snape’s hesitation.

“I … appreciate the honor of your family’s offer,” Snape said, despite his hesitation clearly more comfortable with the formalities than Draco. “And it would be my honor to accept, but I must consider it.”

“Well, you can’t want to stay here,” Draco sneered, formality and discomfort departing hand-in-hand.

“Why not?” Harry cut in, drawing Draco’s sneer to him.

“With you?” The finality in Draco’s voice hit home. The grey eyes rose, took in and dismissed the cottage. “In this … shack?”

Harry clenched his jaw, squeezing the cutters in his fist until it ached. How could insults from Malfoy, of all people, take away the sense of home he’d enjoyed these past weeks?

To Snape, Malfoy said, “I understand that your circumstances have been difficult, that you felt you had nowhere else to turn. Both my parents and I are … we understand the position you found yourself in, and we regret that you were left feeling friendless. We … we failed you. And we acknowledge that.” His hands twisted around each other, making him appear awkward and earnest, even to Harry, who had no desire to think well of Draco in even the smallest sense. The words – we failed you – the weight of them in Draco’s voice and face, made Harry suddenly wonder if it had been the Malfoys who had abandoned a soulless Snape to the tender mercies of that Muggle hospital all those months ago.

Draco steadied himself. “But you do have friends, sir. We want you to stay with us.”

A faint shift in Snape’s expression – a softening, a look almost of longing, as if Draco’s words had moved him – drove a spike of panic into Harry’s chest.

“No.”

Snape’s and Malfoy’s heads jerked around, as if they’d forgotten he was there.

“He’s not going with you,” Harry said, hearing and ignoring the warning shouts from his good sense. “He’s staying here.”

Snape’s brows shot up; Malfoy’s went the other way.

“I don’t recall asking you, Potter, nor do I recall hearing Professor Snape ask you. In fact, I don’t think it’s any of your business where he lives, or with whom.”

Harry didn’t look at him, only at Severus.

“He doesn’t want to live with you,” he said, every word a risk, a challenge to Snape, to himself. “He wants to stay here. I want him to stay here. He’s staying.”

Snape stared back at him, tense, his expression hard, eyes unreadable.

“With you?” Draco scoffed. “What in Merlin’s name for?”

Eyes locked to Harry, Snape said softly, “Are you laying claim to me?” His tone spoke of danger, and Harry didn’t know which answer would draw that danger down on him. But he knew which answer was true.

“Yeah. If that’s what it takes, I am.” He matched Snape’s soft tone, matched his stare. “I am claiming you.” He had no idea what that meant formally – if anything – whether he was getting himself into some complex wizarding difficulty. All he knew was it felt serious. Scary. Right. “I am claiming you.”

Still holding the stare, Snape said, louder, “Thank you for your kind offer, Mr Malfoy.” He blinked, turned to Draco. “But as you see—” with a tilt of the head toward Harry – “I must decline.”

Draco looked from Snape to Harry and back, mouth open.

“Great seeing you again, Malfoy,” Harry said loudly. “See you around.” He planted what he suspected was rather a nasty smile on his face until Draco shut his mouth, pouted, and disapparated.

Taking with him some portion of Harry’s certainty. He squinted sideways at Snape, now watching him with a strangely abstract expression of curiosity.

“Er … did I just muck up your plans?”

“Plans?”

“Personally, I’d think the idea of living with the Malfoys would drive you right back into the lake, but…”

Snape huffed a short laugh. “I was not trying to kill myself. Nonetheless, I take your point.”

 “So you didn’t want to go.” Harry grinned. “Good. I mean, I want you to stay.”

“So I gathered,” Snape said. “You have no idea what this means, have you?”

Harry shook his head. “It means you’re staying.” Then, with a stabbing flash of doubt, “Right? I mean, it does, doesn’t it?”

Snape shook his head, said ominously, “It means a great deal more than that.”

“Well? Tell me.” Evidently he’d once again stepped unwitting into some mysterious wizarding tradition.

“For a start, it means the construction of a considerably larger and more modern brewing facility.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“Your kitchen is entirely inadequate to my needs.” The corner of Snape’s mouth quirked upward.

“You—”

Snape turned to face the bookshelves framing the mantel. “And your library – frankly, the word scarcely applies – falls pathetically short of my needs.”

“My—”

“Sadly, I shall further be forced to ask your indulgence in the form of a small loan to set me up in business, as I have no intention of living off the Potter largesse any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

Harry managed to snap his mouth shut against both stammering and the laughter that suddenly threatened.

“I shall pay you back promptly, of course,” Snape went on, “at a reasonable rate of interest mutually—”

“But I claimed you,” Harry cut in, finally getting it. “If you belong to me, isn’t that rather like you being a house elf, now? Don’t I get to tell you what to do, not the other way ’round?”

Snape rolled his eyes and Harry soldiered on, fighting a smile.

“What exactly are the wizarding rules about claiming someone, anyway? Are there rites, or do we have to sign anything?”

Snape snorted. “There is no wizarding tradition of … ‘claiming,’ as you put it.”

“So my claiming you doesn’t actually mean anything?”

Snape didn’t respond, and – tellingly – failed to meet his eyes.

“I think it means something,” Harry said softly.

Wary, Snape glanced at him. “And what do you think it means?”

Harry grinned. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

And Snape almost smiled. “I suppose we will.”