The Phial Cabinet

Stargate fans, Dr. Who fans: a question

2009-08-30T16:17:52Z

I saw the original movie when it came out. I haven't seen any of the rest of the apparently endless franchise. So if I wanted to ... where do I start? By which I mean in the order the series(es!) came out, not the order of their internal chronology.

Same question regarding Dr Who, about which I know nothing - where is the right place to start?

Any help appreciated! Thanks.

Because I want to vent ...

2009-08-07T17:15:08Z

... and venting at the site of the wank is really a waste of time ...

Boy do I wish people would learn what the fuck plagiarism is before they mount their witch hunts.

It's beyond comprehension to me that Cassie Claire was defended by anyone at the same time that people think the same plotline, premise, or setting, or the use of a similar phrase, is plagiarism. Direct lifting of a complete work, or substantial portions of the work - verbatim, people (look it up) - while claiming credit for creating it - that is plagiarism. This "it seemed sorta similar, and no one has ever had the ideas I've had ever so I have the copyright" bullshit is just egotism and ignorance.

Okay, what am I missing?

2009-07-28T01:56:21Z

I've heard about 4chan for a long time and heard all kinds of warnings and ooh!aah! and never bothered to look, so today I go look and ... it's just porn. Am I missing something?

I'd like to think

2009-05-22T22:18:43Z

... that people who've read my stuff understand well enough by now that they can say anything, but I thought it'd be interesting to do this, so:

MANUAL LINK (sheesh):

http://trivialaffair.livejournal.com/41152.html

Go on over and give some love or hate or indifference to me or any other writer you've got strong feelings about! It's fun!

A music question

2008-12-16T01:00:13Z

Since I see these all the time and I'm aware memes are usually created by teenagers, but I also see old folks like me doing this, and I marvel. Am I the only person in the world who doesn't do "music on shuffle"? I usually pick particular songs I want to hear, and sometimes a particular artist. Never do I just go "I need various songs by various people." Except at Christmas (and then they're all themed).

Am I the only one? Just curious

So ...

2008-11-27T17:05:46Z

Thankfulness.

*While I'm whining about how I'm unable to lose weight, I try to remember to be thankful I have a surfeit of edible food.
*While I'm whining about how Verizon is the internet service from hell, lousy, slow, incompetent, overpriced ... I try to remember to be thankful I've got it, along with all the other gadgets and luxuries so many of us take for granted and too often consider either our right, or a necessity. They're neither. Really.
*While I'm whining that I still don't seem to be able to afford to buy a home, I'm thankful I can afford to live comfortably - far more comfortably than so very very many in this world who labor a lot harder than I have to (or who would, if they were just given the chance).
*While I'm whining about the absurdity that is my job, I'm VERY thankful that I have one, and that it seems to be as secure as possible in this economic environment, and that it pays OK, and that, really, it's not a bad job at all. Not at all. Compared to what some people have to do to get by in this world, I'm very lucky. Compared with my friends in the news business, who've just seen another round of layoffs (people I know and like, hard-working people who don't deserve this, not at the holidays, not at any time), I'm incredibly lucky, and I'm thankful.
*While I'm whining about the fact that the world seems full of inconsiderate, loud, selfish, ignorant slobs whose immediate and most base gratifications seem always to come at the cost of annoyance, inconvenience, or downright danger to those around them ... I'm thankful I'm not related to any of them, because at least I can get away from them.

*I'm thankful that I actually do have a job I like, though it's not perfect and will never make me rich, and that the people I work with are for the most part good people. The biggest day-to-day problem in any workplace, overwhelmingly, is not the work or the pay or the drive or the uniform. It's the other people. I've been very lucky in that regard.
*I'm thankful I have my health, despite my own inability to treat it as well as it deserves to be treated. Those of you who're 25 or under can ignore this. For the rest of us, remember to try to try to eat right and exercise more. I'm trying to and I know a lot of you are trying to also. Keep trying. On second thought, all of you, whatever your age, have fun, but take care of yourselves. There are people who love you and would be devastated to lose you.
*I'm thankful for friends and family, whom I love, and who seem to love me back for some reason and to do things for me that as far as I can tell I've done nothing to deserve.
*I'm thankful that, despite the passage of Prop. 8 and other indicators that we still have a lot of horrible people in this country, we also have a lot of good people who're voting and otherwise speaking up, and that, at least so far, none of the people I'm close to have fallen into the "horrible" category.
*I'm thankful to the many many people online with whom I've had wonderfully thought-provoking discussions, and to readers who have been nice enough to go to the trouble (and I know that it is trouble) to tell me something I wrote made their day/hour/whatever. That makes mine.

Let's just leave it at, for all my whining, I'm damn lucky and I am aware of it, and not just today. :-)

Go read this!

2008-11-26T01:28:36Z

Some of you will remember the fantastic "Mobius" by geneticallydead, a story good enough to get a habitual non-reccer like me to rec. The author has written another excellent Snarry. Read and enjoy:

Yearning

"My best work"

2008-11-08T15:19:25Z

A fellow writer just mentioned something was not her "best work." (I won't name names even though of course we've all said this or summat similar and there's nothing wrong with saying it.) It set me to thinking (yes, I'm avoiding actual productive work, why do you ask?).

Writers: You don't need to tell me your best work or your worst work, although you can if you want (links are OK), but I'm wondering: How do you define "my best work"? I mean, fill in the blanks: "This is my best work because it has ________." What does "my best work" mean to you, specifically? I'm interested in how different people articulate those aspects of writing, or of the story itself - or even, if that's what floats your boat, of readerly reaction - that make them sit back, smile, and go "Yeah. I done good." That's if you articulate it at all, and being writers, I'll bet you do. :-)

Okay

2008-11-01T04:33:38Z

Another one of those minor Britishism questions. Do English people ever say scared? In casual conversation, that is. "I'm scared." Or is "frightened" or "afraid" more common? Scared sounds very American to me.

Thanks for any input.

So

2008-10-29T00:28:18Z

I've finally started what I've been planning for some time now: posting to wip_rip , a community I created so I (and anyone else who wanted to) could post abandoned stuff for others to do whatever they want to. One WIP's there, others will follow. If you're curious, check it out. Please read the community rules, but it comes down to this: you can do whatever you want with the stuff I post, but please post, or link, what you do back to that comm, so I can see what you did and so credit's given where it's due.

On comment rot

2008-10-23T17:10:27Z

I haven't seen this (then again I almost never go back in my IJ, so I may be an unaware victim of it), but maybe, if that LJ archive thing works for IJ, people could periodically archive their IJs to protect their comments (I did that when I surrendered LJ and I just have the archive sitting on my hard drive)? It's cumbersome, but probably better than losing millions of comments.

Thoughts? Am I a day late and a dollar short again?

I like doing certain memes...

2008-10-13T15:00:51Z

...mostly to show what crap certain generalizations are:

RULES:
• Pick your birth month.
• Strike out anything that doesn't apply to you.
• Bold (or italicize) the five-ten that best apply to you.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn't pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others think. ~~Emotional.~~ Decisive. ~~Strong clairvoyance.~~ Loves to travel, the arts and literature. ~~Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.~~

Do some of these seem contradictory to you (aside from the incomprehensible ones, like "take things at the center" - WTF? or "concerned" - with what?)? It's easy to say "see, it's accurate" when you cover the whole damn' spectrum and only look at the hits.

Pretty geeky

2008-10-07T23:57:33Z

	I received 92 credits on The Sci Fi Sounds Quiz How much of a Sci-Fi geek are you?
Quiz by SheGoddess: Quick weight loss

This was fun last time I did it, too, but ...

2008-09-17T12:53:39Z

... like last time, I had to click 10 or 15 times to hit two "fandoms" I knew anything about. I am old, father William.

Your challenge is to write crossover fanfiction combining World War II and John McCain.
The story should use hypnosis as a plot device!

Generated by the Terrible Crossover Fanfiction Idea Generator

Bitch, bitch, bitch...

2008-09-14T02:10:11Z

... but it's a little one (although I see this all the damned time):

It's "homed in." It is not honed in. When you're drawing down in focus on something, or getting nearer to your goal, you are homing in, not honing in.

Okay

2008-09-12T13:21:45Z

It was bound to reach the point of a rant someday (and since I know no one who's attached to such things will listen anyway): Please, stop with the screaming orgasms. It's not that I think the occasional person might not scream (more or less). But it's a very rare fic that believably builds things to the point where anyone who doesn't have Tourette's would actually scream. And if you must have a character scream, don't say "scream softly" (impossible by definition). Have the courage of your (ridiculous) convictions.

ETA: Watch a horror movie. That is a scream. Is your character doing that? I didn't think so.

/rant.

Not exactly a rec ...

2008-09-05T03:25:58Z

... really more an observation. I've made it (to myself) many times over the last couple of years, and I thought I'd put it out there to see what other people think. It starts like this. Unlike, apparently, everyone else in the world of Snarry, my favorite fic by dementordelta is "Anybody Else." No one seems to pick that one, and I love it to pieces. The reason I love it to pieces is the darkness she explores in it. Delta tends not to go dark in her work (that's not a complaint!), but this story touches on a genuinely disturbed Snape and I found that that aspect of the story, very particularly, just delved into my heart and set up a special place. It is (I think) different from most of her oeuvre in that way (even the beautiful and slightly sad "Dreaming Spires"), and although I love all her stories, to me, this one is the best, and that is the reason. I don't know if it's because she generally doesn't do that that it resonates so strongly in that story, or because she did it so buggerin' well (and maybe I wish she did more angsty stuff *g*) ... but there you go.

As ever, any comment/opinion is welcome.

EDIT (duh): And if you haven't read it (why?), here: Anybody Else

Because it's Belabor Day (isn't it?)

2008-09-01T16:05:25Z

And I do like to vent from time to time.

It's not jive, people. That's, literally, bullshit (well, it's slang for it, anyway). It's JIBE. When something does (or does not) line up or make sense, the word you're looking for is jibe.

And a minor added rantlet (I've ranted about this before). What the hell ever happened to knelt? Did the Bush administration ban that too? I'm not sure I ever saw or heard anyone use the word "kneeled" until the last 5 years or so, on the net.

And, as ever, anyone who wants to piss and moan about the use or misuse of a particular word or phrase? Have at it! It's always interesting.

I like the idea ...

2008-08-29T00:52:42Z

... but typically am too lazy to go back so far. I write so slowly that 25 stories is like a million years ago. So, under the cut, the first lines of the last 20 (finished) fics I've written, plus five stories I've yet to finish or post, and any pattern I think I can discern from them.

1. In the end, Hermione went alone.

2. He looks to the sky.

3. When Harry got to work Monday morning, his boss' first words to him were, "Nicholas Hobbes is dead."

4. You don't get invited to funerals.

5. As countless heroes before him had done, Harry Potter found that when the great battles are won, the lesser loom all the larger.

6. Snape stood on the tilted plate of greasy shale that served as their stoop, staring into the gloaming, squint-eyed against the frigid wind.

7. Draco Malfoy stood beside his mother in the sort of frigid, dank dungeon that made him uneasily conscious of his sins.

8. Potions Master: Expert, prompt, discreet, seeks private commissions to create potions for elite clientele only.

9. Harry Potter stood on tiptoe, reaching, his entire body stretched to its limits and balance a thing more of wishful thinking than reality.

10. Barlow, the butler, met Martin at the service entrance on his first day of work.

11. "Harry fucking Potter."

12. "Hey."

13. Marty opened the door four inches.

14. David Starsky left the meeting, pushing the door open with one hand, letting it swing shut behind him as he walked down the corridor.

15. The stagecoach slowly ate the miles, chewing each methodically, making the two passengers taste every foot of dirt and rock between Red Rock and Agua Caliente.

16. Lom Trevors slid wearily off his horse and squinted up at the sign on the little jailhouse.

17. They'd come through his open bedroom window, four of them, black-clad, black-masked, slick as cat burglars, at 4 in the morning.

18. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin scrambled to the top of the wooded ridge and stopped, gasping for breath, leaning on each other as they scanned the slope below for signs of their pursuers.

19. Harry sat hunched at his desk, trying to make sense of the greying
words he'd read a dozen times in the past hour.

20. Hutch closed the door behind him with a sigh, glad to be alone although he wasn’t sure why.

And the next five WIPs I have on my theoretical plate:

1. Captain James T. Kirk awoke and immediately looked across sickbay.

2. The moment Captain James T. Kirk pressed the button to end communication, ship’s surgeon Leonard McCoy vented a heartfelt oath.

3. “This is …” Starsky stopped the car and bent, peering through Hutch’s window.

4. “Now, Potter,” Severus Snape said, “you may kill me.”

5. The watchman didn't see the agents parachute in; that was his last mistake.

A pattern? I see a strong tendency toward very prosaic, straightforward opening lines that, I'd be willing to guess, would themselves suck absolutely no one in to keep reading unless they already knew and liked my stuff. :-)

Nine-tenths of the Law (7/7)

2008-08-18T03:00:46Z

Here's the last bit.

To the beginning

~*~*~*~

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.”

The End

Nine-tenths of the Law, part 6 of 7

2008-08-18T02:59:19Z

To anyone who's still patient enough to give a shit about reading this incredibly delayed WIP, here's the last bits, and thank you for your patience. As ever, all comments are welcome, and the thing will be posted in its entirety to the usual sites (Inkstained Fingers, Skyhawke and WtP) soon.

~*~*~*~

Harry apparated them to the little flagged path just in front of the cottage – he could have apparated them inside, but he wanted Snape to get his bearings, understand where they were.

A cold wind was whipping off the lake; Harry shoved his hair out of his face and glanced at Snape, who was doing the same thing with a weirdly echoing gesture. The black eyes darted around, taking in surroundings that Harry guessed felt strange and familiar at the same time, loaded with memory and emotion. Then the eyes returned, calm, or at least shuttered, to Harry, and he gestured toward the door.

“Come on in.”

He watched Snape take in the garden in two sharp glances, but without comment. Harry led the way inside and through the front room, heading for the main bedroom, but Snape hesitated in the corridor, looking into the narrow room Harry’d been using for weeks.

“You sleep there?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “I wasn’t at first, but after Gin – I mean, I’m more comfortable in a smaller room.” He flashed a smile. “It’s what I grew up with. It …” Feels less empty. “It’s cosier. This room is yours.” He gestured and Snape eased past him into the main bedroom. He looked around, set his bundle of clothing and personal items on the big four-poster as if one or the other might break, and stopped. Harry guessed he was at a loss.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” he said. “It’ll take about two minutes.”

~*~*~*~

Snape stopped in the kitchen doorway and Harry almost bumped into him. He waited; then, when it seemed Snape had forgotten him, said, “What’s wrong?”

Snape didn’t jump, but he did take a quick step to the side, glaring down at Harry as he slid by.

“You’ve been brewing.” It was half a question, somewhat less than half an accusation.

Harry looked around the kitchen, startled. He’d forgotten how odd it must seem to someone who hadn’t been around him the past few months.

“Oh. Yeah. A bit.” That sounded stupid even to him. He forced himself to meet Snape’s stare, surprised not to see anger.

“Well, when you … when I had your, you know, soul. Or whatever. It started to sort of – affect me.” Infect, the word that had leapt to his mind, stayed there, impolitic but true. “I planted the garden—” He waved in that direction – “and started making a few …” He winced. The pharmacopeia around him made that an evident lie. “… making potions.”

Snape moved into the room, scanning the shelves, his lip curling – at Harry’s sloppy scrawl on the labels, he guessed. Snape stopped at one, then glanced at Harry, this time sharply accusing.

“You brewed somnioviatoraetus?”

Harry blinked. He had to think back. “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep for a while. It was complicated.” In retrospect he realised that was a dramatic understatement – he’d had to owl away for several ingredients, and spent one six-hour shift monitoring the stuff as it reduced – but he shrugged. “It gave me something to do. I enjoyed it.”

“Why?”

“Why was it fun?”

“Why did you choose to make somnioviatoraetus?”

“I didn’t. It’s just what occurred to me.” He realised Snape didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened. “I was sort of – well, apparently, your personality took over, sometimes. You came to the surface and I turned into a potions-brewing—” He bit off the word but it hung in the air between them as clearly as if he’d said it. And Snape smiled. A snide smile, but still …

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked, abruptly mindful of his duty as host. “Or … or tired or anything?”

“I wouldn’t mind tea.”

“I can do that.”

Nervous excitement led to a rather frantic preparation of the sort of tea that would have made Aunt Petunia proud. Only as he carried the tray, groaning with sandwiches and cakes and scones and fruit and jam and biscuits, into the sitting room did Harry think he might’ve overdone it a bit.

Snape’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, merely joined Harry at the small table under the front window. Harry watched him pile a surprising amount of food for such a thin man onto his plate, recalling that even in hospital Snape had preferred to take his one real meal of the day at teatime. Perhaps he hadn’t prepared too much after all.

They ate in silence, Harry growing more uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by, anticipating some sort of explosion from Snape, some expression of anger or resentment over past issues – god knew they had a lot of past issues.

Finally Snape set down his cup and said, as though to his tea, “If you are regretting your invitation, say so. I can be gone in two minutes.”

For some reason that made Harry smile. “Two?”

Snape glanced up. “I haven’t unpacked yet.”

“I don’t regret inviting you,” Harry said. There was no point in saying he was likely to, sooner or later. That was a given. “It’s not that. I was just thinking – and don’t bother with the smart remarks—”

Snape sat back, still looking at the table, but the side of his mouth quirked. “I had no intention of belaboring the obvious.”

Harry picked up a biscuit, fiddling with it, crumbling it. “Are you … did you not want to come here? I – if there was somewhere else, you should have said. I know you don’t want me of all people helping you, but …” But then again, you kissed the bloody hell out of me and I really want you to do it again … Harry shook his head. Mad. Absolutely gone. Both of them, probably.

Snape stared into his teacup for a long moment before speaking, his voice clenched.

“I … loathe knowing that you have seen so far into my thoughts and memories.”

Carefully, Harry said, “I know it. I’d feel the same way. I’d hate you for it.”

Snape looked at him, startled.

“I understand if you do.” Harry didn’t meet his stare. “I’d undo it if I could.” He could, technically – a global Obliviate would see to it – but that he wouldn’t do even if Snape were to ask it.

“I don’t hate you,” Snape said. “I never hated you.”

“Could you try to sound a little more convincing with that?”

Snape shook his head, dismissive. “It’s far more complicated than you realise.”

Harry considered. Snape had a history with his parents, one he could only guess at until he’d carried Snape’s soul around with him. Even then he’d got only glimpses of the years of the bullying and hostility and, perhaps worse, the aloneness that Snape had carried with him through his Hogwarts years. He’d felt it, and it resonated. He’d been alone in the most important sense of the word for his first 11 years of life; Snape’s experience had differed in many ways, but Harry hadn’t forgotten that feeling, and he’d recognised it instantly in Snape’s memories.

“I believe you,” he said, still careful. “I – you should be free to do whatever you want.”

“That would be an interesting novelty.” Snape finished his tea and collected a chocolate biscuit. He ate with gusto and tidiness, just as he had in hospital when Harry’d brought him food – though he’d scorned the in-house meals.

Eyeing the last bite of biscuit, Snape said, as if it hurt, “I … have not … thanked you. For …”

“No,” Harry said. “And I don’t expect you to. I don’t need you to.”

Snape glanced up, under his brows, and Harry shrugged.

“Seemed to me it was about time someone did something for you.”

Snape’s expression was dubious, but Harry didn’t elaborate, and Snape let it go.

“I do not … I had nowhere else that I preferred to go. Not at this time.”

A ringing endorsement, Harry thought. “Right, then. More tea?”

~*~*~*~

They’d cleared the dishes and Snape was standing sentinel over Harry’s spell-casting, saying nothing but clearly finding Harry’s dishwashing charm sorely lacking, when a faint shriek, like a banshee cry, cut through the clatter and splash.

Both men looked up, then at one another.

“What was that?” Harry said. Not a banshee, he thought, though it was oddly familiar. Snape’s eyes widened and he stilled, then turned away as though hypnotized. Harry followed him through the front room and to the door. Snape grasped the handle and the shriek came again, louder. Snape’s hand clenched on the handle, white-knuckled, before he opened it and walked out.

Harry went after him. It took him a moment of scanning to spot what Snape had already figured out.

“Oh my God …” Harry breathed. “Fawkes.”

The phoenix stood on a stump beyond Harry’s garden fence, wings outstretched as if just alighting, or about to fly away. He cawed at Snape as the man approached, and Harry held his breath, wondering – he wasn’t sure why – if Fawkes would take off, or attack Snape. The phoenix watched Snape as the man took ten very deliberate steps toward the stump before stopping and sinking slowly to his knees.

Harry held himself back, fighting the impulse to help – to interfere. Fawkes bent his head to look at Snape, beak working although Harry couldn’t hear anything. Snape sat back on his heels, looking at Fawkes, and Fawkes looked back; Harry, watching, felt his throat tighten. He hadn’t seen Fawkes since Dumbledore’s death, and seeing the phoenix now brought back that dreadful night for him – and for Snape too, Harry had no doubt.

He moved to the gate, took a step beyond it. Fawkes looked up at him, briefly, before returning his focus to Snape.

Another couple of steps, and Harry saw Snape stiffen, sensing his presence.

Harry edged closer, one hand half-raised. “Are you—”

Snape shook his head, a sharp warning to stay away, and Harry dropped his hand, backing up. Neither Snape nor Fawkes looked at Harry as he turned to go back inside.

It was dusk when Snape finally came back into the cottage, draggled and windblown. Harry got up, setting aside the book he hadn’t been reading, as Snape shut the door and stood there, closing his eyes, as though exhausted.

“You all right?” Harry asked. Snape nodded, visibly drawing a deep breath, and walked past him into the main bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Harry went to the window, but if Fawkes was still out there, it was too dark to tell.

~*~*~*~

At 10 p.m., Harry sat on his narrow bed, sleepless, curious, and very irritated at himself. He’d hoped – expected, almost – not to be sleeping alone tonight. Obviously seeing Fawkes had really upset Snape.

Harry smiled at himself. Obviously. Can’t imagine why seeing the familiar of the man you were forced to kill – the only real friend you’d ever had – would upset anyone.

Fawkes hadn’t seemed angry – but what was angry, for a phoenix? After having been gone for so long, what did it mean that Fawkes had come here, to the man who’d killed his master? Had he brought a message from Dumbledore? The look on Snape’s face had been pain; there was no way for Harry to know if it was the pain of condemnation, or of forgiveness.

Harry got up, restless, and paced the few steps the tiny room allowed. Perhaps he should go to Snape, at least knock and see if he was still awake, if he wanted to talk. If he wanted someone to take his anger out on, Harry thought, and smirked.

He stopped pacing at the window and automatically shifted the curtain to peek out at the lake.

And froze. And stared, unable for an instant to believe what he was seeing, to take it all in:

Snape, naked, a streak of moon-white flesh topped with blackness darker than the night, striding – nearly running – into the chill blue-black waters of the lake.

“What the hell …”

After wasting precious seconds gaping in absolute disbelief, Harry grabbed his wand, tucked it into his pyjamas, and plunged out of his room. In the parlor, he grabbed his cloak off the hook and ran outside, circling round to dash toward the lake, bare feet slipping on the damp grass, his eyes locked on the slight splashes that were all he could make out at first, his lips ready to spit out the bubble-head charm.

By the time he reached the pebbly shore he realised, through his panic, that Snape was splashing toward him, coming out of the water rather than going deeper. Harry lunged at him and flung the cloak around his body, feeling the ice-cold of his pale skin as he pulled him back toward the house. Snape was breathing hard, staggering a bit – barefoot, the mad bloody sod! – as Harry hurried him back inside, kicking the door shut and all but dropping Snape on the couch.

“What the bloody hell.” He knelt before the banked fire, flinging on fresh wood and whipping out his wand to cast a fresh fire charm on it. Flames blazed up, spitting ash and sparks, and he drew back to glare at Snape. “Are you fucking insane?”

Snape sat still, dripping, staring into the fire. The cloak was soaked through and hanging open; Harry could see Snape’s pale chest still heaving as he gulped in air, open mouthed, eyes huge and black in his bloodless face.

Harry darted into his room and grabbed the blanket off his bed, coming back in to hear Snape say:

“No.” Then, “Perhaps.”

Harry yanked off the sopping cloak and flung the heavy blanket around Snape, tucking it against his body, anger and panic churning in his gut.

“You could have drowned. You could have frozen to death, for God’s sake! What –”

And he stopped, gulped, his throat clenched around the truth. “You were … you meant to kill yourself.” Fawkes. Dumbledore. Of course. He stepped back, needing to see Snape’s face. “You did. Bloody hell…”

Snape, a bulbous cocoon with dripping hair, hunched over on the couch and began to vibrate.

Until he spoke, Harry had no idea he was laughing.

“I meant nothing of the kind.” His voice bubbled with amusement – with outright laughter. “If anything, I meant the opposite.”

Harry backed up a little farther, bumping the corner of the mantel, staring in wonder. He’d never heard Snape sound like this. Happy.

Snape threw his head back, spraying water, and sprang up, dropping the blanket. He advanced on Harry, his eyes fierce, penetrating, and pressed full-length against him, his body chilly and damp still, even through Harry’s t-shirt and pyjamas. Snape slid one hand into his hair and one hand across his arse, grabbed with both, and pulled Harry’s head back to cover his gasp with cold lips and a very hot tongue. Captured, Harry could only hang there, heart stuttering into high speed as Snape sucked his tongue and forced their bodies together, his hips grinding into Harry’s.

Abruptly Snape jerked back, his teeth scraping painfully around Harry’s tongue, and pulled Harry’s t-shirt off with one careless yank.

Harry reeled. Licked his lips. Breathed.

“God …” He swallowed, forced words out over the pounding clamor of his body for more. “I hope this isn’t you being stark raving mad, because I don’t want to stop, but it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of a lunatic.”

Snape held him, hard, said against his ear, “You are a lunatic to have me here, to want me here.”

Harry started to protest but Snape’s mouth stopped him, his tongue sliding deep, filling, all but choking – then gone.

“And I intend to take advantage of you,” Snape growled against Harry’s tingling lips, then created a trail of bites down Harry’s neck, his breath hot and harsh, loud in the quiet of the room.

“Oh, fuck …” Harry pulled himself closer to Snape, hanging there with his face in Snape’s neck, smelling lake-water and skin, while Snape pulled his pyjamas down around his knees and collected Harry’s arse in both hands, half-lifting Harry’s body against his, forcing their bellies together. Harry swallowed a whimper as his cock rubbed against Snape’s, the tender head catching against damp skin and coarse hair, the feeling rough and fucking incredible …

Snape’s hand – hot now, no longer icy – slid down, between his cheeks, fingers pressing, hard, possessive, and Harry cried out, arching into Snape’s body. His cock surged, a stab of almost painful need, at Snape’s low, hungry words, half threat, half promise:

“I will have you.”

“Oh, god …” Panting, Harry hooked his fingers in Snape’s damp hair and looked down; seeing his own cock hard and aching, pressed up against his belly and against Snape’s thick red cock, pulsing together, sliding against each other as Snape worked his hips along Harry’s … god … it was too much …

Snape growled and flattened him to the wall, his teeth and tongue still worrying Harry’s throat, and Harry groaned, trapped between the press of hard fingers on his hole and the weight of Snape’s body, the rough friction of Snape’s erection sliding along his …

“Oh, Chr—oh…” A strangled moan punctuated Harry’s orgasm; he clutched at Snape’s shoulders, clinging and gasping as his cock spurted hot between their bodies; Snape didn’t stop moving, massaging every last drop from Harry’s cock with his hips and his own cock, until Harry slumped, still gasping, against him.

He’d had no idea how much of his weight Snape was supporting until he dropped Harry back onto his own feet, leaning against him, both of them half-supported by the wall. All he could hear was his own panting, Snape’s harsher breaths, hot across his neck, and the crackle of the fire.

One indrawn breath before Harry could blurt something stupid, Snape grabbed him again, turning them both and pushing Harry backward across the sofa. Harry landed with a grunt, laughed, and kicked off the pyjama bottoms that had tangled around his feet. Snape spread his own body over Harry’s and kissed him again, demanding, overwhelming kisses, his tongue again taking over Harry’s mouth, hot and hard as the erection Harry felt rubbing against his belly.

Snape lifted himself up, catching his breath, and Harry, doing the same, looked down, snaking his hand between them to wrap his fingers around Snape’s cock. Damn. It was big. And hard.

Snape hissed in a sharp breath and Harry grinned, stroking, wondering what it would taste like … what it was going to feel like …

Snape pulled his hand away, rasped through his teeth, “Do you have anything—”

Harry blanked for an instant, then remembered and scrabbled for his wand, tangled in his pyjamas on the floor.

“Accio polirunguero!” He held out his hand, but Snape’s arm shot out and he intercepted the bottle that sailed into the room. It smacked into his palm and he smirked down at Harry, flicking off the top with his thumb and stroking Harry’s balls and cock upward, out of the way. Harry shivered inside at the focused, intent way Snape tipped the bottle, letting the cool drops fall one at a time against Harry’s hot skin, letting them roll tingling down to tickle at his opening while his other hand gently massaged Harry’s balls. Harry let his head fall back, swallowing down the nervousness, feeling, feeling the oily drops, feeling …

“Ohh …” Feeling Snape’s fingers there, stroking, teasing, pressing …

Harry flopped, legs wide, arse and cock pulsing, and dropped his wand over the side of the couch.

“You like this.”

Smug bastard. But it came out: “Oh … god … that feels … oh …” The gentle massaging turned to a careful slide inside, and he froze for an instant, but Snape continued, gentle, insistent, and the swirl of pleasure relaxed Harry again, even when he felt Snape’s fingers slip deeper, stroking in and out, in and out … then out, and Snape grasped his thighs, pulling them close.

“Breathe,” he rasped, and slid into Harry. The pressure was strange and the pain a surprise, but that was lost in the strange surprise of the sound Snape made in his throat, a long, starved sound of deep need and pleasure that pulsed into Harry’s core. He felt his body respond to that cry, his cock throbbing, filling as Snape filled him, moved in him, curling over him, breathing against his chest. He relaxed into the rhythm and the pain faded, even as Snape’s slow drive into him accelerated, hard, deep, relentless. Snape’s eyes were tight shut but his expression was open, naked, and Harry stared until the sensation and need in his own body took over, washing over him in hot-cold, clenching waves. He writhed, working his body against Snape’s, grasping his cock, and when Snape stilled, then thrust deep, his groan of completion drove Harry’s orgasm from him, mindless, irresistible.

To the last bit

Because I'm never shy...

2008-08-16T17:36:10Z

...about asking dumb questions. I need a plant - herbal, medicinal - that starts with a Z, or alternatively, that starts with a letter as near to Z in the alphabet as possible.

Thanks!

A writing observation

2008-07-07T13:41:37Z

Gleaned from several ff.rants rants. It's interesting how whenever anyone says "X doesn't work" (X being a particular writing style/pairing/POV/whatever) a whole PILE of people post to say defensively "I do that." Their own assumption being, of course, that they've done it well. Some people even come right out and say: "I do it and it's good." What I always wonder is ... says who? It's possible the author is living in a fool's paradise and lots of readers gave up on the story because, in fact, they didn't do X well. I'm just pondering the assumptions writers make about their own work (aside from the boasting a lot of writers seem to indulge in *g*), and whether we really are good judges of whether our own writing "works." How do we know if, for every good review, there aren't 10 people who loathed it?

Nine-tenths of the Law, Part 5

2008-06-12T13:32:14Z

Nine-tenths of the Law, Part 5 (Beginning of the fic is here.)

~*~*~*~

Harry apparated in at about 11 a.m. and gave a nod to the duty nurse at the front desk before taking his usual route to Snape’s room on the third floor.

As he passed the row of windows overlooking the hospital gardens, stretched between two wings of the building, he gazed out idly, wondering if he could get Snape out there for a walk one day soon. They wouldn’t let him sit in on the physical therapy sessions, so he didn’t know how Snape was progressing – Merlin forbid the man would ever volunteer information, of course – and he wasn’t sure it was his place to even ask when Snape would be released, but for a few days he’d been considering a rash plan of action that he thought might best be broached outdoors.

Where he could get away quickly if necessary. He grinned to himself – then spotted a flash of green and black passing in the opposite direction along the gravel path outside. He stopped, leaning close to the window.

Snape, still in his hospital pyjamas and robe, moving with cautious, upright determination along the hedge, head bent, expression fierce. Harry quickly found the doors and slipped out into the misty grey day. He darted across the lawn to meet Snape on the path, not wanting to suffer the consequences of alarming him. Snape’s head shot up at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

“They finally let you take a walk,” Harry said. “Good.”

Snape stopped, blinked, and continued on, and Harry fell in at his side. They walked a while in silence along the deliberately meandering, foliage-lined paths that made the small garden seem larger and more secluded than it was. Snape moved carefully, a little stiff, as though he were, not in pain, but anticipating it at each step. He kept his hands clasped in front of him as he walked, and after a few minutes Harry observed he was rubbing them together.

“They ought to’ve given you a cloak or something if they were going to let you out in weather like this,” he observed, reaching up to unfasten his.

“I’m not cold,” Snape said.

Harry stopped halfway. “You sure? You’re rubbing your hands together.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Harry realised it was the right hand, the hand he’d spent so many hours holding, that Snape was massaging, as if it hurt. He wondered if somehow Snape could remember that. He wondered what Snape did remember, about anything.

“Er…” The sound caught in his throat and his daring deserted him when Snape stopped to look at him, as if he could sense a revelation forthcoming.

“I could see …” He gulped. “I – that is, I thought … I thought you should know.”

Snape’s gaze sharpened, cutting sharp, legilimency sharp though Harry felt no attempt at invasion. Could Snape even perform legilimency without a wand?

“I mean, it was probably … I thought it was my imagination. But I think it … I think I was seeing real things. Memories. Thoughts. Yours, that is.” God. Don’t tell him about the dreams! He’ll think you’re a sick perv!

“I know,” Snape snarled. “Don’t you think I know it?” He shoved a dew-damp strand of hair out of his face, an almost violent motion, and Harry put a hand on his arm, light as a fallen leaf.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he said, looking up into Snape’s startled face, ghost-pale in the wan morning light. “But … I’m not … I mean. I didn’t deliberately intrude. But I’m not sorry that I know you a bit better. That I understand you a bit more.”

“Your random flailing about in my memories can hardly have given you any insight into who I am.”

“In the first place, it wasn’t me flailing about in your memories, it was you—”

“I know.”

“—flailing about in mine. Sort of.” Harry drew his hand from Snape’s arm, not failing to see that Snape’s gaze followed. “In the second place, I don’t think I have any insight. It’s not like that. I’m only telling you so that … you know,” he concluded lamely.

“Full disclosure,” Snape said, sour.

Harry brightened. “Yeah. That is, do you … do you know the things I saw, or do you want to know?”

Snape shook his head. “No. It’s enough to know the circumstances. I’ll assume the worst. There was no risk of your opinion of me being lowered, and even less risk that I might care.”

Harry let himself smile, unamused. Was there anyone he would be willing to be that naked in front of? This was a kind of power he didn’t want over anyone.

“There was nothing bad. It was just normal human stuff. Memories of your mum. Dumbledore.” He took a mental breath, bracing himself. “My mum.”

Snape shook his head, a gesture of wonder. “It’s beyond the realm of possibility that you saw nothing worse than that.”

“Well, I don’t … when your soul was inside me? I don’t exactly remember that time very clearly.” Now he was rubbing his own hands together, as though they were kindling he hoped would fire some ability to express those strange, vague months. “I mean, it’s only now I understand which bits were you and not me. If you see what I mean.”

Snape gave his head a last, sharp shake, dismissing Harry’s attempt. “Had I cherished any hopes that you might effectively communicate the experience to me – which fortunately I did not – you may consider them dashed.”

“If you wanted clarity,” Harry said, “You should have given your soul to Hermione.”

Snape snorted a laugh.

“She’d’ve given you eight feet, with footnotes,” Harry went on, pleased that Snape wasn’t angry. “All I have is feelings and images.”

“I was dying, not assigning homework,” Snape growled, a whispery, irritated sound. “It doesn’t matter to me in the least how well or how badly you analyse or report the experience.”

“I won’t report it to anyone.” Harry seized on what he assumed to be Snape’s chief concern – it would be his, he knew. “I know you didn’t even want me to know all that. No one else will hear about it from me.”

“I’m hearing about it,” Snape said.

“Because I want to understand,” Harry blurted, and Snape sighed.

Harry paused, biting his lip. “Shall I shut up and just let you walk?”

Snape said nothing – generous permission, Harry figured, to continue his blitherings. “May I ask you a question? About my mother.”

As if he’d been waiting for it, Snape answered immediately.

“I loved her when I was a child. After she … after that, it was no more than being overly attached to what passed, in my life, for good memories.”

Harry smiled. Some part of him supposed that wasn’t appropriate, and he was well aware Snape’s statement was somewhat revisionist, but he didn’t care. “Good.”

Snape glanced at him. “Why? Does it make you sick to think your mother could ever have felt a kind feeling toward me, or I toward her?”

Harry shrugged. “No. I’m just glad you’re over it. Unrequited love is sort of …”

“Yes, I know,” Snape said, waspish.

Harry let it go. He wasn’t prepared to explain – to even examine – why that pleased him. “So … em … what’re you going to do now?”

Snape cocked his head, a weirdly endearing gesture. “Address a mocking request for specificity to you, in all probability.”

Harry grinned, pretty sure he’d got that joke. “I mean with your life. What are your—”

Snape held up a hand and Harry fell silent, ready to apologise for prying.

Snape’s head went up like a deer’s. Voices – Harry recognized MediWizard Burns’ rough baritone – carried toward them. Snape stopped, and Harry did the same, jumping when Snape grabbed his arm and shoved him into a small hothouse just off the path.

“Wh—” Harry began and Snape shushed him. Pushing him against a wooden storage cabinet, Snape pulled the door to, and they were shut in with the half-fogged glass and the close damp, the thick scent of mulch and fertilizer and rust.

Although Snape didn’t let him go, he seemed to have forgotten Harry was there as he watched Burns through the smudged glass.

“Um.” Harry edged back a little so he could look up. “Why are we hiding from Burns?”

Snape didn’t look down. “We are not. I am. You are merely collateral damage.”

Harry got a flash. “Oh. You’re not supposed to be walking about, then, are you? You sneaked out.”

Snape shook his head, once, hair swirling around his indifferently shaved chin. “Not yet.”

Another flash. “You were trying to escape?” Harry chuckled. “In your pyjamas and slippers? You must be mental.”

“Sh.” The admonishment, accompanied by a raised finger, was unexpectedly gentle – probably because Snape didn’t want Burns to hear – but Harry smiled.

Then Snape’s hand shifted, touching Harry’s face, and Harry froze at the simple, accidental intimacy.

Snape looked down at him, and the world went suddenly hotter, and much smaller. And a bit off-kilter, to judge by Harry’s brain, whirling in his head, jostling his balance. This close, he could see the flecks of warming brown in Snape’s black hair and black eyes, the surprise and confusion and wary calculation in his expression. Snape’s hand fell away and Harry felt a low, hot pulse of arousal, so different – so different – from the fear and impotent anger he’d felt as a child this close to the man that he all but gasped.

Snape stared at him, his expression pinched, pained, then leaned close, an abrupt, awkward move.

Harry flinched, then realised that Snape had kissed him. A quick, hesitant kiss, hardly felt – but a kiss.

Snape drew back, looking startled, one hand rising in a half-hearted warding gesture.

Harry, as stunned as Snape, blinked up at him, his tongue darting out as if in disbelief, as if seeking proof that their lips had touched, seeking a reason for his own sharp flare of pleasure. Snape tilted his head and – warily – did it again.

It was the strangest thing, Harry thought crazily, the way Snape kissed. Gentle, almost timid, but eager – as though wanting to enjoy it as much as possible before it was taken away. His lips were soft, his face a little ticklish with beard, and Harry felt a giggle in his throat that melted into sweet fire down his throat and along his nerve endings.

He opened his mouth and Snape grunted, grabbing him hard by the arms, bumping him into the storage cabinet, filling Harry’s mouth with his tongue, hot and hungry, and –

– a crash yanked them apart, gasping, looking wildly around for the source of the noise.

“Shit.” A man’s voice, just outside, startlingly loud. “Sorry.”

Then another, saying, “Hold on.” And the door clattered.

Harry, still gasping, trying to blink some semblance of reality back into a world that had just gone down a sort of erotic rabbit hole, stared at Snape, unable to form a single word. Even when he saw his own hands knotted in the front of Snape’s pyjama shirt.

He worked them loose. “Sorry.” He pointlessly smoothed the wrinkles for a second, blushing, then dropped his hands.

The door banged open and Burns stepped in. “Oh.” Stopped. “There you are.” He glanced out into the garden. “I’ve found him. Thank you.”

“We were out for a walk,” Harry blurted, hot all over, awkward, shifting on his feet, away from Snape, then back toward him – should he move away? Would that offend Snape? Or would he prefer it?

“In the shed?” Burns said mildly. Snape hadn’t moved.

Harry shrugged eloquently and Burns dismissed him, looking at Snape.

“I was looking for you, in fact, Mr Snape. If you’ll come to my office for a few minutes?” He stood aside and Snape silently preceded him through the doorway, Harry trailing after, half-protests half-formed on his lips at having been interrupted in something he still could only half-believe he’d been doing. They’d been doing.

“We won’t be long, Mr Potter, if you’d like to wait,” Burns said, sparing him a glance before leading Snape up the path.

Harry watched the two of them, Burns solid in his Mediwizard uniform and Snape, tall and straight beside him, his robe pulled tight, as they walked the path to the hospital doors. He realised he was shaking his head, unable to make what had just happened fit into any sensible box or slot in his mind, unable to believe how good it had felt but also unable to deny it. No dream, no vision: Snape had kissed him. He’d kissed back. It’d been good. So good he ached, right now. So good that if Burns hadn’t interrupted he and Snape would be on the floor of that manky shed right now …

A flashed image of Snape’s hand around his cock made said appendage throb, and he groaned. No. This wasn’t the place for that. Still blushing, still dazed, he pulled his cloak around himself and strode toward the doors, out of your mind repeating in his brain to the brisk rhythm of his footfalls.

~*~*~*~

Harry glanced up from the Potions Quarterly he was staring mindlessly at when Snape banged back into his hospital room.

He stopped, eyes widening, and Harry cocked his head to look at the sheaf of papers in his hands.

“They’re letting you go?”

Snape spun away from him, toward the window, hands suddenly clenched on the papers, creasing them, deforming them.

Despite a sinking sense that this whole thing was about to go pear-shaped, Harry continued.

“Er … I was planning to mention this today anyway: I’ve got a house near Hogsmeade and you can stay with me if you want. Until you, you know, get your feet under you and decide what you want to do. I have a spare room. It’s small, but …”

Snape’s shoulders rose and fell as he exhaled, hard, audibly, silencing Harry. He got up, inched closer.

“Er …”

Snape half-whispered, “Why are you still here?”

He was breathing in great, heaving breaths. Harry moved up behind him, wary, and touched his arms, turning him. “I … ”

“Go,” Snape hissed, staring at the floor. His face was tight, blotched with red. “Just go. You’ve already … go.”

“You don’t have anyplace to stay,” Harry said.

Snape took an awkward step back, moving around Harry toward his bedside table. He dropped the papers on top and began opening drawers, drawing out his pitiful aggregation of donated or borrowed clothing, stacking them on the bed in clumsy, abrupt stabs.

Oh. Harry backed up. “Right. I didn’t – sorry.” Obviously the man did have somewhere he’d rather be, someone he’d rather be with. Okay. Guess I misunderstood. He kissed me because I was there, not because it was me he wanted to kiss. Maybe my mum, maybe someone else, but not me. “Sorry. I mis – I made a mistake.”

Okay. So much for all those ideas. Harry shook his head again – this time to erase his interpretation of the last half hour – and went to the door. They were crazy ideas anyway. What the hell were you thinking? It’s Snape. He hates you.

“Wait.” Urgent but strangled, the word sounded as if someone else had forced it from Snape’s mouth. Harry stopped, not breathing.

Snape said, “Look at me,” and Harry felt the unformed anger in his stomach roil, surging into his throat. He turned.

“No. You look at me.” He lunged forward, gritting his teeth. “See me for a change.”

Snape shook his head. “I do. I have for …” He stopped, as though he’d surprised himself.

Startled, then delighted, Harry blurted, “Good.”

Snape grabbed him again – rough, but awkward, as if the roughness were accidental – and held his eyes. Harry stared back with not the faintest clue what the man was looking for.

Snape’s black unfathomable stare shifted to his mouth and Harry gulped, heat flaring to his toes.

Oh.

He shifted closer, tilting his face up, meeting Snape more than halfway. His eyes fell shut as Snape’s mouth covered his, warm, gentle, hungry still, but patient now that permission had been granted.

He clutched Snape’s elbows and pulled their bodies closer together, and a low sound welled up from his stomach when their bodies met. Snape backed him into the wall with a soft thud and pressed full length against him, and Harry broke from the kiss to gasp.

“Oh …” His cock throbbed, nearly painful, wanting this, wanting more.

A sharp series of raps on the door was followed immediately by a nurse plunging briskly into the room. Only to stop, mouth and eyes Os of disapproving shock, as Snape and Harry jerked apart. Snape turned away and Harry stood up from the wall, unsteady, knowing he was rumpled and red-faced and hard and having no way to hide any of that.

“Mr Potter!”

As if he’d been the one pressing Snape up against the wall, Harry thought, clearing his throat and adjusting his trousers.

“What?” he counter-attacked, embarrassment fairly swiftly taking care of at least one of the visible problems. “Serves you bloody right for barging in here.”

She stiffened further, a monument to starch and propriety. “I’m simply doing my job, Mr Potter. A hospital is no place for …” She waved a hand. “Such carryings on.”

Snape turned back, just as stiff as the nurse, though somehow in an entirely different way. Harry breathed in, seeking patience. He could taste Snape’s tongue. That made him flush hot all over again.

“I did knock,” the nurse added with a drop less starch.

Snape ground out, “Did you wish something?”

She started. “I was bringing you the signed release papers. And I’m to ask if you require assistance in leaving the building.” She held out a parchment, rolled and bound with a St Mungo’s-green cord.

Snape took the roll. “No.”

“I’ll see to it he gets home safely,” Harry insisted, without the faintest idea whether he could do that, or where home was to Snape.

“Very well.” She turned on her heel and marched from the room, closing the door with exaggerated deliberation.

Harry made a face at the door, then turned back to Snape, who was mucking about with the knot of his dressing gown belt, determinedly not looking at him.

“Did you want to dress?”

Snape looked at the stack of clothing on the bed and pulled off the dressing gown, draping it across the foot of the bed. The shirt had followed suit before Harry quite caught what Snape was doing. Hot, he ventured:

“Do you want me to … leave?”

Snape slid the bottoms off. “You’ve seen me far more naked than this.”

Harry blushed and turned away, the image of Snape’s lean pale back and the curve of his arse burning in his mind. “Yes, but …” But you hadn’t kissed me. Hadn’t …

Not now, not now. When he turned back Snape was in his donated black robes – Harry seemed to recall they were sent by Minerva – adjusting the lie of fabric against his chest with long strokes of his hands. Harry also seemed to recall that no smalls had been included in that CARE package.

Fuck.

He tried to adopt a nonlustful, nonnervous smile. He probably looked like a clown.

“So … em … my place, then?”

~*~*~*~

To part 6

Because that's the kind of hairpin I am*

2008-05-25T14:43:42Z

It's faze, people, not phase. It doesn't faze you. Look it up. Sheesh.
(And since last time I did this - the topic being "free rein" - I got a lot of fun and interesting grammar peeve posts from others, feel free to chime in with your favorites)

*Bonus points for knowing the movie the quote is from.