Entry tags:

2008, character: harry potter, character: severus snape, fic, pairing: harry/snape

Bred in Captivity, part one (Harry/Snape, NC-17) for foxestacado
Author: jadzialove
Recipient: foxestacado
Title: Bred in Captivity
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Harry/OMC, Ron/Hermione
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 18 or older.
Summary: Being sentenced to serve his time in Potter's custody is not the ultimate price Severus expected to pay for his crimes. It's not Harry's idea of post-war bliss either. But in making the best of a bad situation, they just might find something neither could have anticipated: understanding.
Warnings: EWE but otherwise DH compliant, Voyeurism, Wanking, Highlight to read: *Original Character Death*
Word Count: 14, 900 +/-
Author's Notes: I hope this is to your liking, foxestacado! I went with the "Hurt/comfort. Author decides plot and relationship dynamic" portion of your prompt, which gave me a lot room to play. The resulting fic has plenty of hurt/comfort, I think, and is undeniably Snarry. Merry Yule Balls to you!

Thank you to my amazing if currently anonymous friend and beta for the heroic wrangling of deranged ellipses, and to my other anonymous friend and Brit-picker for interrupting a lovely holiday for me. *Loves*

Bred in Captivity


The Sentence

"Mr. Potter, please control yourself!" the wrinkled old witch cried over the din of the gallery, which had suddenly erupted into chaos. She directed her next command at the gawking masses. "Calm down, you lot, or we'll clear this room!"

Severus Snape (who'd spent his lengthy pretrial detainment in Azkaban prison, willing himself to die the death he'd so miserably failed to achieve by the still-weeping wound on the side of his neck) remained the only placid thing in the room. He'd spent much of the proceedings in a state of wholly unfeigned disinterest, shackled as he was to the chair in the center of the room, refusing to speak in his own defense.

Even he could not ignore Potter's antics. What was the idiot doing? Severus's hopes for a speedy trial and an expedited sentence of death were slowly deteriorating.

Once the reporters and outraged members of wizarding society had calmed themselves, a rather portly gentleman, two rows back and to the left of the old witch, addressed Potter sardonically, "Mr. Potter, your... vigorous and very public defense of Mr. Snape has been duly noted." He paused, then added, "I must admit to my surprise over your change of heart on this issue, however. As a matter of record, it was you who accused Mr. Snape of this crime to begin with."

Potter gritted his teeth, and Severus allowed himself to hope the brat's temper would win out, finally putting an end to this idiotic attempt to defend him.

Surprisingly, Potter composed himself.

"You've heard my testimony regarding that, but I'll repeat for the record—it was crucial to his cover that everyone, including me, believe Professor Snape had killed Professor Dumbledore in cold blood."

Ever the interfering sod, Potter continued, beseeching the entire court, "You've seen Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve memories, you've heard his portrait's testimony regarding the events of that night and you know it was an act of mercy. You've heard Professor Dumbledore's account, and those made by myself and others as well, detailing the enormous personal risks Professor Snape had to take over the years to ensure the defeat of Voldemort, acts of great courage.

"Taking all of that into account, I ask you, sir, with all due respect, how could you reasonably find Professor Snape anything other than innocent?"

Severus bristled at the word; he'd never been truly innocent, not even as a child. It seemed he was not alone in his thinking either, as the din arose again in the room around him. He turned his head, unable to stop himself, toward the portrait he'd so carefully avoided looking at throughout the proceedings, the portrait of his 'victim,' and immediately regretted it. A pang charged through him from, the core of his being to his extremities.

Potter's words were true enough: Albus Dumbledore was as good as dead already that fateful night; they'd just used the circumstances to their advantage. Knowing that he'd've died anyway didn't relieve the onus of guilt; it didn't keep the painful memory of Albus's final moments (made all the more horrifying by the shared thoughts of Legilimency) from haunting him; and it didn't stop Severus from keenly missing the man, whose likeness was currently twinkling and beaming with pride at Potter from an ornate frame. No doubt seeing in the young man an heir to his eccentric and meddlesome ways, if Potter's current behavior were any indication.

Hearing snippets such as "…a Death Eater!" and "…surely guilty of something!" bandied about the room, Severus returned to the comfort of his detachment, clutching a last straw of hope for swift justice and final rest.

The wrinkled witch, having had enough of the ruckus, brought her forefingers to her lips and whistled shrilly into the clamor, instantly bringing order to the room. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Please take your seat."

The Wizengamot began its whispered discussion, and Severus remained unmoved as they eyed him and then Potter in turn, pointing and nodding in an unusual show of agreement, until the portly judge cackled gleefully, his three chins wobbling in disharmony against one another. Cackling did not bode well, and the nerves Severus had denied for nearly a year suddenly sprang to life in the pit of his stomach.

As the judges found their seats, the shackles on Severus's arms and legs opened without warning.

The old witch ordered, "Mr. Snape, please rise." She looked to his right and added, "Mr. Potter, please join Mr. Snape, as this concerns you as well."

Once Potter stood next to him, she continued, "It is the decision of this court, in its very first unanimous vote, I might add," much nodding and self-congratulatory back patting rippled through the rows of benches, "that Mr. Snape shall be released... conditionally."

The room remained oddly quiet following the confusing statement. Was he free or not?

"Mr. Snape, if you can show this panel, after a probationary period, that you are and remain an upstanding member of society, you shall be granted a full pardon." A buzz of conversation grew in the room, and Severus's left eye began to twitch. "Mr. Potter, your admirable defense of, staunch support for, and obvious confidence in the defendant has convinced the court that Mr. Snape should be released into your custody, where he shall remain from this day until five years hence—"

Severus was certain there was more to it, but while he could see her lips moving (indeed, her lips were all that he could see, as they appeared to have enlarged, filling his entire field of vision), he could hear nothing over the noise he'd first taken for burgeoning conversation. The buzzing grew exponentially, becoming nothing short of a million angry bees confined inside Severus's skull. Apparently, he'd forgotten how to breathe as well, which should not have been a problem for someone with a fervent death wish. But it seemed the involuntary function remained an important one to him.

So, in fact, the only thing he did hear was Potter's startled, "Snape!" before the blackness came over him.


-:-:-:-:-


Harry flinched as he watched the MLE official clamp the ornate shackle to Snape's ankle, an iron cuff he would have to wear for the next five years, restricting his freedom and use of magic, and, in a sense, binding him to Harry for the duration.

This was not at all what he'd had in mind when he'd taken up the man's cause.

Snape sat stone-faced, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. He'd always been fairly skinny, as far as Harry knew, but his injury coupled with his time in Azkaban had not done him a bit of good—he was downright skeletal now and his normal sallow pallor was unnaturally grey, which set off the purplish-black circles under his eyes. There were no words to describe his hair. He looked absolutely wretched, and the shock Harry had experienced upon first seeing him this way hadn't diminished over time.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I wish I could've swayed them against a trial to begin with," Kingsley Shacklebolt said quietly near his ear.

"Yeah, me too," Harry replied. He smiled wryly. "I almost regret being so... loud about it. But I couldn't not say anything. I mean, taking him from St. Mungo's and throwing him into prison was beyond the pale."

"I fear we did rather too well in reforming this Wizengamot—they're a scrupulous lot, but maybe a bit overzealous in their desire to prove it. They wouldn't hear a word of extenuating circumstances." Kingsley shook his head. "Griselda Marchbanks, the new Chief, was a friend of Dumbledore's, and they needed for someone to pay. I certainly don't think anyone expected this outcome though."

"They did offer me an out, but I couldn't send him off to Azkaban. I reckon they knew that too. He might not be a hero, but he's not the villain everyone thought he was either. Anyway, I don't think my mother would've wanted him in Azkaban."

Kingsley squeezed Harry's shoulder. "If you need anything, let me know."

"Thanks, Kingsley. It'll be fine, as long as we don't kill each other." Which was a distinct possibility, Harry thought, his optimism a bit thin of late. He sighed, then smiled wryly. "Not even the Minister could help us in that case."

And what in the world was he going to do with Snape? He'd only just recently reclaimed his family's home¬¬—Bramble Cottage—where his Potter grandparents had lived. And though he had no recollection of it, it was the home in which he and his own parents had lived before going into hiding.

Now he had to share it with Snape. For five years.

That thinning optimism disappeared completely as he considered the disaster that surely lay ahead of them.


-:-:-:-:-


Potter's home was what the boy had termed a 'cottage,' though it was approximately twenty times the size of Severus's shoddy little row house in Spinner's End, and, in Severus's opinion, pushed the word to its very boundaries.

There was a hint of Muggle paint and sawdust in the air that spoke of recent renovation; a necessity no doubt brought on by long abandonment. The fact that Potter's insufferable father had not lived in this dwelling for nearly two decades (and certainly the fact that Lily had lived there, however briefly) did nothing to lessen the tightening in Severus's chest or the incredible, almost overwhelming wrongness of the entire situation.

He did not belong here. Surely, it was cruel and unusual punishment.

Potter was not helping matters: he seemed at a loss as to what to do with Severus, and so settled upon doting on him, as if Severus were an aged maiden aunt on holiday.

"Are you all right? Would you like some water? Do you need to sit down?" Potter paused, then, seeming to latch onto an idea, blurted, "Tea! I could make tea."

Severus's chest tightened; he wouldn't have it. If he was to be a prisoner, then he should be treated as such, no matter how posh the prison. "Show me to my cell, Potter."

The boy looked stricken, which only slightly righted the wrong-footedness he felt, and Severus managed to hold his tongue until his jailer finally led him into a sunny, nicely appointed guest suite that smelled pleasantly of lemon verbena.

"Sorry, fresh out of cells—this'll have to do."

There was a twist of irony in Potter's tone and a hopeful look on his face, which further tightened the band that had formed around Severus's chest. This would not do. "It's hardly befitting a murderer. Have you no cellar, no bars through which to shove my bread and water?"

Ignoring him, Potter said, "I wasn't expecting a guest—I've only just moved in myself—but everything should be in order. The loo is this door here." Potter opened said door, revealing an enormous en suite of gleaming granite and shining glass tiles. Severus was having trouble breathing again as Potter continued, "If you need anything, just call for Kreacher." Potter flushed, then added as he moved toward the door, "Or me. I'm, er, at the end of the corridor."

No, this wouldn't do at all. Forcing the necessary air out of his constricted lungs, Severus, desperate for a reaction that made any sort of sense to him, hissed, "I killed him, Potter."

Potter flinched slightly at the stark confession, but only nodded in understanding.

Suddenly looking decades older than the nearly nineteen years he could claim, Potter responded sadly, just before quietly closing the door, "I know, Snape."


-:-:-:-:-


"Wish you were coming to Australia with us this time, mate," Ron said, almost absentmindedly, for the third time that evening. He threw another peanut up in the air and caught it in his mouth. Harry watched him from across the table as he repeated the action several times with varying degrees of success.

The pub was loud and smoky, but in a comforting way, and Harry was glad they'd discovered the little Muggle place in Ipswich. And it was close enough to the cottage to walk (a long walk, but still doable) on those nights when splinching might be a better-than-average possibility.

Harry sighed. "Wish I were, too. But Snape's here now and I can't very well bugger off to another country and leave him alone. Especially since he hasn't been out of bed in four days."

"Four days? Is that true?" Hermione asked, sounding dismayed.

"According to Kreacher, yeah. I, er, haven't been inside his room."

"Can't say I blame you there," Ron put in as a peanut bounced off his nose and hit the man sitting at the table next to them in the back. Luckily, it went unnoticed.

"Oh, but that can't be good! He's not been up at all? Has he eaten anything?" Hermione's hand shot out with impressive speed and snatched the next peanut from the jaws of its fate. "Stop," she commanded quietly but firmly, then turned her attention back to Harry.

"No, not much if anything to eat. Not for Kreacher's lack of trying—he's a bit beside himself about it, actually."

"Professor Snape might be depressed." Hermione looked thoughtful for a moment. "It must be horrible for him."

"Thanks a lot." Harry chortled, not really taking offense.

"That's not what I meant," Hermione said. She explained, ticking off points on her fingers as she made them, "He's lived a double life, in an extremely precarious position, for the last several years. Then, while still recovering from a wound that should have been fatal, he was thrown into prison. It must've been an enormous shock to him that he lived through it, actually. Then, just when he thinks it's over, he's sentenced to be a prisoner in the home of a former student, one whom he's always been at odds with, as well as being in the family home of a man he considered an enemy, and a woman who was probably his only true friend. A friend he lost because of his own poor choices, yes, and one who died before he could set it right with her, again as a direct result of his poor choices. And he has no one to talk to about everything that's happened—has no one at all really. He must be terribly lonely. I'll wager his childhood wasn't ideal either. It's really no wonder the man is a mess."

Ron looked at Hermione as if she'd sprouted another head. "Where d'you come up with this stuff?"

Harry didn't comment, nursing his beer instead, and thought about what she'd said. He'd never told his friends about the memories he'd seen of Snape's childhood, but Hermione had always somehow seemed to be in tune with other people's feelings. And while, on the one hand, he could easily dismiss most of it as being Snape's own fault, he also didn't particularly want the man to suffer either. He'd had some time to come to terms with Snape's part in everything and the profound effect it'd had on Harry's life, all the way back to before Harry was born. And he'd accepted that it had all happened the way it absolutely had to in order to finally end it for good with Voldemort.

No, he laid the blame squarely at Voldemort's feet. It did Harry's head in a bit to think that without Voldemort, he likely would have two very much alive parents, maybe a bunch of younger siblings. He would've been raised in the wizarding world, and Snape would have been just some wanker that his parents had known at school, with whom they might never cross paths. Surely, Snape wouldn't have chosen teaching as his career....

A wave of melancholy washed over Harry as he had a sudden, crystal-clear vision of how his life might've been, all the people he'd lost, still alive and well.

Feeling choked up, he took another deep swallow of his beer to cover the moment, willing the feeling away. Wishing things had been different never helped; it was an emotional minefield that was best avoided. Making a list of what and who had been lost was a very, very bad idea.

Hermione and Ron appeared not to notice his brief journey into the land of What If. She rolled her eyes at Ron and turned back to Harry. "You can't let him do that to himself, Harry. You have to engage him somehow, challenge him, make him get out of bed at the very least."

He couldn't imagine making Snape do anything he didn't want to—he wasn't looking forward to an intervention—but she was right. "I know, Hermione. I'll do what I can."

The gloom that had invaded his mood did not improve when, a few moments later, Ron asked, "Hey, where's Gin? I thought she was gonna meet us here."

"She's, uh, not coming." Harry took yet another fortifying swig of beer, as, for the second time that evening, he felt a prickling sensation behind his eyes. No need to be such a girl about things. "She... we're not together anymore."

"What?" Ron asked, clearly shocked. "But how? When? Why?"

Hermione didn't look surprised, though; whether it was because of her mysterious powers of emotion divining or if Ginny had told her, Harry couldn't say.

"Honestly, Ron. Must you be so insensitive?" She squeezed Harry's forearm. "Are you all right? Do you need to talk about it?"

Thankfully, he managed to wrestle control over his composure before he lost it, and was able to respond without the pesky emotions welling up within him. "I'm all right, and so is she. It was mutual." Mostly. "Things weren't... I'm different, she's different, the world's different." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Nothing clicked the way it did before. Maybe we were apart for too long. We decided we're better as friends, and that's all there is to it," he added, hoping Hermione wouldn't press him for more.

Just because it was true didn't mean it didn't hurt. It didn't mean he wanted to talk about it either.

She looked somewhat skeptical, but her attention was drawn away from Harry as Ron stood suddenly and walked away.

Before Harry could process what had happened, though, his best friend returned, placing two of the four beers he was carrying in front of Harry. "Drink up, mate."

Harry smiled in gratitude. Even Hermione seemed to understand the gesture for what it was, smiling fondly up at Ron.

And if later in the evening, as he found the bottom of the fifth beer, Harry had become a bit weepy, his friends were great enough not to mention it.


-:-:-:-:-


Severus had never developed a plan for After The War.

After The War was for the rest of the world, for those who hadn't sullied their souls to save it. His only plan had been to die, and by the end of it all, he'd begun to look forward to it… with relish.

The hope that the Wizengamot would see fit to sentence him to death was the only thing that had kept him from falling into an inescapable pit of despair. There was nothing, now, to stop the steady spiral downward. He'd crawled into the bed he'd been assigned—ironically, the most comfortable bed he'd ever lain upon—and remained there, stubbornly refusing the lavish meals the house-elf pressed upon him, ignoring the occasional knock on his door and the tentative, "Snape?" that invariably followed.

He lost track of time—it might've been three days, it might've been three weeks—and he'd achieved a sort of lethargic trance state to occupy the odd moments when he was not sleeping. Occasionally, he would wonder how long he could last this way, but couldn't possibly work up the energy to accelerate the process.

The new routine was not so much comfortable as numbing, and feeling nothing, he found, was an acceptable state of being while he waited for nature to finally claim him.

However, as in all things, Potter seemed to have his own ideas.

Severus's lethargy was so complete that he didn't even twitch when the door slammed open with a loud bang.

"Okay, Snape, time to get up!"

Severus could hear him moving around the room but did not acknowledge the intruder.

The bed curtain was drawn aside, spilling bright, unwelcome light into his dark cocoon.

"Merlin, Kreacher was right: you are ripe!" Potter proclaimed. "Congratulations. D'you know what it takes to offend a house-elf's senses? I didn't even know it was possible."

The bed curtains on the other side of him were thrust open without warning.

"C'mon, Snape—wakey, wakey."

Severus lifted his head, ignoring the pain that the bright light caused his eyes in favor of bestowing the brat with the most ferocious scowl he could muster, then froze when Potter came at him with wand drawn. This was more like it; perhaps Potter had come to put him out of his misery after all.

But no, Potter was apparently there only to add to it. Severus felt the tingle of magic, quietly and profoundly intimate, as the cleansing spell worked over his skin.

"Is it 'Abuse the Prisoner' day, Potter?" Severus croaked out of his disused and not entirely healed throat.

"Abuse? The only thing being abused here is my nose," the brat scoffed. "C'mon, Snape, up and at 'em."

"Go. Away."

"No. I've let you indulge yourself with this wallowing way too long. The bread and water routine is getting old."

Severus sat up then, experiencing a moment of lightheadedness from the sudden action. "Self-indulgent wallowing! You sanctimonious little—"

Potter raised his wand and hit him again with the cleansing spell. "Look at you, sitting up and everything."

Well, of course the trick had worked, Severus was not as sharp as he used to be, and Potter had always known which of his buttons to push.

"Look, Hermione reckons you're depressed." Before Severus could tell Potter exactly what he thought of that declaration, Potter continued, "Don't look at me like that—she's concerned. We both are. While nobody could blame you for it, I can't let you just waste away. At least let Kreacher change the dressing on your neck."

Had the boy no sense? "I am a prisoner, Potter. I demand that you treat me as such."

"No!" Potter shouted, his face becoming fierce. He repeated the word, in a quieter but no less adamant tone, "No. I lived through that—complete with bars on the windows and scraps of food shoved through a cat door." He added softly but firmly, "No one will be treated that way in my home."

Though he recognized the stubborn set of Potter's jaw, Severus tried again. "I’m certain the Ministry had punishment in mind when they attached this," he shoved his foot out from under the blankets, revealing the iron cuff binding him to Potter's property or person, "to my ankle, then foisted me on you. The question, it seems, is which of us were they actually punishing?"

"They didn't foist you on me."

He made to argue, but Potter shook his head and added, "After you fainted, they gave me a choice. If I chose not to have you here, you would spend the five years in Azkaban. So you're stuck with me. And you have to get out of bed."

Severus sat stunned, speechless for a moment. Potter had chosen to have him there, for some bizarre reason had spared him the magic dampening wards and brutal, bitter Squib guards of Azkaban. It was beyond his comprehension.

"Why are you doing this, Potter? Why do you even care? We've loathed one another from the moment we met—did you believe that killing the Dark Lord would change that?"

"Don't worry. I know exactly who and what you are: a bitter, vindictive man who can hold a grudge like nobody's business. And one who took way too much pleasure in hating me and making my life miserable." Potter sighed, suddenly seeming to deflate. "But my mother cared about you, and I know that I couldn't have done it without you. Too many people are gone, Snape. I'd like to think you survived Nagini's attack, against all odds, for a reason." He clenched his fists at his side. "And I need for you to be okay," Potter paused again, before saying one last, extraordinary thing, "because if you're okay, then maybe I can be too."

Well.

Severus found himself once again cast into the unenviable role of the savior's savior.

So be it.

"I did not faint."

Potter relaxed slightly and smirked. "Oh? Only it looked like fainting to me."


-:-:-:-:-


The In-Between


Harry sank into the worn sofa, grateful for the cool and quiet of the room, and for the general sense of comfort he always felt just by being at the Burrow.

"What're you doin' hiding in here?" Ron asked, navigating the journey through the doorway and across the room with the extreme care of someone who'd had a tad too much to drink, but not so much that he wasn't aware of it. Once he'd reached his destination, Ron abandoned that carefulness and flopped down, sprawling onto the sofa next to Harry.

"M'not hiding. It's just a bit too crowded out there."

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, then Harry reached over and poked Ron in the ribs.

"Hey. You're married."

"I am." Ron grinned stupidly. "Brilliant, innit?"

"Yeah, it is." Harry grinned back, genuinely happy for his best friends. "Rotten luck on the honeymoon, though."

"You don't know the half of it." Ron glanced furtively around the room, then said in a low voice, "She's planning on revising tomorrow. You thought she was mental at Hogwarts?" He rolled his eyes. "Nothing compared to Uni. I'm lucky I convinced her to leave off tonight." He shrugged. "We'll go somewhere eventually—her hols come round the same time the Warriors' season ends."

"Not expecting a championship game, then? S'been a good year for you."

"That'd be brilliant, but I don't think so. Too green, the lot of us. I'm really just hoping for experience, maybe get picked up by someone when we come back."

By 'someone,' Harry had no doubt Ron meant the Cannons. He couldn't allow himself to get excited about them coming back just yet though—Hermione had a couple more years left and anything could happen in that time. Changing the subject instead, he said, "Hey, who was that woman with Percy?"

"Winifred something or other. Ministry, 'course. I swear if she said, 'lovely ceremony' one more time, I'd've hexed her."

"Well it was nice."

"Yeah." Ron smiled. "Shame Snape wouldn't come."

"Just as well, really." Harry sighed.

Ron sniggered. "Still walking round in his knickers, is he?"

Stuffing down the disturbing image provoked by Ron's use of the word 'knickers' in reference to Snape, Harry sighed again. "Yes. So you can tell your bride that she was wrong."

"Sorry, mate—there's no way in hell I'm telling Hermione she was wrong about anything. Especially on my wedding night." Ron laughed. "How was she wrong?"

"I've embraced the underwear, just like she said—I even gave him some Muggle boxers for Christmas. You know, with cartoon characters and funny designs on them." He paused when he noticed Ron was shaking with laughter. "What's so funny?"

"You!" Ron gasped between howls. "Buying Snape underwear—funny picture underwear—and embracing it!"

Harry mock-scowled at him, and then laughed along with him.

"I'm sorry," Ron said, wiping at his eyes. "I'm all right now, I swear. Merlin that's funny." He snorted again. "Okay. I'll stop. Go on."

"Well, she thought Snape was only doing it for the shock value, so accepting it should've made it stop. Only it hasn't."

"Tough luck, that."

"Nah, I'm used to it now." It was really only a bit unsettling when Snape chose to wear the saggy gray ones he'd brought with him. "I think he's doing it... dunno, maybe as a sort freedom thing. He's expected to wear clothing, so he chooses not to. Does that make sense?"

Ron's half-shrug and half-nod was affirmative enough, so Harry continued, "So I've been letting him decide just about everything—he's taken over the kitchen, he has free rein in the library and has rearranged the books into some mad system that only he understands. He's taken over the garden too. He spends a lot of time out there, actually." Harry smiled wryly. Living with Snape was not nearly as bad as he'd imagined it would be—in fact, they got along fairly well. "Likely he thinks I'm an idiot who can't make a decision for himself, but he thought that before, so nothing new there."

"Kreacher doesn't mind Snape invading his kitchen?"

"I've heard them bickering, but honestly? Kreacher's old even for an elf. I think he's relieved and only argues for form's sake."

Harry and Ron fell into another companionable silence, and Harry's mind turned back to the image the knickers comment had created, which was disturbing only for its not-nearly-disturbing-enough-ness, and Harry was nowhere near ready to think about that, so he pushed it away again. Though it led to another: he'd tried to broach the subject with Ron and Hermione several times, but wasn't sure how to do it in a letter.

Maybe a bit of testing the waters was in order.

Without looking at him, Harry asked, "Ron? Have you ever known anyone who's gay?"

Much to Harry's surprise, Ron pressed a hand to his own chest, somewhat dramatically, slumping even further into the sofa, then said, "Oh thank Merlin!"

"Er... huh?"

"Hermione said we weren't allowed talk to you about it unless you said something first. I've been goin' barmy waiting." Ron shifted, sat up straighter and turned toward Harry, hitching a knee onto the sofa between them. "So, talk."

"What're you on about?"

"Harry," Ron began wryly, "your letters are nothing but Ian this and Ian that—even I couldn't miss it. If I hadn't known it was Ian Ketteridge, the same spotty Ravenclaw Ian Ketteridge who was a year ahead of us at school, I'd've thought he invented magic."

"Oh." Harry blushed slightly. He hadn't realized he'd been so obvious. "He's, uhm, not so spotty anymore."

"I gathered that." Ron laughed, then asked, "So you're good? Happy? No emotional traumas I should go fetch Hermione to sort out?"

"Because I'm a poof?" Harry snorted. "None to speak of, thanks. I'm just having fun."

It was true enough. He missed Ron and Hermione terribly—Ron especially, because of Auror training, which had turned out not to be what he'd thought, but having Ian as a training partner had certainly helped.

"Good."

"Who was the 'we' you meant when you said, 'we weren't allowed'?" Harry asked.

Shrugging, Ron said, "Pretty much everyone. Especially after yesterday."

"Yesterday? What happened yesterday?"

Ron smirked. "Charlie on a broom, ring any bells for you?"

Bells and more. Charlie's arse was a thing of beauty—round and firm—and Harry had wanted to take a bite of it when they'd been playing Quidditch, and... oh. Clearly, he'd made no secret of the fact. "Oh god."

"Nah, don't worry about it. No one minded. Least of all Charlie."

Which was why when Harry awoke later that night (with a head four times its normal size and a mouth tasting of sweaty socks), he wasn't at all surprised by the large, freckled, burn-scarred arm that pulled him closer to a broad, bare chest or the nearly inaudible, whisky-laden, "Shhhh," that followed.

But none of that—not the rather athletic tumble with Charlie, not the great talk with Ron, not the grinning, knowing looks he'd received from various smug Weasleys shortly before he left for home, not even the disturbingly-not-disturbing image of Snape in black lacy knickers—prepared him for what he witnessed from his own bedroom window the morning after the wedding.

Holding his swollen head gingerly—to keep it from rolling off of his shoulders—Harry Apparated home, directly into his bedroom. Thankfully, in one piece. It'd been risky to Apparate, but even the thought of Flooing home set his stomach roiling.

He loved Mrs. Weasley dearly, but putting her foot down about Hangover Potion, the sweet nectar of relief, coupled with the disapproving yet somehow highly amused, "You lot'll reap what you've sown," was just not on.

Harry grabbed the bottle he needed from his en suite, and shuffled the short distance to the little sitting area in his bedroom, swallowing the potion as he did so, then sat quietly for a moment, waiting for the dose to take effect. When his head felt relatively normal-sized again, he eased his eyes open to find the soothing sight of the garden outside the window to his right.

Looking down from his vantage point, he could see the riot of colors, the water feature, the meanders leading to the center of it all, where there was a birdbath in a grassy clearing.

And Snape.

Lying in the grass.

Naked.

One hand working his cock, two fingers of the other pressing rhythmically in and out of his arse.

Harry looked at the bottle in his hand to be certain he hadn't taken the wrong potion, and no, it was the right one, so he wasn't hallucinating.

Knowing it was a horrible violation of Snape's privacy, he looked into the garden again and was then unable to look away. Harry pressed down on his own firming erection with the heel of his hand, until Snape threw his head back and came with a shout that Harry couldn't hear.

Despite that one not-disturbing knickers image, Harry had never thought of Snape as sexual, had never imagined the man even knew the word sex.

Good god, the look of abandon on Snape's face, the pure ecstasy of the moment....

Harry pressed down harder on the throbbing between his legs. Shower. It was definitely time for a shower.

Later that evening, Harry couldn't look Snape in the eye, so instead, he concentrated on the rather excellent meal in front of him.

"I wish to speak with you about the garden."

The conversation was doomed from the start, because whatever Snape might have said after that never registered: the word 'garden' flung Harry's mind right back to the garden scene he'd witnessed earlier in the day.

That was, until Snape said, "I'd like to try courgettes and squash..."

Harry choked on a bit of asparagus as the Snape in his head began using courgettes and squash in an unconventional but highly interesting fashion.

"Potter, have you heard a single word I've said?"

Snape's voice finally broke into the fog of Harry's fantasy.

"Uhm, one or two, yeah," he answered truthfully. "What was it that you needed?"

"The garden. Do try to keep up, Potter. I wish to make a vegetable garden." Snape rolled his eyes. "Really, if this is the effect that alcohol has on your already struggling brain function, it might be advisable for you to abstain in the future. Clearly, you cannot afford the loss of brain cells."

Harry looked up at Snape, then really looked at him. Gone were the purple rings under his eyes, his skin was a healthy color (healthier than Harry had ever seen it), he'd gained a bit of weight, his hair was long and though it still hung somewhat limply, it wasn't the disaster it'd been when he'd first arrived here. Basically, the man no longer looked like death warmed over. Snape would never be beautiful, but Harry suspected this was as good as he'd ever looked. Harry had a moment of pride: he'd done this, or at least had helped it along.

Furthermore, he realized, despite his dire thoughts early on about the success of their forced co-habitation, he actually liked having the bastard around.

That shocking thought alone drove him to say, "You know, Snape, you might just be right about the alcohol."


-:-:-:-:-

It took three and a half years, with the exception of one or two setbacks—oh all right, possibly several more than one or two—but Severus no longer wished to die with every fiber of his being.

A marked improvement, one would think.

And though he was still a prisoner, he was able to find his freedom in small ways. Not that Potter imposed any restrictions on him—indeed, Potter went out of his way to be accommodating. It did not change the fact that Severus was not, by definition, a free man.

The first time Severus had made an appearance in his undergarments had been entirely accidental, eighteen months into his stay with Potter. He'd merely wished to exchange the book he'd finished for another, and in his defense, it was shortly after two in the morning and modesty was rather far from his mind. He'd listened from his doorway for even the smallest sound indicating Potter might be up and about. The complete and utter silence had driven him down the stairs and into the library with confidence, only to find the room full of Potter's friends.

Instead of running, as was Severus's first instinct, he'd forced himself to continue on as if he were dressed for such a gathering. They'd already seen him, and it wouldn't do to appear bothered by the situation.

"Snape! Sorry, did we wake you? I thought the Silencing Charm would take care of the noise." Potter kept his face neutral and made no mention of Severus's state of dress, or rather, undress.

His friends, however, were not so adept at schooling their features.

"Do not mind me, Potter, I only wished to get the next volume in the series." He flashed the book in Potter's general direction as he walked to the shelf from which it'd come—though he had yet to make sense of Potter's imbecilic shelving system, he did find the rest of the series there.

Granger's cheeks had pinked, but apart from Potter, she'd been the only one who seemed to remain otherwise unaffected and had greeted him from her perch on one of the two overstuffed sofas with a pleasant, "Hello, Professor. I think you'll enjoy the second book—it's one of my favorites of the series."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I'm certain I shall." He'd tipped the new book in parting as if it were a jaunty chapeau and they'd met in the park on a Sunday constitutional, and walked in a dignified manner out of the room, closing the door behind him. Heart pounding, he'd leant against the closed portal, grateful that the Silencing Charm was still in place.

He should have felt humiliated, a room full of former students; instead, he'd felt exhilarated. The looks on their faces, ranging from stupefaction to horror, had been priceless, absolutely delicious. Longbottom and Weasley in particular.

Part of the exhilaration had been inducing the shock, admittedly. But there was more to it than that; flying in the face of convention, of the expectations of others, had been incredibly satisfying, almost, dare he think it, freeing.

Potter, to his credit, had made no mention of his perpetual state of deshabille, and shortly after that first time, went so far as to give Severus complete autonomy over several household matters, including, to Severus's great relief, the library.

Although, in the year and a half since, he'd discovered that there were some advantages to proper attire—while cooking or gardening, for example. He'd found contentment in equal measure with both activities. And Potter's garden was spectacular, if he said so himself. Severus had labored tirelessly to bring it back to life, and he sincerely doubted it had ever before been as lush. It was his haven. He spent hours at a time there, enjoying the fruits of his labor, so to speak.

Severus inhaled deeply, taking in the delicious scent already wafting out of the bubbling pot in front of him. He added a pinch of this and a dash of that until he was satisfied, then lowered the flame.

His restricted magic left Severus unable to brew potions, left him, actually, unable to perform all but the most rudimentary of wandless spells: lighting and extinguishing lamps and candles was nearly the extent of it. Cooking was something he was able to do without assistance. And what was cooking, after all, but the combining of particular and hopefully harmonious ingredients?

Magicless potions.

It was an agreeable substitute.

With supper underway, Severus covered the pot and took off his plain white apron, hanging it on the hook near the door.

He'd developed a routine of sorts, and had found it rather satisfying. Satisfying in more ways than one, as the sudden and altogether unexpected return of his long-quiescent libido had led to an addition to his routine, to which his haven in the garden often played host. Severus had always found sex out of doors enormously stimulating; that he was alone did not diminish the thrill of it. Beyond that, however, he found that the self-assigned chores on his list helped keep him from falling back into that pit of despair, the precipice of which he'd frequently teetered on over the years.

With actual gardening on his mind this morning, Severus headed out the back door, only to realize that he'd left the vegetable garden schematic he'd come up with on his bedside table.

"Bugger." Sighing, Severus went back into the kitchen to make the walk through the house and up to his room. A back-staircase would have been extremely helpful at that point, but the house had been designed for a wizarding family of means, and of course, house-elves didn't require a staircase, back or front.

He moved silently, but stopped short of the entry hall when he happened upon a surprising scene that had him catching his breath.

Potter had someone... Severus squinted in the colorful half-light provided by the stained-glass transom window: the slightly overlong, soft brown waves of hair led him to suspect it was Ketteridge whom Potter had pressed up against the wall next to the Floo, kissing and laughing softly.

Something twisted inside him and he stood incredulous for moment, stunned by the world shifting slightly sideways. Then he pushed it aside—the incredulity, and that other painful, unnamed thing his insides were doing—becoming angry instead, which wasn't any more reasonable than the other nonsense, but was certainly more comfortable. He cleared his throat loudly and the two men sprang apart as if Severus had thrown a spell between them.

"Snape, I... uhm, thought you were in the garden." Potter's face had become a light crimson and his discomfiture helped ease the sudden anger, tempering it somewhat.

"Clearly, I am not."

"Hullo, Professor."

"Mr. Ketteridge." Severus nodded curtly.

"Ian was just... er, going."

The young man in question jumped at the opportunity to exit. "Right. Going." He took a pinch of powder from the box on the mantel and turned to Potter with a smirk. "See you later?"

"Definitely," Potter responded with a half-smile that was somehow... intimate.

That same painful something within Severus twisted and reared its ugly head, and suddenly, he was outraged.

With himself.

He knew this sensation, and it was preposterous—he was absolutely not jealous.

"Doesn't the Ministry frown upon fraternization, Potter?" Severus asked before he could stop himself.

Potter shrugged, insolent and defiant, as usual. "Dunno. Never thought to ask."

Desperate to be away from the scene, away from everything, especially his ridiculous thoughts, Severus moved towards the stairs.

"Snape?" Potter called out somewhat hesitantly when Severus had progressed halfway up the stairs.

Severus turned to Potter but made no response.

"You're not... are you angry because of Ian? I mean because he's a he?"

The situation was utterly and painfully laughable, but Severus managed to keep his composure. "That, Mr. Potter, would be entirely hypocritical of me," he confessed.

"So you're not angry?"

"No. I am not." And it was true. That burst of temper he'd felt initially had gone as quickly as it had gripped him.

"Wait, you said it would be hypocritical of you...."

"Evan Rosier was a beautiful young man." Severus watched as the Potter finally worked it out.

"You... But... I wish I'd known that when I was trying to figure this all out," Potter said quietly, almost to himself, seemingly still shocked by the revelation. He ran a hand through his already disastrous hair, wreaking further havoc. "Though I don't reckon you'd've fancied a conversation, in any case. And I can't say that I would've been eager for a chat with you about it either." He smiled wryly. "I just never imagined. Could I ask you a question?"

"You may, though I make no promise to answer it."

"My mother. I thought you..." Potter hesitated, gestured oddly, floundering.

Severus sighed, turned fully towards Potter, and sat down on the step behind him. This was neither the time nor the place for such a conversation—no such ideal moment or venue existed, as far as he was concerned—but perhaps a little clearing of the air was in order.

"It can't have escaped your notice that you've yet to actually ask a question," Severus intoned, stalling.

Potter merely shrugged.

Severus sighed again and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glad for the second time that day that he'd chosen to don trousers and a shirt. He collected his thoughts while Potter waited patiently at the foot of the staircase, leaning against the carved-wood newel post. When Severus only sighed again, Potter moved up the stairs and sat next to him.

Not having to look at the boy was a relief, so Severus was able to begin by addressing the non-question, "You drew your own conclusions from the memories that I shared with you, and you believed what you needed to believe in order to trust me, and to understand what was being asked of you. Though admittedly, it wasn't entirely wide of the mark."

Was he actually contemplating doing this? It seemed that after years of silence, of things he'd thought buried too deeply to excavate properly, he suddenly felt compelled to elaborate, to speak of these things with another human being. That it was Potter seemed somehow fitting. Perhaps he owed the boy at least that much.

"When Lily Evans came into my life, I was a love-starved child, bitter and jaded, even at that tender age. She was unlike any person I'd ever before encountered, a mythical creature of light come to life. That she would find something worthy of befriending in me was incredible, unbelievable. And that disbelief colored everything in my world, certain as I was that at any moment she would come to her senses and turn me away.

"By the time we'd reached school, and adolescence had me thoroughly in its grip, my head was easily turned by Evan Rosier. Lucius Malfoy, as well. They were charming and beautiful and treated me as if I were of value, promising a special place for me in their 'New Order,' filling my head with nonsense and feeding my hatred of my Muggle father. I became infatuated with them and with what they were selling, utterly enthralled. And when Lily began distancing herself from me, it was only as I'd expected, you see, what I'd been waiting for all those years."

Severus took a moment, rubbing his face with one hand. It was more difficult than he'd imagined, reliving these things. He would not speak of Regulus, he decided. That was entirely too close and belonged only to Severus, memories both cherished and haunting.

"So you didn't hate my dad because he married my mum?" Potter asked when Severus remained quiet.

"Hardly," Severus sneered. "Your father earned my hatred entirely on his own merit. He and Black were despicable."

This, too, he could not discuss. The bitterness had lessened some over time, but had not died out completely with them. Strange to think they were all gone now. Even Lupin, whose only real offense had been associating with James Potter and Sirius Black in the first place.

There was a sudden warmth at Severus's side, and he realized that Potter had leant into him briefly, so that their shoulders touched. He meant to object, but he found the warmth (and the gesture), however fleeting, to be strangely comforting, companionable even, and he couldn't bring himself to speak against it.

"I never told anyone, you know," Potter put in. "About the memories I saw, the ones I wasn't meant to see, I mean. I talked to Remus and Sirius about my dad being such a berk—but I was still so ashamed. I'm sorry he treated you that way. You didn't deserve that."

Stunned, Severus finally turned to look at Potter, only to find that he'd been entirely sincere.

Severus cleared his throat, uncomfortable now, because he had to take this a step further than he'd been prepared to, and he was uncertain he would be able to do it successfully. "It is not for you to apologize..." Severus closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing, "Although, I understand why you might think it is. My treatment of you over the years—"

Potter's shoulder brushed his again as he interrupted. "Please don't tell me you never actually hated me. I don't think my heart could take the shock." There was a smile in his voice, which seemed to diffuse the powerful tension of the moment and Severus was grateful for it.

"Oh, make no mistake, I loathed you intensely," Severus said wryly, then hesitated before admitting in a far more serious tone, "and... quite unfairly." He couldn't look at Potter, and the boy did not interrupt this time. "In my grief- and guilt-stricken mind, I managed to transfer the entire weight of the blame to you, an infant. It was you who caused the Dark Lord to turn his attention toward Lily and then to ultimately kill her, or so I wanted desperately to believe. By the time you'd reached Hogwarts, I'd had years to cultivate this hatred, and it festered spectacularly. That you were, inevitably, the spitting image of your father only made it that much easier to perpetuate the delusion."

"I see," Potter said softly, a note of dejection in his voice.

"No, I don't think that you do." Severus took a calming breath and steeled himself for the rest. "You managed to surprise me. Oh, you often met my lowest expectations, behaving as I would expect the spawn of James Potter to behave, but there have been moments, many astonishing moments, most especially that last year..." Severus leant forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, and scrubbed a hand over his face. Keeping his eyes on the stairs stretching out below him, he continued, "I have been forced to... reassess my opinion of you on several occasions. Most recently, following my arrival here. As well, I've had to accept my own culpability—not only in my current circumstance, but also in the effect my decisions had on those around me. Most especially," Severus swallowed and closed his eyes briefly, "your mother."

Severus hoped Potter could hear or at least had understood the apology in the explanation, because he couldn't go on. He'd said more to Potter, and had spilled more truths, than he had to anyone in his entire miserable life. However necessary he'd deemed it, it had been too intimate, too personal, entirely too revealing for Severus's comfort.

The warmth was back at his shoulder, as Potter leant forward, mimicking Severus's position. "For what it's worth, Snape, I forgave you a long time ago, for everything. As far as I'm concerned, it's all down to Voldemort. And he's gone, nothing but dust and rot by now, or so I hope."

Stunned once again, Severus replied, "It is worth a great deal, Potter." Humbled, he continued, "I have done nothing to deserve such generosity from you; however, I am grateful for it."

Severus stood, suddenly weary to his very core. The garden could wait—it would still be there tomorrow.

Potter called out as Severus hit the first landing, "Snape?"

Once again, Severus turned without comment.

"We've... uhm, basically been living together for nearly four years. D'you think you could call me Harry now?"

"As you wish... Harry." It'd been remarkably easy to say, and Harry looked unaccountably delighted by it, which prompted Severus to add, Merlin help him, "You may call me Severus."


-:-:-:-:-


"Is it weird calling him by his first name?" Ian asked, silently casting a Lumos into the open doorway ahead of them.

Harry snorted. "Not any weirder than living with him, I guess."

It actually was weird, but Harry was thoroughly chuffed about it anyway. He wasn't about to share that with Ian though, or Severus's other revelations either, for that matter. Harry liked Ian well enough, but that was private, and not really his to share.

They entered the Muggle warehouse, which was dimly lit even in the afternoon sun. It was foul-smelling as well, and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. This was supposed to be routine: a small flare-up of magic in an unexpected place, insignificant enough to send two rookies.

He and Ian split up, taking opposite sides of the large space, though there wasn't much to see: the warehouse looked abandoned but for tall stacks of wooden pallets and some empty crates. Making his way to the center of the room, he could hear a soft ticking, which only added a more ominous element to his already heightened sense of foreboding.

Once he located the source of the sound, Harry recognized it immediately for what it was, having seen far too many of Dudley's favorite films, and began slowly backing away while mentally running through the spells at his command that might disarm it.

"What's this clock thing?" Ian asked, suddenly joining Harry from the opposite direction and reaching for the device.

"Ian, no! Protego!" Harry shouted, too late.

The explosion, when it came, seemed to happen in slow motion. It threw Harry backwards forty feet or so, though Harry didn't know it—he was unconscious before he hit the ground.


-:-:-:-:-

Continue on to part two