|heartbreak, old friend, goodbye it's me again (femmequixotic) wrote in pornish_pixies,|
@ 2008-11-07 21:51:00
|Entry tags:||challenge: autumn/halloween, fic, snape/harry|
LONG: Cold Before He's Done, Harry/Snape, NC-17, (Watcher: chiralove)
The current Autumn/Halloween Challenge is accepting fic and art submissions from the watchers of pornish_pixies as well as members. Please remember that if you wish to submit a fic or artwork for this challenge, the deadline is Saturday November 8. (That would be tomorrow. *g*)
Below is the submission by watcher chiralove.
Title: Cold Before He's Done
Pairing: Harry/Snape, implied Harry/Ginny
Word Count: 1260
Warnings: infidelity, character death (DH-compliant)
Summary: It happens at Halloween.
Notes: Thanks to fbowden and angela_snape for the beta, and eeyore9990 for the title!
It happens at Halloween, when the Veil is thin and the world is cold and the spirits walk among the living. It happens, year after year. Every year after the war.
Harry always waits for it. He calls in sick to work, makes excuses to stay at home, sends Ginny away by forcing arguments with her and letting her storm out of the house. Anything to stay at home – anything.
He's the only one Snape's got, after all. He's the only one in the world with Lily's eyes.
When it starts, it's slow and simple. Doors slam shut, gales whip through the house. Harry loses his glasses and can't find them again – he goes through the house half-blind, stumbling and waiting for it. Snape will come.
Harry knows he's close when everything escalates. Ice-cold fingers on the nape of his neck, the sound of voices just out of earshot, the prickling of his skin … Harry knows he's being watched. He can feel it.
He makes a show out of undressing, takes a long bath and soaps himself slowly, cleaning himself inside and out. The bath water's cold long before he's done. The portraits have fled from their frames and the house is dead silent. Too dead.
Harry spreads a thick towel on the floor by the bath, stretching out on it and pillowing his head on his forearms. The floor is stone-hard. Cold seeps through the towel and into Harry's bones – he shivers, but stays there.
He won't move to the bed. This is something that he won't share with Ginny in any way.
Harry's half asleep by the time it happens, by the time Snape comes. The candles flicker, flames dancing in half-molten pools of wax, and a strong gust of wind snuffs them out. The light's gone, but Harry's half-blind and doesn't need it. There's nothing to see.
At first, Snape doesn't speak. He runs ice-cold fingers over Harry's back, tracing each knob of his spine and feathering patterns across his shoulder blades. He paints wings on Harry's skin, and leans in closer to breathe a kiss on the nape of Harry's neck.
He isn't there – he isn't real – he isn't alive - but Harry feels the ghost of a breath on his neck, the first hint of warmth.
He doesn't move, doesn't do anything to frighten Snape away. There have been Halloweens when Snape came and was gone, flickering out in the wind like a candle, gone for another year. Never again. Harry clenches his fingers into fists in the towel, holding on tight, and he stays still while Snape trails kisses down his spine.
It builds. It builds. Kiss after kiss, touch after touch, ghost-cold fingers on his skin – and Harry doesn't move, doesn't shiver, doesn't flee. He waits, and it happens.
It's close to midnight when it happens – the witching hour. The Veil is at its thinnest, the world of spirit and the world of flesh are one, and Snape is solid and real. He touches Harry, and his fingers are warm. He kisses Harry and breathes warm puffs of air against Harry's skin. He's real.
Harry turns and catches him then, lacing his fingers with Snape's. He's still half-blind and sees only blurs and shadows. He closes his eyes, and he doesn't see Snape – he doesn't see Snape's scars. He doesn't need to see them.
Without his glasses, Snape can see him – can see his eyes – and he bends down to kiss Harry on the lips, crushing their mouths together. Snape's all bone and sinew, as skinny as he was in life, as hard as the floor beneath Harry.
He holds Harry tight, gripping him with fingers solid enough to leave bruises, pinning him against the floor.
Harry's desperate for it – needs to feel Snape, this night of all nights. Tonight, he needs Snape. This time, he turns, twisting under Snape until they're face to face and he can look Snape in the eyes, close enough to see him. Neither of them blinks. Harry is the first one to move, bucking up and thrusting against Snape.
He's not blind now, not when he's this close to Snape. For the first time, he sees Snape when they kiss. Harry watches the vein throbbing in Snape's temple and sees the gaping hole in his neck. Snape kisses Harry harder, pushing him into the ground, his fingers grinding into Harry's shoulders when Harry keeps his eyes open.
He's hard, his cock pressed against Harry's stomach, his flesh solid and his breath hot. The torches on the wall cast shadows on Snape's skin, hiding his eyes and making his nose monstrous. He's like an ogre or a fairytale villain, and he's here for Harry.
Harry slides a hand under Snape's tattered teaching robes, the same black robes he was wearing the day he died. He touches Snape, stroking him to full hardness, making him moan. The sound echoes in the bathroom, off the marble and the bathtub and the mirrors. Harry holds Snape tighter, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other on his cock.
Snape pushes him until he rolls over onto his stomach, spreading his legs. Harry needs this – deserves it – has waited a year for it, long days and longer nights. He twists around to look at Snape, reaching for him, but Snape pushes his face down into the towel and holds him there. Harry can't breathe.
The air starts to burn in his lungs long before Snape lets him up – Snape who doesn't need to breathe – and Harry's gasping for air while Snape prepares him, fingers slick with oil from the bath. It smells of sandalwood, spice and musk.
Snape doesn't have a smell any more – one thing that he lacks, even though he's solid. He has no real body, no life, no potions lab filled with fumes and simmering cauldrons. He died for Harry and left his body to rot in the Shrieking Shack, and he came back for this. For Harry.
"It's not all about you, Potter." Snape's first words, and Harry savours them – remembers them – keeps them. Snape spoke to him.
It's about Lily, but Harry doesn't mind. He turns his head so that Snape can see his eyes, keeps them half-closed with his lashes fluttering over them. With his cheek pressed into the soft towel, he doesn't look at Snape, but he lets Snape look at him. He's there for Snape.
And Snape touches his cheek, two fingers tracing the curve of his skin, one soft line from his cheekbone to his chin. It's almost tender, and Harry arches up into his touch when he twists his fingers, finding that sweet spot inside him – he shudders, and then Snape's pushing into him, fucking him hard.
His fingers close on Harry's arms, gripping them, and Snape's breath is hot on the back of his neck, and Snape's moving in and out of him, using him, and Harry doesn't mind. His skin prickles where Snape touches him. Harry owes him this much.
It's always over too soon, the witching hour. Snape starts to fade, becoming more insubstantial with each thrust – he moves faster, holding Harry tight enough to leave bruises. Snape's almost gone when he comes, when he reaches down to fist Harry's cock. When he pushes Harry onto his back and looks at him again, looks straight into his eyes.
Harry reaches for him, but his fingers pass through Snape's arm. Snape shifts from solid to silver and then he's a ghost, then he's gone. Harry's left cold.