Current mood:

accomplished

Fic: From Ashes (SS/HP)
Title: From Ashes
Author: inoru_no_hoshi
Pairing: Severus/Harry
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: chan, bad pseudo medical jargon, massively AU.
Wordcount: ~5,110
Summary: An illness unique to Wizardkind renders Harry unto his Potions Professor's care.
Prompt: #62: Harry's magic binds him to an unlikely protector before/after CoS.
Notes: My initial idea was too cliche, and just did not want to fly. But then I got smacked with this idea, and it kinda grew. I don't think I did it justice, especially not the relationship development, but that's at least partially because I took my own sweet time writing it. :/ Oh well. I'm... not sure it fits the prompt terribly well, either, but... I tried. Someday I may come back to this and expand it; I do like my base premise. :)
Thanks to my friend, Robin, for being willing to emergency beta! Love you!

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Petunia hadn't always hated her sister; for the longest time, they had been as close as it was possible for siblings to be. Then Lily had been accepted into That School, and they slowly drew apart. By the time Lily had graduated, Petunia had convinced herself that her little sister no longer mattered to her.

And yet, she had never wished death on her sister. For all their estrangement, part of her had still cared enough to be happy that her sister had found happiness in That World. She had mourned her sister's death, though she would have denied it had anyone pointed it out.

Raising the boy had been bittersweet. She knew that she and Vernon hadn't done the best of jobs with him, but she had never been terribly strong-willed. What kindness she had managed for him had always been couched in ways to make Vernon think that it was the lesser of two evils, though she had never let Vernon physically abuse the boy. She did care, after a fashion.

While a willful child - which hardly surprised her; her sister had been one, as well, and from what she knew, so had the man she had married - the boy had continually surprised her by being sweet and tractable if given just a hint of affection. She supposed it was her fault, hers and Vernon's. She had read somewhere that children deprived of affection often bloom under the slightest intimation of such.

And for all their lack of care, the boy had been almost unseemingly healthy. Colds and flu on the boy's part had been shockingly rare, and in fact the worst thing she remembered him having was the chicken pox when he and Dudley had been five.

So it was with a vague sense of worry that Petunia Dursley sat at the kitchen table of number four, Privet Drive, wondering at the alarmingly high fever her nephew currently sported. It was only the latest in a string of strange health issues for the normally robust boy.

He had complained of being dizzy or tired with no reason that she could see, and though she rarely showed that she cared at all, seeing him faint without cause had made her heart leap into her throat. Only a few days after that, he had fainted again onto the hard asphalt of the driveway while washing Vernon's car. Petunia had put him to bed and informed Vernon that the boy was ill, and the boy hadn't gotten out of bed for much of anything in the days since.

Some reading and consultation told her that the symptoms, with their random manifestations, were like no disease she had ever heard of. She set her teacup down firmly, and went in search of a pen and paper.

Those blasted people had another thing coming if they thought Petunia would deal with one of their freakish illnesses!
****
Poppy Pomfrey was acknowledged as a formidable woman by all the residents of Hogwarts - and even some non-residents. Those with delusions of "I'm fine"s being accepted by the medi-witch were swiftly disabused of the notion; not even the Headmaster or the ever stubborn Potions Master were allowed to get away with such excuses. (And they had tried, only to be lectured as well as fussed over in her brisk, no-nonsense manner.)

In the two years he had been attending Hogwarts, Harry Potter seemed to be trying for a record amount of time spent in her care. Granted, half the time it wasn't his fault - she huffed as she remembered the bludger incident the previous year - the nerve of that man! Lockhart was one teacher she'd been glad to see leave.

Poppy frowned as she set aside the sheaf of test results, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She looked up, out through the clear window dividing her office from the infirmary itself, at the boy sitting in the bed nearest her office. He was, for the first time since he had been retrieved from the Muggles, more or less feverless, and enjoying a hearty meal.

"Poppy?"

She waved the three visitors over. "Sit down, please."

"May I ask why you requested our presence?" Albus asked, brows arched slightly over twinkling blue eyes.

Poppy moved her gaze from Harry to Albus, Severus and Minerva. "I think you should know what ails Mr. Potter."

"So you've discovered what ails the brat," Severus sneered. "I hardly see why this requires our presence, Poppy. He will no doubt be over it soon enough, as children are wont to do once they've garnered enough attention."

"Severus," the headmaster admonished as Minerva graced her colleague with a foul look.

"He has Chronic Mana Degeneration," Poppy broke in before the two Heads of House could begin sniping at one another.

The flat declaration made all three turn to stare at her. "Poppy, are you certain?" Albus asked, paling with shock.

"I had several Healers at St. Mungo's run tests, too. They all returned this diagnosis to me, and as I didn't tell them I had asked others, there is no way they could have conspired." She propped her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands. "It's certain."

"Merlin," Minerva murmured. "The poor boy."

"Don't be over-emotional, Minerva, he's hardly at Death's door," Severus snarked, albeit quietly.

Poppy took that as her cue to gather her composure, and straightened in her seat. "No, he's not. Not yet. But it's only a matter of time, weeks at most, before the final stages of the onset are upon him, and if we cannot find a bond-mate his magic will accept before then..." She shook her head slowly.

Apparently, not even Severus could think of something to say after that.

"So," she said after several minutes of silence, "if you will kindly excuse me, I will explain things to Mr. Potter."

"Of course, Poppy," Albus conceded, the normally bright twinkle in his eyes much subdued.
****
Harry had just finished his meal, pushing the lap-table further down the bed, when the sound of Madame Pomfrey's office door opening made him look up. He blew his hair out of his eyes as watched the sturdy matron step out and turn towards him purposefully - though where else she'd go, looking so determined, he didn't know, as he was the only one in the ward.

Madame Pomfrey bustled over, lifting the lap-table off his bed and flicking her wand at it, presumably banishing it somewheres or another. "How do you feel, Mr. Potter?" she enquired as she straightened his covers.

"All right," he replied quietly, watching her with a steadiness that was a bit unnerving of an almost thirteen-year-old.

"Now, Mr. Potter, I do believe I've told you to be more specific, haven't I?"

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

After a moment, she tsked. "Since you aren't elaborating, I take it you don't feel dizzy, nauseous, overly tired, or anything of the sort?"

"A bit tired, but not much, not really," he confirmed.

"Good." She paused, and squared her shoulders. "Now then, Mr. Potter, I'm sure you've been wondering why you've been sick."

"You've figured it out?" he asked, hopefully. "I'll get better now, right?"

To his surprise, Madame Pomfrey sighed heavily. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Potter," she said.

"What do you mean?" he asked, smile fading. He bit his lip nervously. "What's wrong with me?"

"You have a very rare condition known as Chronic Mana Degeneration," the medi-witch informed him. Seeing his confusion, she continued, "Chronic Mana Degeneration directly affects your magic, Mr. Potter. A normal witch or wizard's magical core-for lack of a better description-has what can best be described as retaining walls that regulate the flow of magic in your body. Every magical person emits a small amount of magic every moment of their life, regardless of whether they happen to be casting a spell or not.

"For you, those retaining walls are so thin as to be nearly non-existent, meaning that you emit far more magic than you should. This directly affects your health, with the eventual end being death, unless certain conditions can be met."

Harry's eyes were wide with shock, and fear. "Wh-What sort of conditions?" he asked. "Will, uh, meeting them cure me?"

"No, Mr. Potter," Madame Pomfrey replied, not unkindly. "I'm afraid that Chronic Mana Degeneration is a life-long condition. However, if the conditions can be met, you will live a long and happy life, if somewhat susceptible to illness and fatigue, and dependent on your partner."

"Partner?" Harry echoed, confused.

"Bond-mate," she clarified. This did nothing to alleviate his confusion, so she continued, "Think of meeting the conditions as initiating a treatment, if you will. This treatment consists of repeated sexual intercourse with an older, experienced male who is magically compatible with you."

"I have to have sex?" Harry squeaked, shocked.

"Only if we can find someone whom your magic will not reject out of hand, Mr. Potter," the medi-witch informed him. "With such thin barriers, your magic is...sensitive to others', and if the person is incompatible with you, it will only aggravate your condition rather than help it."

"But- But... sex?" Harry repeated. His mind was awhirl, and wouldn't let go of that point. He wasn't even thirteen yet, there was no way it could be legal!

Her stern expression softened a tad. "I'm sure it's a very over-whelming thought, Mr. Potter, but the intimacy is necessary. It will establish a connection between your magic and your partner's without undue side-effects, and the, ah, ejaculation of semen into your body will form an anchor of sorts from which his magic will be able to build a shield around your magical core in lieu of the natural ones that you lack.

"This treatment must be enacted at least once every twenty-four hours, lest you should fall deathly ill."

Slowly, Harry laid down, preferring to do so before he passed out, rather than after. He hardly noticed when his view of the infirmary seemed to shrink and blur, then abruptly faded to black.
****
Albus paused before ringing the doorbell of number four, Privet Drive, in order to glance at Poppy.

"Go on, Albus," she encouraged, slightly tersely. "Soonest done, soonest over with, and therefore the sooner I can get back to monitoring Mr. Potter."

"Quite right," Albus agreed, squaring his shoulders and pressing the button. The faint sound of a light tune reached him through the door, which was pulled open a few moments later by Petunia Dursley.

"Dumbledore!" she exclaimed, paling slightly.

"Mrs. Dursley," he returned, bowing slightly. "If we may come in?"

"It's about the boy, isn't it?" she asked, lips pursed as she waved them inside. "Harry, I mean?"

"I'm afraid so," he agreed. He and Poppy followed Petunia into the living room, and sat on the sofa.

Petunia sat in the recliner set at right angles to the sofa, and looked at them. "Well?" she prompted, impatiently. "What's wrong with him?"

Albus idly conjured tea for them, gamely ignoring Petunia's gasp and cringe. "He has a very rare condition," he replied, sipping at the tea, "known as Chronic Mana Degeneration. Poppy?"

Poppy leaned forward to look at Petunia, then began explaining the particulars of the illness. By the time she'd finished, and answered the woman's questions, she looked both slightly worried and slightly horrified.

"The only treatment is sex? With another, much older man?" Petunia parroted, voice a bit higher than normal.

"It is, unfortunately, the only treatment that has ever been found to be effective," Poppy affirmed. "We are well aware that the prospect is no doubt alarming for you, and Mr. Potter, but he will die otherwise."

Petunia took several minutes to compose herself. "What do you need to tell me this for? Surely you've already initiated this...treatment?" she queried snidely.

"Not at all, madame," Albus countered, an eyebrow arched. "Due to the nature of the malady, as well as the only known treatment, we need the consent of his parent or guardian - which would be you, Mrs. Dursley - before we begin searching for a compatible man for your nephew."

Petunia appeared visibly startled. "I- Well." She paused and blinked. "You have it, I suppose. Do I need to sign anything?"

For the first time in several days, Albus's eyes twinkled as he pulled out a scroll and showed Petunia where she needed to sign.
****
It had been almost two weeks since Harry had last been wholly lucid, and the search for a suitable man for him was turning up empty-handed.

Neither of the eldest two Weasley boys suited him - Charlie's magic proved to be not quite settled enough, and Bill's just didn't mesh.

Lupin had offered, but he hadn't even been able to get close to Harry before the boy had been thrashing in an attempt to get away from the werewolf's abrasive, almost wild, magic.

Albus had called in any number of other single males whom he felt he could trust, and the boy's magic had rejected them one after another. Which no doubt explained why the Headmaster was now asking Severus to try.

"No," Severus replied flatly.

"Severus, please. He has so little time left; you could be the one he wants."

"Really, Albus, and what of the repercussions should that be so? By the by, have you stopped to consider that perhaps he is not meant to find a bond-mate?" Severus queried, glancing up from his potions-work to sneer at the old man.

Albus graced him with a dirty look. "I know you don't hold with Divination or its ilk, Severus, so please don't prevaricate," he said tersely. "As for repercussions: whatever do you mean?"

"Have you forgotten so soon the follies of youth?" the Potions Master inquired snidely, gesturing to his left arm. "If so, I assure you that there are many that most certainly have not."

"Severus, you are aware that just as many would be willing to overlook such things should you be his bond-mate?"

"And just as many willing to accuse me of pedophilia regardless of the circumstances," he agreed almost instantly.

"I'm sure Harry would be willing to defend you should that occur," Albus rejoined.

"Defend his rapist - oh yes, I'm sure."

"Severus," the Headmaster chided. Then he sighed, and reached over to put his hand on Severus's shoulder. "He's dying, Severus, and there is nothing more we can do. I am at loss as to anyone else we can bring for him. Please, offer yourself - the worst that can happen is that you won't be the one."

Severus glared balefully at his mentor. "Your notion of 'worst' and mine seem to be quite a ways apart, Albus."

Albus smiled at him. "So, will you?"

"Have I any choice?" Severus sighed. "Mind, I've no idea what I shall do with a sexually dependent adolescent."

Albus laughed, and twinkled mildly at him. "I'm sure you'll think of something, Severus. You always do."

Severus sneered, but said nothing. At any rate, there wasn't anything to be said.
****
He had waited until evening before making his way to the infirmary, hoping to avoid the possibility of being watched by the entirety of the staff that had chosen to summer over.

Of course, he wasn't quite as lucky as he'd hoped to be, as Albus and Minerva were there, as well as Poppy's expected presence. On the other hand, at least Pomona and Filius weren't, and Merlin only knew what he'd have done had Trelawney been present.

He acknowledged their presence with a cocked eyebrow and a sneer, then proceeded to ignore them and approached Potter's bed.

He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to do this - knowing his luck, he'd end up being the boy's bond-mate - but he found it hard to resist Albus. It hadn't hurt Albus's plea that Severus found it hard to leave anyone in pain, or dying, if there wasn't absolutely nothing he could do for them. It was a damnably Gryffindor-ish trait that few knew of, thank Merlin, and that he managed to shove aside most of the time.

It was, he reflected coolly, rather too late to back out. He was less than three metres from the boy's bed, every stride bringing him closer and closer. The nearly comatose boy had yet to react, though he supposed that the lack of screaming, flailing, and other such actions was a strong indication that the world was laughing at him. With gusto, no less.

And then he was standing at Potter's bedside, staring down at the small, pale boy. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know that the others were quite literally holding their collective breath. He took a moment to scoff at them. Hufflepuffs, the lot of them, really.

Slowly, lips pursed resignedly, he lifted his hand and extended it slowly. He could feel the magic wafting from Potter, curling through the room; it was intense, strong - and he shouldn't have been able to feel it as more than a vague impression. But then, Potter's illness meant that his magic was anything but normal.

Severus's hand settled on the boy's forehead, and the peculiar sensation of his magic contracting slightly, with a blatant impression of warmth-patience-thanks-need, made him turn and snidely tell Albus, "I told you so."
****
Having sex with a nearly comatose person was rather pleasureless, regardless of the unavoidable circumstances. That Potter was so young - a bit over a week shy of thirteen, if he was remembering correctly - made it even less pleasurable.

Nevertheless, he did what was needed.

Afterwards, he retreated to his sitting room and poured himself a stiff shot of Ogden's Finest. He supposed he would have to get used to the boy being curled in his bed. He could hardly sleep anywhere else when it would be Severus keeping him alive.

He scoffed, and refilled his glass. As necessary as it was, and would continue to be for the remainder of their lives, he still felt somewhat like a pedophile. And a rapist.

He downed a third shot, then hurled the glass into his fireplace.

It accomplished nothing except breaking the glass, and causing the flames to flare up. It hadn't felt nearly as relieving as he'd hoped it would.

He ran his hands through his hair in a combination of annoyance and self-disgust.

Life just loved taking a piss at him, he reflected darkly.
****
Harry woke slowly, feeling strangely lax. There was a deep-seated feeling of being safe and at ease curling deep in his abdomen, and he stretched contentedly. The first thing that penetrated the easy haze was that the sheets were far softer than the ones Madame Pomfrey had on the infirmary cots. The second was that the ceiling certainly wasn't the infirmary's, unless the medi-witch had remodeled while he'd been out of it.

He blinked slowly. Taken together, the only thing he could surmise was that he was no longer in the infirmary, which meant that he had a bond-mate now.
He bolted upright as the full meaning of that term slammed to the forefront of his mind. He'd had sex! And he didn't remember it! After several minutes of panicking, logic niggled its way through to say that of course he didn't remember it - he'd probably been unconscious at the time. Once he acknowledged that, he remembered that Madame Pomfrey had explained that it was likely to happen this way.

That recollection calmed him down wholly, or at least as wholly as he could, all things considered, and he took the opportunity to look around the room after retrieving his glasses from the bedside table. The decor, while dark, was not oppressive; rather, it seemed welcoming, secretive almost, as if the bedroom was a retreat from the rest of the world. There were no windows, or even charmed fakeries of windows, but the candles on various surfaces lit the room well enough. In fact, he decided after several moments of just looking, windows would probably spoil the overall mood that the room created.

All in all, he rather liked it.

Then one of the two doors he'd noticed opened, and he caught a glimpse of a similarly decorated sitting room before he realized who was standing in the doorway.

"Professor Snape?" he squeaked, hastily drawing the bedclothes up to cover himself. The colour infusing his face would have done a tomato proud.

"Mr. Potter," the Professor returned. He moved further into the room and closed the door behind himself.

"Erm," Harry said intelligently after several moments of silence. "What are you doing in here? Er. Sir?"

One dark brow arched over an equally dark eye. "It is my bedroom, Mr. Potter." He ignored Harry's squeak to continue, "I am informing you that Madame Pomfrey will be in shortly to examine you."

"All right," Harry replied, voice embarrassingly high-pitched. Snape inclined his head, then turned to leave. Just before he closed the door after himself, Harry blurted, "Why am I in your bedroom?"

Snape arched his eyebrow again, looking sardonic. "You - or rather, your magic - chose me, Mr. Potter. Why else?"

He left, and Harry flopped down on the bed, hands covering his face. Who knew his magic was masochistic?
****
Madame Pomfrey had pronounced Harry well enough, all things considered, but to stay in bed until the next morning. That had reminded him of the fact that he would probably be having sex with Snape fairly soon. He had alternately worked himself into a mild panic over that, and done his best to ignore it. And when the time came, later that night, it hadn't been so bad - he'd been nervous, but he could still tell that Snape had been being gentle, as odd as it sort-of seemed to apply that word to the waspish Slytherin.

Harry had gotten up the next morning, been provided with a pain reliever "should you feel it necessary, Mr. Potter," been directed to the location of the loo, and hadn't seen Snape for the rest of the day.

That set the tone for most of the summer, and Harry didn't complain. His life could've been a lot worse, after all. Or non-existent.

He realized only a few days in that Hogwarts wasn't terribly interesting over the summer hols - there were only a few teachers that stayed over, for one thing, and for another he wasn't allowed to go flying. (Madame Pomfrey said it was so that he could get used to being up and around again after so long in a bed, but he was a bit suspicious that it was for another reason, though he didn't ask.) The one time he'd tried to go into the library, Madame Pince had promptly shooed him out, informing him that she got "quite enough of you youngsters during the school year, Mr. Potter, and I'll not have you mucking MY library up over the summer!"

So, to his surprise, he was spending a lot of time in Snape's sitting room, doing his summer projects or just reading. It was rather tolerable, over all.

The most notable thing was that his birthday came only a bit over a week after he'd woken, and he'd emerged from the bedroom to find Snape waiting for him in the sitting room. The dour man had sneered at him, and then, to his surprise, taken him out for the day.

They had returned to Hogwarts that night with a whole new wardrobe for Harry, and several small gifts. Snape had been, if not nice, then at least civil, though Harry rather felt that buying him so much went rather beyond civil. Snape had refuted that, saying simply that he wouldn't let Harry wear such atrocious clothing, and that was all there was to it. Harry shrugged, then thanked him shyly and sincerely.

The news that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban had prompted the first willing conversation between the two, and while Snape had been sarcastic and acerbic, he had almost, but not quite, come right out and said that he would protect Harry. It had been... interesting, to say the least, and left Harry wondering about his bond-mate, and deciding to get to know the man better.

After all, they would be together for quite a long while - or, at least, he didn't want to die any time soon.

September first brought an influx of students, and more precisely, Harry's friends. Explaining his summer had brought varying reactions, from shock at his illness, to grossed out over the treatment, to out right disgust over his bond-mate.

He had shrugged, said there was nothing to be done about what was in the past, and excused himself to return to the dungeons.

Classes were more or less as they had always been, though he really wished people would stop staring at him all the time. Didn't they have better things to do? Potions, especially, was normal all around, as Snape didn't allow gossiping or anything of the sort. It was kind of strange that he felt most at ease in Potions, especially since Snape still snapped at him and criticized his work, but all in all that was okay.

As the weeks passed, and September slipped into October, which turned to November, Harry became less the focus of the ever-active gossip vine of Hogwarts. There were some that continually bad-mouthed Snape, calling him a pedophile and other, less kind, names, but after Harry had thoroughly scolded one such person, staunchly defending his lover, they learned not to do so where Harry could hear.

When the Potions Master asked why he'd defended him, Harry just said, "Because I wanted to - you're not all that bad, really." The smile and kiss to the man's cheek that accompanied the statement left him stunned. (For the curious, Snape had to deal with Albus twinkling merrily at him after that, until he informed the older man that he may as well just say "I told you so.")

That marked the turning point in their relationship, though hindsight showed that they'd been leading to it since summer. Harry started spending more and more time with his caustic bond-mate; by Christmas, they were on first-name basis, and it wasn't unusual to find the two on the sofa in their sitting room, one grading Potions-work, the other doing homework, talking quietly with one another.

The incident with Sirius Black breaking into Gryffindor tower puzzled both of them, since Harry pointed out that "if he's after me, then why'd he break into the Tower? Everybody and their mother knows I live down here with you."

Severus's reply that Black was a madman, and therefor didn't think like a normal person didn't quite feel right to either of them, but they left it there for lack of any real data.

Christmas itself was a day that both would remember for a long time; Severus had given Harry a number of nice gifts, though Harry's favorite was a small necklace with a simple silver-and-onyx pendant that had Severus's name inscribed in tiny letters on the side against his skin. In return, Severus's favorite was Harry leading him by hand into their bedroom and offering himself, saying, "Because I want to, not because I need to."

The resumption of classes after the holidays saw a slight, almost minuscule, softening of the Potions Professor's demeanor, and a subtle, happy glow to Harry's.

Their feelings and quiet confidence in one another began making itself known to the rest of the castle over the ensuing months. Malfoy's prank of dressing himself and his goons as Dementors had seen their Head of House personally docking them twenty-five points each. And Harry wasn't afraid to approach Severus any time at all - after or during meals, after class, in the halls - and a number of students professed shock that he never got hexed or rudely brushed off by the teacher. (Others had said that they hadn't thought "the git" knew what a smile was, much less how to make one. Harry had rolled his eyes at that.)

By the year's end, Severus had decided that his reputation as a completely uncaring git had been unavoidably ruined, since too many people had seen him being nice to Harry. Harry just laughed and asked if that was such a bad thing, then thanked him for helping with Sirius. Severus had sneered, but blithely informed the petite Gryffindor that he could hardly remand an innocent man to Azkaban, however much he might dislike said man.

Harry grinned and pounced him, and Severus managed to say something about having created a nymphomaniac before his mouth was otherwisely occupied.

All in all, a good year.
****
Harry woke with a yawn and a stretch, then smiled contentedly. Severus was already up, as was normal, but Harry felt no rush to get up. He didn't really have anything to do that day, as he had already finished all his summer work - Hermione would be so proud, he reflected with a grin - and their bed was warm and comfortable.

"You look like the cat that's gotten into the cream," Severus commented from the doorway, the corners of his mouth tilted upwards slightly.

Harry snickered, and sat up. "Well, you rather are the cream of the crop," he replied. "So I daresay I have gotten into the cream."

"Your logic sometimes leaves one desiring, Harry, as by that reasoning, it's the cream that's gotten into you," Severus said, arching an eyebrow.

He shrugged blithely, grinning, and padded over to Severus, leaning against the tall man with ease. "Semantics," he murmured. "And if it leaves you desiring me, well, I'm not about to complain." His saucy grin made his bond-mate roll his eyes.

"I daresay you wouldn't. Are you coming to breakfast, or shall I let you lounge around all day?"

"What's for breakfast?"

"Come and see."

Harry pouted slightly. "Cheater."

"Curiosity will get you anywhere, Mr. Potter, as will flattery," Severus replied with a smirk, trailing his hand down Harry's back.

"Will it get you back in bed with me?"

Severus sighed. "Hardly a nutritious breakfast, tempting as it is." He bent and tossed the boy over his shoulders, making Harry squeal and laugh. "Your breakfast awaits."

"Well, after breakfast then?" Harry asked through his laughter.

"Insatiable. Utterly insatiable. We shall see."

I don't think I'll mind living like this for the rest of my life, Harry thought happily as Severus set him down in a chair at the small table, and then leaned down to steal a kiss. It's brilliant.
--Fini--