Snarry-a-Thon11: FIC: Blood Sugar Sex Magic Title: Blood Sugar Sex Magic Author:roozetter Other pairings/threesome: Non-explicit Harry/Ginny Rating: R Word count: 5,285 Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Dubious consent, inappropriate Occlumency usage, some violence.* Prompt: Underwater shadows lurking in the corners of the mind. Summary: When Snape taught Harry Occlumency lessons back in fifth year, he left an impression. Harry, being Harry, cannot leave it alone. A/N: Title is taken from the Red Hot Chili Peppers album of the same name, as suggested by faeryqueen when I shamelessly begged demanded she produce me a title. Rock on, Fae. And much love to veridari for assuring me this made sense.
Blood Sugar Sex Magic
Fifteen. It is perfectly natural to have strange thoughts about others at fifteen. Strange, confusing thoughts. Calm yourself.
Harry stared up at the crimson hangings surrounding his bed, repeating that line to himself like a desperate mantra. He brought his hands up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he lay there listening to Ron and Seamus snore, the curious little snuffling noises Neville made as he dreamed, the almost conspicuous silence coming from Dean’s corner of the room. All these noises were comforting, familiar, normal. Birds were chirping outside the window, the glass in the pane beginning to shimmer as it caught the early morning rays of sunlight and reflected them around the room. Harry watched the hangings around his bed brighten with the light, noticed the red over his head darkening to fuscia as it was cast further into shadow. He rolled over and stared at the wall, fighting the urge to cry.
At Christmas he had told Sirius he felt like there was a snake rising inside him. Sirius had offered meaningless platitudes and sent him away with a few bracing pats on the shoulder. What would Sirius say if Harry told him he felt like there were shadows of Snape lingering in his mind?
Giving up, Harry slid out of bed, collected his clothes and robe, and padded into the shower. He bathed methodically, brushed his teeth, and dressed without particularly caring that the hem on his slacks was slowly unraveling and both his white dress shirt and his robe were in dire need of a pressing charm. It wasn’t until he was knotting his tie, fingers moving automatically through the familiar movement, that he glanced up and dared to meet his reflection in the mirror.
Pale complexion, sharp cheekbones, green eyes looking liquefied and dull framed as they were by the bruises under his eyes.
He was tired of this, tired of wondering if the thoughts in his head were his own, or if he was filtering Voldemort… and now Snape. Would he start changing the way he spoke? The way he acted? The next time he fought with Hermione, would he call her a Mudblood?
Harry shut his eyes wearily and turned away from the mirror, sick of the sight of himself, of whatever conglomeration of personalities he was now. He almost missed Occlumency lessons, wondering what Snape would say, if he would notice, the awareness Harry had developed of him in the corner of his mind. If he would notice the way Harry watched him now.
Snape’s walk was just like his personality; bold, assertive, thoughtful in the sense that he could manipulate when or if he let others notice his arrival. Snape liked his presence to go unnoticed for the most part. He wrote like he spoke, precise, elegant, conservative. Even while detailing the many ways Harry’s intelligence would impede his future goals, Snape’s handwriting remained small and unhurried on the paper. There were none of the ink blotches, scribbles, or altering slants many people fell into when writing while emotional, as though his writing was a reflection of his stubbornness.
But Harry had seen him lose his composure, had felt those long fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt, the strength in his arms as he hauled Harry close, too close, and then thrust him away. He’d watched the fire ignite in black eyes, color blotch normally pale and sallow skin, that wickedly devastating mouth pull back in a snarl. And that was how Harry knew Snape had invaded his head. Because when he woke up gasping in the middle of the night, his cock hard and his scar calm and not remotely inflamed, that was the image imprinted behind his eyelids.
All of the books he read, and, granted, there weren’t many, had alluded to an emotional connection forming between Occlumens learning together. Indeed, the warning about learning, about letting someone into your mind, took up the first chapter of every single book. Was Snape as aware of him as Harry was of Snape? You couldn’t watch someone without noticing them watching you back, without learning how frequently Snape’s daily activities mirrored his own. Had the man been observing him this closely all along?
The thought made Harry’s head hurt. He usually grabbed a book and threw himself into studying when his thoughts veered along that path.
*~*~*
Either he was a terrible person for being able to lie to his friends so convincingly, or… No, no he was pretty sure he was a terrible person.
Harry ran his fingers over his Potions book absently, staring at the cramped, perfectly formed words on the page. And, really, if Hermione and Ron hadn’t been able to recognize Snape’s handwriting after all these years then maybe they didn’t deserve to know who the Half Blood Prince is. Was? Whatever.
That was a lame justification.
Groaning, Harry slumped deeper into his chair, grateful that the library was routinely deserted at eight o’clock on a Saturday night and that those remaining didn’t seem phased by a student making disparaging noises as he glared at a book. Of course, were they to discern his level of infatuation with this book and the man behind it, they… Harry glanced around. No, these people probably believed he was a rising Dark Lord back in second year and mad as a hatter all of his fifth. They wouldn’t think any less of him for developing an attachment to his Potions teacher.
That thought still made Harry’s head hurt. Swearing to himself, Harry tossed the Potions book into his bag and determinedly pulled his Transfiguration notes closer.
The shadowy part of his mind that Harry had subconsciously relegated his thoughts of Snape to had expanded exponentially after he nearly killed Malfoy, prompting him to sneak out of his dorm and reclaim his book from the Room of Requirement within two weeks of the incident. Harry didn’t dare use it in class anymore, didn’t let on to Ron, Hermione, or Ginny that he had it back in his possession. Instead he slept with it every night, memorizing short-cuts and spells and wondering if teenaged-Snape had ever obsessed over anyone as much as Harry obsessed over him. If the Half Blood Prince would obsess over him right back.
And then there were the dreams – of Snape sinking to his knees at Harry’s feet, proclaiming his devotion in a wholly inappropriate manner. Of black eyes glinting up at him while Dark Lord Harry leveled his wand, and the rush of power flooding his system jerking him awake in the midst of orgasm. With the dreams came the awareness, too. The more Harry focused on the shadows in the corner of his mind, the easier it became to sense another heartbeat. He would know when to look up, at precisely the same instant Snape swept around the corner. Sometimes their eyes would meet and Harry would wonder if Snape missed their Occlumency lessons, missed the sensation of falling into someone’s mind and letting their magic wrap around you in the most intimate of caresses. And still he kept seeking out the shadows in his head, prodding and poking the images and sensations in his mind until the taste of Snape’s magic washed over him, making his nipples harden and his skin tingle, and he was drowning, drowning, drowning.
He usually kissed Ginny until she whimpered, when he thought like that. Burying his hands in the silky expanse of her hair, pretending he wasn’t wondering if Snape’s hair would be soft, coarse, or simply as greasy and lanky as it looked.
The man wore black like a security blanket. Wrapping himself in mystery and intrigue, hoarding his secrets close with a clear warning that anyone who wanted to unravel him would need to stare and study until their pupils dilated and readjusted. He was careful with the details of his life – two years of stalking the man more obsessively than he stalked Malfoy and Harry still knew little about him. Snape continued to flicker, blending with the shadows and skimming along the edges of the light until he appeared to be a seamless inclusion into both, seemed to always just be there, and Harry was half-mad and feverish with wanting… something. Something that dangled over his head like a snitch, flying away before he could identify this feeling churning in his belly, leaving him with the desperate impression that he needed to catch it before the opposing Seeker did or he would lose more than one-hundred and fifty points.
Sirius would hate him.
He kept kissing Ginny and hated himself.
*~*~*
Harry lay naked in the claw-footed tub the tent provided and let his fingers slide lazily, his mind rippling in near synchronicity with the steaming water. What had Snape been trying to tell him?
Leaving the Dursley’s, he’d known immediately that Snape was near, head swiveling – finally -- away from the awful, horrific image of Hedwig falling and falling. Between the dark and the tears he could barely see, couldn’t think past the gaping, crushing pain in his chest, but then his vision went blurry as the shadows danced just behind his eyes, and much as Harry had learned to anticipate Snape at school, he had looked up and over, into the face he dreamed about. There had been a brief second of joy, a flare of heat and predatory anticipation when he realized Snape knew it was him and not an imposter. Then Snape had blinked, sneered, and flown to the right to curse off George’s ear.
Why?
It had only been moments later that Volde… The Dark Lord, he mentally corrected himself, had discovered it was him. If Snape had sounded the alarm that much quicker, Harry might never have made it to the wards surrounding Andromeda’s property, let alone made it through them. Why would Snape deliberately try and turn the tide of Death Eaters away from Harry, after proving his loyalty by killing Dumbledore? Unless. If he was right and Snape had been watching him as closely as he had been watching Snape, if they both had this strange awareness of each other in the shadowy waters of their minds, could the Half Blood Prince be as obsessed as he?
Harry almost wished his scar would start hurting right about now. In lieu of school work offering a distraction, he settled for draining the water and hauling himself out of the tub.
People who are good with their hands are good at imposing their will upon others. He read that once. Maybe. Or perhaps Snape did. Sometimes when Harry focused on the shadows in his brain for too long he picked up smells and images, or he dreamed them. Whatever. Mind magic always confused him. Either way, Snape was certainly good with his hands, but Snape was also an accomplished Occlumens. Harry was pretty sure his mind was latching onto this fact for a reason, but then he would get confused and the shadowy layers would lap against his amygdala until he was calm. And why was he even stressing over the whole matter to begin with? He liked Snape’s hands; that was all that mattered.
Only then it wasn’t enough.
Sitting on the floor in Snape’s Dumbledore’s office, blankly staring at the diamond border on the faded carpet that would alternately sparkle and turn, Harry felt like a storm was brewing in his mind.
The Half Blood Prince hadn’t … he’d … and then … but she was Harry’s mum.
It was useless to feel betrayed. Impractical to feel hurt. So Snape had watched him in order to fulfill a debt to the woman he loved, had protected him and fought for him and done who-knows-what for him because he was magically obligated to do so, trapped by some stupid vow. He had never claimed to … But Harry’s hands were still sticky and warmed by his blood, and Harry felt light-headed, like he was swimming inside his own head, and bezoars and Aconite tasted sour.
Wait, what?
No matter. Harry stood up slowly, hid the Pensieve behind Dumbledore’s empty frame – how had he known there was a hole in the wall there? – and left the room.
It was time for him to die.
*~*~*
Afternoon light streamed through the windows of the infirmary. Harry blinked dully against the sight and wished his head didn’t feel so full.
“Potter.”
Life would be so much more convenient if he had died in his sleep.
“It will get better.”
Or if he had died at the Shrieking Shack, instead of hovering near the foot of Harry’s bed and trying to sound conciliatory.
“Left unattended, water evaporates at the rate of one-eighth of an inch a day.”
And what is that supposed to mean? Can Snape feel their connection, too? Is there a corner of his well-organized mind filled with breaking waves of indistinct shadows that remind him of Harry?
Rolling over, Harry squinted against the light and his own impaired vision, and forced himself to study Snape. Skin bleached so white it matched the bandages on his throat, lips compressed in pain and irritation, dark eyes shadowed and severe. He looked skinny and awkward standing by the bed with his arms crossed tightly about his chest. Harry thought about Snape’s walk, about how much Snape liked to blend in the shadows. In such a bright room, in such a conspicuous position by the Savior of the World, Harry wondered at the man shoving his own comfort aside to attempt communication.
But Harry has been prodding their bond in his head for two years now. Has gotten to the point he can place Snape in the castle without needing the Marauders Map, has trouble sleeping without the shadows of Snape’s magic trickling through his subconscious. Why is the man bothering to address the issue now? Because the Dark Lord is dead and his vow to Dumbledore is moot? Because now Harry knows about Snape’s feeling for Lily?
Head aching, Harry shut his eyes and went back to sleep.
Hours later, having escaped the tender mercies of Madam Pomfrey and hidden himself away in a hole in the wall behind a tapestry, Harry drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms protectively around his knees. Dropping his aching head on to his arms, he relished the silence and almost absently prodded at the shadows in his mind. Snape was talking to McGonagall in the Headmaster’s office. He shouldn’t know this, shouldn’t be able to hear the reverberations of Snape’s voice ripple in his head. But he did, and he hurt, and even if it was wrong it was so, so comforting, and Harry just didn’t want to have to listen to his own thoughts screaming in his head right now.
Word order, sentence construction, almost deadly quiet and precise, Snape knew how to manipulate with his words and tone. Coarse and grainy due to his still-healing throat injury, he asked and answered questions in such a methodical fashion, with just a hint of steel, still smelting and hot, throbbing throughout. Snape’s voice was both perfectly polite and inviting everyone around him to fuck off. It soothed something ragged inside of Harry. The part of him so recently ripped apart and put back together that the shadows of Snape just seem to flow into the cracks and drown out the remembered agony in his soul.
It worries him, just a bit, that he has no desire to distract himself from this thought process.
Snape washes over him like a wave. It’s not until Harry opens his eyes that he realizes it is because the man is sitting beside him, and not just because the shadows in his head are beginning to trickle down his brain stem and into his body proper. Harry breaths in deeply, smelling dirt and blood and something bitterly sour and warm. It makes him smile.
“You must stop, Potter.” Snape’s breath is moist against his ear, rancid from the recent influx of potions to stopper death. “The connection between Occlumens is a tentative bond at best, easily severed within weeks of finalization. Dwelling, mentally prodding, risks expanding the link and making it permanent.”
Harry thinks on this without lifting his head from his knees. It makes sense, in the disjointed way that logic usually does.
Oddly, this makes him think about Snape’s hands.
Snape is gone by the time Harry summons the strength to lift his head. Harry stares at the empty spot next to him, can tell by the peaceful ripples in his head that Snape is sleeping, and wishes Hedwig was here to soothe him with her presence.
*~*~*
Hermione hyperventilates if he or Ron is out of her sight for too long. Starts twitching, breathing harshly, brandishing her wand at anyone who attempts to placate her.
Transference, Madam Pomfrey briskly explains, studying the grey light clouding Hermione’s head after she waved her wand this way and that. It is common, she explains, for people recovering from trauma to fixate on someone or something, transfer their feelings to people they feel are necessary to their life. Barrages of potions are prescribed, and off the trio go to Australia to find Hermione’s parents.
Home sweet home, Harry thinks, laying in a cold tent and listening to the rain fall. Only then he is panicking – Snape is harder to feel from so far away, like a reservoir sinking and drying up under the weight of its eroding banks. While Hermione and Ron lie sleeping nearby, Harry focuses on the shadows in his mind, prodding and twisting them until the nerves behind his eyes are aching and his temples are pounding and he feel like an avalanche is crashing through his head. But then, bliss. The dam crumbles and Snape is there. They gasp in tandem, and Harry can feel him, sharp and painful and sour-sweet, and he knows, he knows, that Snape is whispering his name.
Satisfied, Harry sleeps without dreaming for the rest of the night.
A month later the Grangers are found, working as dentists in a small town with a name Harry cannot pronounce. He can’t pretend he’s not a bit disappointed. The beaches in Australia are stunning. If he ever relocates here, he wants a house on the coast, a koala bear, and a dingo. But by this time Ron is twitchy from casting so many spider-repellent spells, Hermione despondent with thinking her parents are gone for good, and Harry once again a terrible person as he whispers to snakes and checks in with Snape at random intervals throughout the day.
The only Healers qualified to help Hermione’s parents – and how sick is it that even now Harry is proud of her casting ability? – are in Switzerland. Harry likes it there, it’s open and clear, and this time of year the weather is mild. Still reeling from the surplus of spell-damaged victims sent from Britain, Hermione can’t get an appointment for another week. Harry casts the wards while Ron sets up the tent and Hermione gets her confused parents settled in a hotel, spelling them asleep every night so she needn’t worry they’ll flee. Even with the potions calming her she still can’t quite bring herself to leave Harry and Ron at night, and Harry can’t get over his paranoia enough to willingly surround himself with strangers.
It’s even easier to slip into Snape’s mind from Switzerland, and Harry stands outside for hours feeling the wind in his face and the slippery, ebbing flow of Snape’s thoughts and routines in his mind.
Ron goes with Hermione to collect her parents and begin the healing process. Harry stays behind, after many reassurances to Hermione that he won’t slip outside the wards. And he doesn’t. Not really. Just a little bit. Because there’s something exciting and forbidding about touching himself while drowning in the shadows of Snape, something that makes his stomach tighten and his toes curl when he knows Snape is aware of his actions. Being outside in the open air, protected only by wards and a heating charm, while he slides an oiled finger into himself and the fluid essence of Snape in his brain pulses in tandem with his release … It’s addicting, desperately so, and Harry smirks and basks in a hazy sort of satisfaction.
He is back to sleeping with the Half Blood Prince’s book now. Making sure to concentrate on the image of his finger’s caressing the cover while he lies naked and slack with pleasure next to it.
During one of his quests outside the wards, he stops at a small store that smells like candy-covered sex. Chocolates to rival Honeydukes are spread out before him and Harry’s mouth waters, deciding in an instant that Hermione will forgive his transgression if she comes back to treats. Ron will see the chocolates and be instantly on his side. He picks up a sample of something exotic-looking, dark chocolate and chili. It reminds him of Snape, of the feel of Snape’s magic washing through him, dark and rich with an aftertaste of heat. Harry’s hips arch reflexively and he picks up two boxes. The man behind the counter gives him a knowing look, dark eyes sweeping appraisingly over Harry from head to toe as he points out cocoa powdered decadence. Harry smiles back, wondering how different it would feel to kiss a man, if his mind would wander the way it had so frequently when he used to kiss Ginny.
Jealousy, he discovers, is cold as ice, as it floods through his brain and freezes his veins.
Harry smiles at the cashier, letting their hands brush and linger longer than payment strictly dictated, sauntering out of the shop and Apparating back to his tent without his smirk fading in the slightest. So Snape was as aware of their connection as Harry, equally guilty of poking and prodding the bond, checking in.
He stops smiling that night, waking up with panting breaths and tightening muscles as Snape’s orgasm crashes through his body like a tsunami. The waves of pleasure override his nerves, making him moan and gasp as his bollocks tighten in response. He blacks out for a bit, coming to with his eyes fluttering and his heart pounding, utterly spent but with waves upon waves of steam still heating his blood.
Snape is waiting for him. Harry barely thinks of the bond before the image of Snape lying naked and pale atop forest green sheets bursts in his brain. The smugness, the challenge, comes across even as the image of Snape bringing a finger to his mouth and sucking lodges in his brain.
“Severus.”
Neither was prepared for that intimacy, for Harry to say his first name in such a wrecked, broken tone. Severus shudders and Harry groans. This time they drown together.
*~*~*
Great Britain has barely changed in the three months Harry has been gone.
Muggles and wizards are still picking up the pieces of their lives from the last year of Hell, grieving for lives lost and destroyed homes and the unspeakable devastation wrought by Dementors and Death Eaters let out to play on an unsuspecting world. Harry can’t stand the crushing sadness, realizes that if he hadn’t left with Ron and Hermione he would have been buried under an unsurpassable mountain of depression. He can’t stand to stay at the Burrow with Molly’s watery eyes and George’s blank stares, so he retreats to Grimmauld Place and spends the next two weeks de-cursing and cleaning with Kreacher while Hermione and Ron go to their respective homes and try to rebuild their lives.
Snape is glad Harry is closer to home, Harry can tell, the shadows in his mind warming as they trickle through his veins.
He contemplates going directly to Hogwarts, confronting the demon in his lair, so to speak, but the thought of seeing Ginny and her hesitant smiles is too much for him right now. So he cleans his house, studies, visits with friends and learns how to function in this crazy post-Dark Lord world. The laughter and the tears, lingering fear and near hysterical jubilation.
It’s Christmas when, tired and strangely melancholy, Harry pleads a headache and leaves his friends early, Apparating to the dank quiet of Grimmauld Place. He’s just closing the door behind him when his head explodes, the bond bursting to life with a rush of power that makes Harry stagger. “Severus.”
Long fingers clench in his shirt, pulling him close, too close, before thrusting him away. Stars dance in front of Harry’s eyes as the back of his head connects sharply with Walburga Black’s frame, waking the woman up.
“Harry.”
The purr is deadly and sharp. Harry shivers and greedily reaches for the bond in his head, moaning out loud when magic, Severus’ magic, crashes through his system. It’s violent and sour-sweet, and it’s not until Harry tastes blood in his mouth that he realizes they’re kissing and he’s just bitten through Snape’s lip.
“Is this what you want?” Severus looks half-crazed as he reaches out blindly and slams the door shut. “Why you keep pushing me?” He’s practically spitting in Harry’s face, that tone a study of contradictions as it washes over Harry silky and rough, hot and cold. And Harry feels like he can’t breathe, like his brain is boiling from the heady rush of arousal, coming right there in his trousers with Mrs. Black screaming insults in his ear.
“Filthy, rotten, putrid Mudbloods!”
Harry gurgles as Snape grabs him again, interrupting his afterglow yet sliding so seamlessly into his lassitude that Harry merely moans as Severus manipulates his sensitized body into a weird pleasure pain that breaks something in his mind. From somewhere he dredges up a smirk and manages to meet Severus’ eyes. “You liked it well enough when I was in Switzerland,” he hisses in return, reaching out to fist his own hands in Severus’ shirt, hauling him closer until they’re standing toe to toe and breathing the same air. From somewhere in the dregs of his mind Harry fleetingly thinks about breathing in oxygen and breathing out carbon dioxide – should they be sharing breaths like this? – but he never cared for science so dismisses the thought as more of Severus’ babblings.
“Defiling the house of my fathers with your unnaturalness!”
Rough hands are sliding behind Harry, long fingers digging into his arse and lifting until Harry is standing on his toes, supported by the wall and the dubious warmth of Snape’s body. The picture frame is digging into his hip and shoulder, Snape’s breath is moist and smelling like herbs and burnt applesauce, his nerves singing from arousal both spent and fighting to take over. Harry unclenches one of his hands from the front of Severus’ traveling robe and brings it up to fist in greasy black strands. Coarse, he mentally files away in satisfaction. Severus bares his teeth, leaning in to bite at Harry’s lips in a cruel parody of a kiss while hot, filthy images stream into Harry’s mind and the sour-sweet taste of magic replaces Harry’s oxygen completely.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” is whispered against Harry’s tongue. Or in his head. They’ve fused together in a weird conglomeration of words and limbs and feeling, and Harry can’t quite tell where one of them begins and the other ends. “How does it feel to be wanted for your bloodline?”
“I’ve been wanted and reviled for my blood my entire life,” Harry responds, digging his nails into Severus’ breast bone. “It’s nothing new for me.” A wicked thought enters his head, solidifying as he sticks his tongue out and licks Snape’s forehead. “Try and convince me you always wanted to do this with my mum, I dare you. Try and convince me you wouldn’t have cared if I shagged that guy in Switzerland.”
Severus rears back, hand clenching around Harry’s throat, leaning in until Harry can’t tell if that depthless black is from Severus’ eyes, the dots obscuring his vision as he tries to breathe, or the shadows cheering Severus on inside Harry’s head. “I will break you,” Snape snarled, his other hand tightening painfully around Harry’s wrists, “if you think you can play me and then discard me.”
They’re kissing again, desperate and sloppy and hard enough to hurt. Harry doesn’t quite realize when Severus releases his throat, sucking in Snape’s magic as harshly as he sucks in oxygen through his nose. It’s not until Severus pulls back to glare at him again and Harry mourns the distance between them that he realizes he is breathing unimpeded. “You have wanted this connection since you were fifteen, you needy, rotten little shit. Anything that comes from it will be entirely your fault.”
Harry laughs in satisfaction, the sound oddly dark, like liquid shadows brought to life. “Must be harder for you,” he leans forward and bites at Severus’ throat, “having someone break past your shields and not being able to do anything about it.”
“Rather have the house burned to the ground than inhabited by the likes of you!”
His hands are gripped tight and slammed into the wall over his head, head bouncing before his mouth is once again invaded by teeth and tongue and bitterness. “Impertinent, vile little bastard.”
Harry moans in agreement, bringing one knee up and trying to slam it between Snape’s legs. Severus twists, throwing Harry into the coat stand, grabbing Harry’s thighs and forcing them around his waist. Harry scrambles desperately for purchase, right arm twisting until his hand catches on the doorknob, left hand tightening in a white-knuckled grip on the troll leg, head once again slamming into the wall hard enough for giggling pixies to flit around his vision.
“Pixies, Potter?” Snape sounds scathing, but the turbulent waves in Harry’s head are tinged with amusement. Harry arches up and presses their mouths together as Severus thrusts against him, erections grinding together and all sorts of insults floating through their heads.
But then the wave is crashing over him, the shadows of magic coalescing and intermingling, and his release is hot and salty smelling, or maybe that’s Severus’, and Harry can’t think.
*~*~*
He wakes up alone, cold and sticky, to find he’s been unceremoniously tossed onto the couch in the living room.
His head hurts, throbbing in time with the shadows now sliding wet and wild throughout his entire body. Harry focuses on the familiar shadows in his brain, frowning when he gets the impression of an ocean, depthless and seemingly vast and open. Within seconds he places Severus, chopping ingredients with a manic energy. Severus snarls and Harry’s whole body tingles.
“Yes, Potter. I am aware the bond has twisted and grown.”
Laughing softly, Harry casts a cleaning charm on himself and turns on his side, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the couch. His body aches, he’s wet and chilled, and he’s fairly certain the damp patch on the back of his head is blood from being slammed repeatedly against the wall. He sighs and rubs the palm of his hand against a particularly sore spot on his hip, wondering what his bruises will look like whenever he gets around to bathing. Severus shudders with his whole body at the action or thoughts or both, his clever fingers slipping on the knife, blade sinking into the tender web between thumb and finger.
Harry stretches, smiling at the vitriol floating through his head. “Episkey,” he murmurs lazily.
They both pause when a flash of light bursts from the cut, healing it instantly.
“Interesting.”
Laughing at Severus’ version of a thank you, Harry drifts into sleep, comforted by the sour-sweet magic shadowing his own.