Fic: Deconstruction: A Writer's Tale Title: Deconstruction: A Writer's Tale Author:empathic_siren Giftee:femmequixotic Word Count: Approximately 4,700 Rating: Approximately PG-13 (but there is some swearing and some implied naughtyness) Pairing: Why, Harry and Severus, of course. Warnings: AU, AR, Severus and Harry living as Muggles, existential ramblings, attempts at high-concept meta, disregard of the epilogue entirely, and a few bad words. Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: What is love but a contrivance? Let us, gentle reader, deconstruct love and determine for ourselves what it is and what it isn't. Author's Notes My dearest Femme, it's not at all what you could imagine, I think, but it is earnestly given to someone who I think—above all—will understand what it is truly trying to say. There is desperate kissing against walls and the hint of, "Oh my god, I have to fuck you NOW!" So hopefully those elements will soothe any potential discontent. Happiest of Holidays to you. Much thanks to my fantastic beta and to the mods for being incredibly patient.
~*~
In the end, lunging at Snape, threatening to kill him, actually attempting to kill him, and then rolling around on the floor of the most expensive restaurant in London was not an ideal way to say, "I think I'd like to shag you now."
Or, better yet, "I've been secretly in love with you for years, and if you make one more remark about how I hold my fork like a mongrel, I'll have to finally tell you."
It was, however, the only way Harry was able to express six months of pent-up sexual frustration. The greatest tragedy—as Snape later told him—was the loss of a perfectly good brie in the ensuing struggle. Not to mention the spilled Margaux.
But it was all Snape's fault, really.
~*~
Is there anything more ubiquitous than the Love Story? Often, it is a farcical romp full of miscommunication, pent-up sexual frustration, and the agony of telling someone, "I think I might just be a little bit in love with you."
Our love story is comprised of a wounded hero and his unlikely romantic partner. (Which role each plays is another matter altogether). How they find their way to each other is of little consequence, it is what they make of their contrived plot twists that teaches us the greatest lessons.
We've begun at the ending of our comedy of errors. The pieces have fallen into place. Blurred lines of attraction and self-doubt have resolved themselves. The brie has been smashed and the wine spilt. And in this fantastic folly, "fault" shares equality with purpose.
This is the story we tell ourselves every day, one of acceptance, promise, hope. Love. The one we yearn for with the breathy sighs of the besotted.
But love is a serious matter. Were we to ponder it too much, no one would have the stomach for the pain of matching one's heart to another's. And so we mask its discomfiting presence with comedy. We robe it blithely in giddy, formulaic plot. We bury the acute pain of showing ourselves in the light—instead of hiding in the comforting shadows—in the subtle layers of hope and dreaming. It is a glorious, deceiving road, love.
But it is not without its maps and guides. So let us, gentle reader, deconstruct that which is said to be the love story, the parable for man's search for meaning. No one should venture into love blindly. Including Harry Potter and Severus Snape. Least of all ourselves.
Our tale begins thusly …
~*~
"I'm not working with him." Harry jerked his head in Severus's direction.
"You are."
"He's supposed to be dead, and I'm supposed to be retired."
"He's not dead and you're not retired. You're an Auror. Aurors die. They don't retire."
"So you're encouraging suicide now, is that it?"
"Harry, please," Head Auror Addlebrook said.
"I don't understand why I have to do it. Why me? Seriously? Why can't Ferber do it? He's gay, too. He's fit. He's perfect for this assignment."
"He also has the personality of cardboard."
"Well then, you see? That's perfect for Snape. They should get along fine."
"Yes, I agree, Addlebrook. The personality of cardboard is far preferable to someone like Potter, who possesses the intellect of cardboard. Therefore, he is completely unsuitable, and will not do at all as a partner. In any stretch of the word."
"Insult me all you like, Snape. If it gets me out of having to be anywhere near that greasy nose of yours, I'm all for it. I'd rather have sex with a goat before I'd willingly touch you."
"Oh, but you'd be called to do far more than merely touch me …"
"Gah! You’ve driven me blind. I can't see. I can't! I can't possibly work if I'm blind. Ferber's your man, not me, Addlebrook."
"Gentlemen, please!"
"And why do we have to pose as a gay couple? Why can't we just be art dealers who are friends? And why do we have to be gay art dealers at all? Together gay art dealers. Committed gay art dealers. I know plenty of straight art dealers. Okay, okay, perhaps that's pushing it, but we could be gay art dealers who have no romantic interest in each other. Platonic gay art dealers whose stomachs turn at the very possibility of shagging each other."
"Harry—"
"Potter, stop before your lifetime allotment of words runs out."
"You're a fucking lunatic if you think—"
"GENTLEMEN! Stop this at once! This ridiculous, self-serving, and sexual innuendo laden banter is achieving nothing. You've done absolutely nothing to advance the plot and all you've seen fit to do is establish what complete idiots you are."
"Erm, what? The plot for platonic gay art dealers?"
Addlebrook sighed and wiped his brow. "No, Harry. It's—never mind. It's not important. What is important is that this will only work if you pose as gay art dealers who are madly in love with each other."
"And why is that, exactly?"
"Do not ask these pointless questions! You work for me and I say that you are gay art dealers who are sharing the same lube drawer! Now get out of my office and get started on this assignment! I expect weekly progress reports from your remote-but-inexplicably-posh flat in the middle of Muggle London. Oh, I should have mentioned that you are, in fact, committed gay Muggle art dealers."
"What? Having played a double spy for most of my adult life, I can muster up the appropriate courage to convincingly play the better to my besotted, inexperienced but eager to please young lover—that's you, Pottter— and I have some modicum of interest in contemporary art, but—"
"—the better?! I’m the one who picked you up, you greasy bag of bones. How dare you claim the role—"
"—BUT, Muggles?? You're going to force us to play the role of those ghastly Muggles?"
"What, scared Snape?"
"No, Potter. I am not scared, merely revolted. Though that could be put down to being forced—once again—to listen to you natter on like an old hen. Stop. Using. All. Of. Your. Words."
"OUT! The both of you. Get out and get to work. Right. I expect you to have this worked out in exactly six months time."
~*~
Every good romance has the meet-cute, the way in which our heroes are thrown together. The circumstances are often preposterous and frequently defy logic. But in the affairs of the heart, what in life is logical? Isn't the very thought of love preposterous?
Harry thinks so, as does Snape, as do we all. Otherwise, why would Harry ask, "Why me?"
And have we not all asked ourselves, "Why me?" Why would anyone give himself away to someone who could flay the soul from his bones? Why would anyone risk the possibility of such utter wreck?
Because with every cycle of breath, we long to have someone who knows the pattern of our souls, of our bones, and who has the ability to wreck us, but makes us soar as well.
But what of Harry and Severus? Where does such folly lead them? How have they survived the first two months of their forced cohabitation?
~*~
"Argh! Stop throwing things at me! What is this?"
"Your foul, loathsome, and disgusting socks. I've found them, again, on the floor of washroom. Must we go through this every day? How difficult is it for you to simply place your foul, loathsome socks into the hamper full of other foul, loathsome things? You're a wizard! Simply levitate them into the hamper if bending at the waist is proving too difficult for you."
"We're supposed to be Muggles. Muggles don't levitate things."
"We're supposed to be committed gay Muggle art dealers. Fairies, I believe they're called. Surely they levitate things all of the time."
"Muggle art dealers, Snape. Muggles!"
"And Muggle art dealers leave their disgusting socks laying about as a foul trap for unsuspecting, innocent parties?"
"Stop going on about my—they're just—Innocent? There isn't a thing about you that's innocent, Snape. Well, with the obvious exception, of course."
"Excuse me? Just what are you implying, Potter?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating a well-sussed out fact."
"Which is?"
"That you haven't ever … you know."
"What? I've never knitted?"
"Snape, come off it. You're not really going to make me say it, are you?"
"I really have no idea what you're implying, Potter. What is it I've never done? Never sung with the Wizarding Philharmonic? Never eaten at La Gauche?"
"That's not what—"
"Never able to mark you higher than Troll in Potions? Never able to apply any other word than 'disappointing' to any academic skill you foolishly believe you possess?"
"Damn it, Snape, stop being so—"
"Never had sexual congress with a goat? Never—?"
"Never fucked! You've never fucked!"
Severus laughed deep and low. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard." He swaggered forward. "I've fucked, you insolent whelp. I've learned sexual arts and techniques that would make your foppish little head explode if I were to even utter them."
"I don't believe you."
"Is that some adolescent way of asking me to show you?"
"What?! Gah! NO! I would never—I don't—that's just—you're going to make me go blind again."
"Has wee Potter got all hot and bothered? Perhaps you're the one who's never engaged in the art of sexual pleasure. Beyond self-pleasure, that is."
Harry laughed. "Oh, I've fucked, Snape. I know what to do with the lube, and I've never had any complaints. In fact, there was one man—Robert—who was sure I made him see God. When I was through fucking him, he couldn't remember his own name."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that? Attempting to drop your voice an octave while you said it didn't lend it an air of authenticity, I'll have you know."
"If you don't believe me, why don't you have a look for yourself?"
Harry stared straight into Severus's eyes. Severus, never one to need an invitation to wrench memories from one's mind, took the implied invitation.
There was a moment of disorientation and then Severus was in a darkly lit room. Harry was there, fucking some man against a wall, whispering things in his ear, keeping the man in place with sharp, efficient movements, commanding him. To see Harry in such a position of erotic power was … arousing. Severus lost his focus for a moment.
Harry used that loss of focus and pushed into Severus's mind. He watched as Severus threw a coltish young man to the bed, stripped him of his clothing, covered him with his body, and began a sensual torment so arousing, Harry was sure he would—
Harry scrambled to his feet and fled the room. Severus shook his head and chuckled darkly. Harry paused at the door and turned back. He cocked his head and looked at Severus as if seeing him for the first time before retreating to his room.
Severus turned and stared off in Harry's direction, his expression speculative.
~*~
To understand relationships, one must look through the lens of a kaleidoscope. With each turn of the wheel, perspectives shift. Things we understood and knew only moments ago change. Evolve.
The most vital element to any love story is the moment of understanding and discovery. There is always that moment when one looks at the person beside him and realizes that there is more to him than he thought possible. It is borne of fascination, of capture. Sometimes, it is fleeting, ephemeral. But other times, it is the turning point, the moment, the thing, the act that forever changes the game between the two would-be lovers. Where it goes, what they do with it, however, is another question entirely.
In the case of Harry and Severus, they never again bring up their game of sexual escapade one-upmanship. Instead, they begin to turn to each other and follow each respective orbit.
There is something to be said for old, wise scribblers who talk of love in terms of phases of the moon, or the inevitable favour of the sun, the way two people thus fascinated, orient themselves to the other, following each as the sun follows the moon.
~*~
"We've been at it for twelve hours now. I can't believe we've had to resort to a stake-out. We're supposed to be committed gay Muggle art dealers. They don't do stake-outs."
"Not the kind we're doing at any rate."
"Stop with the sexual innuendo, Snape."
"What? I thought you were beginning to find my humour witty."
Harry laughed, despite himself. "Well, even I have to admit that what you said to that idiot Renaldo was brilliant."
"He struck me as dangerous. And you're my partner."
"He wasn't dangerous, just deranged if he ever thought I'd be interested in him."
"At least you didn't fall for the, 'Why don't you come up and see my Rothko?' line. I would have strangled you at the table if you had."
"Give me some credit, would you? Considering we're supposed to be art dealers, I actually did some research on contemporary art. I've heard of that Rothko chap. Though his paintings are a bit dodgy. And, I'm still not sure exactly what we're supposed to be doing on this assignment."
"There's no point to the assignment. It doesn't matter. It's a mere contrivance."
"What?"
"These—all of these assignments—where do they get you? At the end of the day, they're all the same. Meaningless. Pointless. Today we're committed gay Muggle art dealers. Tomorrow, we're club-hopping vampires. Contrivances."
"That's a very misanthropic view of the world, Snape."
"Misanthropic, Potter? I'm surprised you can both pronounce and use the word correctly."
"Don't be. You used it yesterday. I looked it up."
"Ah. Well there's something to be said for that."
"Yeah. I suppose there is."
"You're not … You've handled yourself well on this assignment, Potter."
"You mean for a gay Muggle art dealer?"
Snape laughed. "Yes, for a gay Muggle art dealer. A committed one."
"Well of course." There was a long pause. "Hey, Snape. I was wondering something."
"Wonders never cease."
"Ha bloody ha. No, seriously. Have you ever, I mean, have you ever—"
"No. I have never had sexual congress with a goat. I have, however, had my share of sexual liaisons."
"You're going to make me think that you actually had sex with a goat, you know."
"You were saying?"
"Oh. Right. Erm, have you—okay, so you've had sex, obviously, but, have you ever had a relationship?"
Severus didn't respond.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have asked—"
"Yes, I have. There was a man years ago that I was quite fond of."
"What happened?"
"He—It didn't work out. Obviously."
"Oh. Right."
"And what of your relationships, Potter? I would never have figured you for a shirt-lifter, or whatever your generation is calling us."
Harry shrugged. "Kissing a man feels loads better than kissing a girl. It's as simple as that."
"If only it was as simple as that."
"It can be, you know. As simple as that."
"No. It can't. It's never that simple. Despite whatever yearnings one might have."
"Do you, erm, do you have yearnings Sever—Snape?"
Severus turned his head and stared out across the lonely expanse of urban life. "No. None."
~*~
Oh, the pain of it, the desire to say what one wants, but for fear of rejection, saying nothing at all. That only leads to heartache, to resentment, to misplaced anger. How often have we, because of frustration, unintentionally hurt the one we most desperately want?
~*~
"What's the problem? So I chatted him up. He had information that we needed. He looked interested. I took initiative. I thought you'd at least congratulate me on that."
"Oh, yes, Potter. Congratulations on proving that you're the equivalent of a slut and I especially congratulate you on almost blowing our cover!"
"Stop slamming things! Blowing our cover? What the fuck are you on about?"
"In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to be committed partners. You rubbing yourself all over Renaldo proved the farce for what it is."
"Rubbing myself—I barely touched him! And it was only his forearm. You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous."
"Jealous? Me? Of what? A reckless child who destroys my life at every turn?"
"Oh, brilliant Snape. Absofuckinglutely brilliant. You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Which of your transgressions are you referring to? There are so many."
"Being born."
"Oh yes. That is quite a large one. Perhaps I can get hold of a Time Turner and travel back to the point of your conception and—"
"Just stop it, Snape. Just—look, I don't know what's going on, but every time Renaldo's anywhere around, you start acting like an idiot. If anyone's blowing our cover, it's you."
"How dare you imply—"
"I’m not implying, anything. I'm telling you. You know, I thought for a moment there that we were actually getting along, that you might actually—"
"Might actually what, Potter?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Fine."
"Fine. And—and—stop throwing my socks at me!"
~*~
When the game becomes more than a game, when the dance loses its entertainment value, this is when our real story begins. The fear of inevitable heartbreak, the war between living life as one laden with currency and exchange rates instead of the gift of one's heart, these are the things that reveal what diffident creatures we are.
Shy, terrified, we make furtive sidesteps, we hold the proverbial cards as close to our vests as possible, we silently pray that the other person will make the first move. We hope—oh, God, how we hope—that the other person will be the first to say, "I think I'm just a little bit in love with you."
It's cruel what we do. To ourselves. To other people. And it's the worst sort of cruelty, because it's born completely of fear. It is, of course, understandable. Our hearts are what keep us alive. Very few wish to fling it carelessly—needlessly. And so, we have moments where we know that our worlds can change, that with one simple phrase, the entirety of our lives can become something altogether different. But is the chance for sweetness too much of a gamble? Is it not better to guard and protect our hearts with chains of restraint and the cover of wilful ignorance? Too often we let these moments pass in the silence of constraint and anxiety. Lives, worlds, slip through our fingers because of what is never said. Or dared.
But fear not, gentle reader, while Harry and Severus have let this moment pass, no love story is complete without the entrance of the catalyst, the thing or person that requires our would-be lovers to leap for the chance at happiness. Regardless of the cost. Let us see what our heroes do when forced to confront their feelings.
~*~
"Damn it!"
"It's all right, Harry," Renaldo said with a simpering, sing-song voice. "I'm sure the restaurant has spare linens."
"Yes, they'll need them by the end of the meal. Harry isn't used to such fine establishments."
"Shut it, Severus. My fork slipped. That's all."
"Well if you didn't hold your fork like a mongrel, I'm sure your lobster would have been more than happy to remain on your plate."
"You two certainly fight a lot for committed gay art dealers."
"Yes, Muggle ones."
"Severus!"
"Sorry? Did you say fungal? I'll have you know that I—"
"Don't pay any attention to him, Renaldo, he's clearly having a bad day. Now you were saying something about the Rothko?"
"Ah yes! I have a new Rothko that you absolutely must see. It's just up in my flat. Perhaps you could stop by after dinner and study the horizon line with me?"
"Oh for the love of—He wouldn't know a horizon line if it flipped him horizontal and smashed him to the ground."
"I can think of someone that I'd like to smash to the ground. Right now. For the last time, shut it, Severus."
"Temper, Harry. You know how you get when it gets too close to your bedtime. You'll have to excuse him, Renaldo. Children of his age get so cranky without an adequate nap."
"That's it!"
In the end, lunging at Snape, threatening to kill him, actually attempting to kill him, and then rolling around on the floor of the most expensive restaurant in London was not an ideal way to say, "I think I'd like to shag you now."
Or, better yet, "I've been secretly in love with you for years, and if you make one more remark about how I hold my fork like a mongrel, I'll have to finally tell you."
It was, however, the only way Harry was able to express six months of pent-up sexual frustration. The greatest tragedy—as Snape later told him—was the loss of a perfectly good brie in the ensuing struggle. Not to mention the spilled Margaux.
But it was all Snape's fault, really. And Harry's. But at that precise moment, neither were laying blame. There were trousers to be removed, stomachs to be kissed, nipples to be nibbled, and long strings of nonsensical words to be uttered.
Fortunately, somewhere between the foreplay and the act of penetration, Harry had the presence of mind to Apparate them to their rented flat. It was days before the committed gay Muggle art dealers living above Renaldo's contemporary art gallery were seen again.
~*~
Our catalyst has done his work well. As Renaldo fades into the background—a hastily sketched, utilitarian character, Harry and Severus have created a new reality. Blind with frustration, and lust, and … dare I say it? … love, they have bound each to the other.
This would seem the end, would it not? The culmination of six months—nay—decades of frustration and hope and devastation bound up in a rollicking tryst on the floor in a fashionable restaurant near Green Park. It is, of course, ridiculous and funny and perfect for our ill-matched heroes.
But are they ill-matched? Are they both not the wounded hero? Are they both not the capricious lover? Hurt, deceived, broken, laid to ruinous waste time and time again, they have suffered, and yet …
And yet, under the pretence of hate, of disfavour, of unbridled sexuality, they express a far more delicate emotion. In the midst of fisticuffs, they carefully drop their disguises and engage in life's most difficult exchange. I see you. Do you see me? Will you stay with me regardless?
Let us see how this exchange ends.
~*~
"So, I guess that's it then. The assignment's done."
"Yes. Quite."
"I, erm, Addlebrook said that the Ministry was releasing you of all further obligations. That you'd, uh, proven yourself … you know …"
"Free from Voldemort's taint?"
"Yeah. That." Harry cleared his throat. "So …"
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"I—I was wondering if you'd … Well … What I mean to say is—"
Severus stalked forward, forcing Harry against the rather conveniently placed wall directly behind him. He didn't stop moving, even as Harry pressed himself into the wall.
"Are we about to have a row, or something? Are you finally planning on getting me back for all of the socks in the washroom?" Harry laughed nervously.
Severus ignored him. He stretched his arms out and placed his palms flat against the wall above Harry's head. He leaned in, his mouth a hairbreadth's away from Harry's.
"What were you wondering, Potter? What is it that you mean to say?"
"I—"
"Yes? I’m waiting …"
"I thought we might see if we can stomach a night together without the guise of committed gay Muggle art dealers. Just Harry. And Severus."
Nothing was said for a long moment. Severus stared at Harry, barely moving. Harry stared back.
Severus moved in imperceptibly. He turned his face at the last moment so that his lips were at Harry's ear.
"Are you asking me out, Mr. Potter?"
Harry swallowed a shaky breath. "I believe I am. And now—now I'm waiting for a response. It's only rude to make me wait."
"Such bravery. I wonder what you'll make of this response."
Severus turned his face and brushed his lips against Harry's. Harry sighed. His lips parted and he leaned forward and into the kiss.
Severus pushed him back, pressing his lips hard against Harry's, swiping his tongue across them, slipping his tongue in between them when Harry parted his lips farther.
They both moaned at the feel of tongue on tongue; lips on lips. But it was when Severus pushed his tongue all the way in while simultaneously canting his hips and pressing his erection against Harry's, that Harry garbled a barely-coherent, "Oh, god. Yes. More."
They seized each other around the shoulders and commenced battle, each jostling for control, neither winning. Neither caring.
They pushed and pulled, kissed and moaned. Their hands roamed freely while their hips moved in a steady, obscene rhythm.
Eventually, Severus's hands moved up and cradled Harry's jaw and the back of his head, while Harry's slipped down Severus back, coming together at the curve of his buttocks. There they stood, locked in a lover's embrace, saying what needed saying without words.
And when they finally parted—each still aroused and gasping for breath, for life renewed—Severus posed his question again.
"I believe I have answered your question. It's rude not to respond."
"So it is. Tonight? Right now? Dinner?"
"What, and send more brie to an untimely death? I believe," Severus began as his finger trailed down Harry's face, down his neck, across his shoulder blade, and down his torso, "that we have all of the feast we need."
"Right. My flat. Now."
"Such impatience."
Harry grabbed hold of Severus's erection and gently squeezed. He smirked when Severus's eyes fluttered closed and his back arched in anticipatory pleasure.
"We can wait, if you'd like," Harry said while he caressed Severus's cock. "We can take a nice walk, for instance, or ring Hermione and read some dusty, old books, or—"
"Your flat. Now."
"Thought you'd see it my way."
Severus grinned like a wolf. "You have no idea what you're inviting."
"Oh, but I think I do."
A moment passed between them, a moment in which they understood what they were inviting, what lunacy they were courting. It was a moment of fulfilled dreams, unspoken and furtively dared.
With a smile, Severus stepped back and Disapparated. Harry followed with a soft crack.
~*~
And so we have arrived at the end. Severus and Harry's story is not an unfamiliar one, full of miscommunication, heartache, complication, and angst. But also full of survival. Commitment. Love.
And how do you find yourself? Are you wistful for the love that Harry and Severus have found, dreaming of it in your own life? Do you long for the sexually charged banter, the angst, the fierce tension that gives way to life's sweetest resolution? Do you fear that it will never find you, this Grand Romance that seems the stuff of stories?
Upon reflection, I can offer you only this.
The heart is a fragile thing. Easily given. Easily broken. Ripped into tattered ribbons of folly and regret, we can do little more than sew it back together with the words of hope that we string together. And yet, for all of its fragility, and for all of the times we careen through life full of inconsolable ache, we tell stories of its resilience. No matter how many times our hearts are returned to us, tarnished and ravaged, ignored, they will never lose the ability to keep beating, to keep hoping.
We long to be Harry and Severus. We are Harry and Severus.
Focus not on the sublime ridiculousness of the love story in all of its contrivances; instead, remember that we cannot dream that which is not possible.