snarryhols (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} snarryhols) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} snarry_holidays,@ 2007-11-16 11:46:00 |
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| Entry tags: | fic, post-dh: ewe, rated: nc-17 |
Whose Dream Is This, Anyway?, for daughter_moon
Title: Whose Dream Is This, Anyway?
Author: centaury_squill
Giftee: daughter_moon
Word Count: approx 7000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Warnings: DH spoilers, non-con
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or films. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Summary: Shaken by his self-discoveries when defeating Voldemort, Harry takes refuge from the wizarding world. But he can’t take refuge from his dreams...
It seemed strange, being at The Burrow without Ron and Hermione. Oh, they'd asked him to go to Australia with them. And in some ways the idea of helping Hermione track down her parents had appealed. Australia was a long way off and nobody would know him there. But when the time came for them to leave, Harry didn't seem to have the energy to decide whether to go with them or not. So, in the end, he'd just stayed behind.
Molly Weasley pressed him to stay on at The Burrow, but Harry felt uncomfortable with the Weasleys now, even with Ginny. Actually, especially with Ginny. Whenever he looked at her he was reminded of her brother’s death. He'd gone to Fred's funeral, of course. But it had been a strain; all the stares, the whispering. And who could blame them? He felt unclean, knowing he had harboured part of Voldemort's soul for most of his life. And, without it, how much of his old self remained? Who was he, now? This feeling of lassitude... did it mean that his former drive, his energy, what he had fondly believed to be HIM... had all come from the shard of Voldemort's soul he'd carried for so long? Who, really, was Harry Potter?
There seemed nowhere else for him to go. Reluctantly, Harry decided to return to Grimmauld Place.
As he entered the hall of number twelve, Mad-eye Moody's dust spook came rushing towards him: "Severus Snape?"
Harry stared. He'd had no idea that Mad-eye's curse was still in operation; hadn't anyone been able to get rid of it? "I'm not Severus Snape," he said quietly, as soon as the spell released his tongue and he could speak. "And you should know he didn't kill you willingly."
Harry wandered through the rooms of number twelve, lost in thought. He'd almost forgotten most of Snape's memories he'd seen in the Pensieve: the revelation that he'd been harbouring part of Voldemort's soul all these years had outweighed everything else. Remorsefully he realised he hadn't spared a thought for what Snape must have been going through during those same years.
Eventually, at the top of the house, Harry entered Sirius's old room. In his mind's eye he again saw Snape feverishly searching it. Snape, tears dripping off the end of his hooked nose, impatiently discarding the first half of Lily's letter, keeping only her love and her signature. Snape, snatching up that photograph of baby Harry with his parents. Tearing it in half, discarding Harry and James, like so much rubbish. Harry found this thought strangely painful. Exhausted, he curled up on his godfather's bed and fell asleep...
Snape was lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, just as Harry had last seen him. Suddenly his eyes opened wide in a mad stare. Harry screamed, and, half knowing he was dreaming, tried unsuccessfully to wake.
The dream changed.
Now Harry was sitting at his old desk in the DADA classroom. Pictures of anonymous witches and wizards writhing under the Cruciatus curse covered the walls. Snape's pictures. As Harry looked at them, the faces changed. That was his mother, doubled up in agony; his father, screaming with pain. The next minute Snape himself appeared in front of Harry. He rested his hands on the desk and leaned forward so his face was inches from the boy's. "Well?" he demanded. "Not your usual impertinent self, Potter? What have you to say for yourself?"
"Nothing," Harry mumbled. "I'm not me any more. I was just a bit of Voldemort, you know."
He had never seen Snape so angry. "Stupid – fucking – boy –" he shouted, punctuating each furious word with an open-handed slap across Harry's face. "You have never been more yourself! Look at me..." As his black eyes bored into Harry's, one hand came down and covered Harry's hand with a firm clasp. And Harry awoke, Snape's words ringing in his ears, strangely comforted.
The next day, for the first time in weeks, Harry felt a lightening of the oppression which hung over him. He threw himself into cleaning the house, neglected since they had abandoned it as too dangerous the previous year. A new crop of Doxys had taken up residence in the drawing room curtains. "I need Kreacher," Harry said to himself, ruefully surveying a nasty bite on his thumb from an imperfectly-stunned Doxy.
The next moment the house-elf himself appeared, beaming with delight. "Kreacher is so pleased that Master has summoned him at last!" he said, taking the Doxycide spray away from Harry and disposing of the culprit. He applied antidote and deftly bandaged Harry’s thumb. "Master should let Kreacher do all this," he said reproachfully.
"Are you kidding?" Harry grinned. He picked up a carpet beater and whacked enthusiastically at the curtains, driving the Doxys out of hiding for Kreacher to stun. "I want to beat the shit out of ’em!"
After a hard day’s work deDoxying the curtains, Harry was sweaty and dishevelled but much happier. He came downstairs after his bath to a freshly-cleaned, warm kitchen full of tantalising smells. Kreacher had cooked a delicious meal, including treacle tart. "Master's favourite," he said proudly. "Kreacher remembered."
Over the next few days Harry found himself thinking more and more of all that Snape had revealed in his memories. Gradually he began to re-evaluate his view of his once hated teacher. Maybe for that reason, Snape kept flitting in and out of his dreams, too. Sometimes he would be in the Potions dungeon at Hogwarts, insisting that Harry was failing to follow the instructions he'd written on the blackboard. Other times he was wearing an off-white nightshirt, a halo slipped over one ear, glaring at Harry and resolutely refusing to play a harp.
One night he was particularly insistent that Harry was failing to perform some task he'd been set.
"I don't understand what you want me to do," Harry said, angrily.
"Visit your relations," Snape said. "What's so difficult about that?"
"I don't HAVE any relations," Harry said impatiently. "You know that. They're dead."
Snape just looked at him.
Harry groaned. "No! You can't mean the Dursleys – I swore I'd never set foot in Privet Drive again –"
And suddenly he was in the kitchen at number four, Privet Drive: his cousin Dudley, dressed in his new Smeltings uniform, was poking him in the ribs with his Smeltings stick...
Then he was at primary school, being chased across the playground by Dudley and his gang. Something seemed to be wrong with his legs, he was going slower and slower, it was like wading through treacle...
He was inside the school; Dudley's best friend Piers was holding his arms while Dudley punched him in the ribs... they were trying to force him to stand in a boy's toilet...
He was back at Privet Drive; his Uncle Vernon, purple-faced, was pushing him into the cupboard under the stairs, shouting hoarsely "It's all your fault, boy. I won't have it, do you hear? It's all your fault..."
Harry thrashed about in his bed, moaning, but couldn't wake.
He was in a deserted graveyard. It was dusk and the wind howled. A huge white headstone loomed in front of him covered in spidery writing he could not read. A marble angel glared at him with Snape's features, spoke in Snape's voice. "Follow the instructions, Potter!"
Harry tried to say "What instructions?" But the wind took his words and blew them away. In the distance a bell began to toll... Slowly, solemnly... It got louder... faster... nearer...
...and turned into the welcome sound of Kreacher beating the gong in the kitchen, calling him down to breakfast. With a faint feeling of anticlimax, Harry hurried into his clothes and went downstairs.
All that day, Harry couldn't shake off the feeling that Snape wanted him to do something urgently ... but what? Apologise? Clear his name? Make sure he had a proper burial? Erect a memorial? If only he could find out what it was...
Restless, he wandered about the big old house. He kept returning to the bedroom he'd once shared with Ron. He remembered how he'd barricaded himself in there, refusing to come out, when he'd feared he was possessed by Voldemort. He hadn't known then, of course, that a piece of the Dark Lord had been inside him since he was a baby. He'd wanted to run, to protect the others, but Phineas Nigellus had spoken from his portrait, giving him a message from Dumbledore, that he was to stay where he was.
Harry spun round, staring at the blank space on the wall where the portrait had hung. Phineas Nigellus, ancestor of Sirius's. Phineas Nigellus, former headmaster of Hogwarts. Phineas Nigellus, who could visit his portrait in the Headmaster's study and talk to the other portraits there...
Harry slapped his forehead. "Of course!"
He must think... Hermione had tugged the portrait out of her enchanted bag just before she left and handed it to Harry... what had he done with it? That was when they were all still at The Burrow... It must still be there...
Harry chose his moment carefully: a weekday, so Mr Weasley would be at work; a market-day, so Mrs Weasley would be shopping in the village. He stood hesitating in The Burrow's yard for a moment, then knocked on the kitchen door. If nobody was at home, he could slip in and retrieve the portrait without any fuss. That might be best, really, though maybe a bit cowardly...
But then a voice from inside called "Come in!" Squaring his shoulders, Harry took a deep breath, turned the handle and pushed open the kitchen door. George was sitting at the table, a Daily Prophet spread open in front of him.
With a funny little lurch of his stomach, Harry saw a familiar dark-haired, hook-nosed wizard scowling up at the banner headline over his photograph:
George looked up. "Oh, hi, Harry."
"Hi," Harry said. With an effort, he dragged his eyes away from Snape's picture and looked at George. "Not at the shop, then?"
"Nah, it's not the same on my own," George said.
Harry felt a sudden rush of guilt. "Shame," he said feebly.
But George seemed to have lost interest in the subject. "I know you told Voldemort that Snape was really Dumbledore's man," he said, tapping his finger on the outspread Prophet. "Was that true?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "I saw his Pensieve memories. He was secretly working for Dumbledore from the day Voldemort killed my mum."
"Didn't stop him cursing my ear off, did it?" George said bitterly.
"That was an accident," Harry argued. "One of the Death Eaters had his wand on Remus; Snape tried to curse his wand hand, missed and got you instead."
George snorted. "You seem mighty protective of old Snape all of a sudden," he said. "I remember you calling him a greasy git, a murdering bastard, and saying how much you hated him."
Harry went red. "I was wrong," he muttered. "Give the bloke a break, he's dead now, anyway."
"But is he?" George said, pointing at the article in front of him. Harry peered closer; under the banner headline a smaller one proclaimed:
And below that, smaller still:
Harry felt that lurch in his stomach again, but stronger this time. He tried to stop a broad grin spreading across his face. "So isn't he dead, then?" he asked, trying to sound unconcerned.
"Nobody knows," George said. "His body disappeared from the Shrieking Shack and some people think he's still alive. But who knows – the Prophet isn't noted for its accuracy, is it?" He eyed Harry curiously. "What's it to you, anyway?"
"Oh, nothing," Harry said hastily. "Anyway, I came for that portrait of Phineas Nigellus, Hermione left it here. Any idea what happened to it?"
"Dunno, probably up in Ron's room," George said, turning back to his paper.
"Mind if I go up and have a look?" Harry asked.
George shrugged. "Sure," he said indifferently.
Coming down the stairs a few minutes later, the portrait tucked under his arm, Harry froze as he heard Ginny's voice floating up from the kitchen.
"Harry's HERE? Why didn't you call me? I might have missed him!"
A snide voice came from the vicinity of Harry's elbow. "Very strident, isn't she?"
And then George's voice from downstairs: "Don't waste your time on him, sis. He's gone queer for Severus Snape!"
A snigger came from the portrait. Harry glared at it. "Shut up!" he hissed. "And don't you dare tell Snape!"
Phineas Nigellus looked puzzled. "How would I do that?"
It was Harry's turn to look puzzled. "His portrait in the Headmaster's study?"
"There is no portrait of Professor Snape in the Headmaster's..."
"Harry! Who are you talking to?"
Guiltily, Harry looked up from the smug painted features of Phineas Nigellus. Ginny stood at the foot of the stairs, hands on hips, glaring up at him. She looked extraordinarily like her mother in one of her most tyrannical moods.
"Um, hi, Ginny," he muttered.
"Hi, Ginny? Hi, Ginny – is that all you can say? Where've you been? Why haven't you owled me? Why didn't you –"
"Ginny, please don’t." Harry was torn. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t deny his feelings for her had changed.
"Have you been avoiding me?" Ginny asked. Her voice dropped a tone. "Is there – SOMEONE ELSE?"
"How very dramatic," yawned Phineas Nigellus. Harry’s lips twitched. I know someone who can be much more dramatic than that, he thought, picturing a jar of dead cockroaches smashing to smithereens on the wall above his head. Hurled by an enraged Snape...
"Why are you smirking?" Ginny demanded. "You look like – a – a – a Kneazel that’s stolen the cream! There IS someone, isn’t there – "
Harry was suddenly tired of this. "Ginny, stop it," he said firmly, cutting across her tirade. "I'm sorry, but there's no future for us."
Ginny was momentarily speechless. Then:
"YOU'RE DUMPING ME?!" she shrieked. "How COULD you, Harry! After all we've been to each other? And Mum's expecting us to announce our engagement..."
"Well she’ll be disappointed, then," Harry said coolly, brushing past her and striding through the kitchen towards the back door. He nodded to George in passing, and picked up the Daily Prophet with his free hand. "Don't mind if I borrow this, do you," he said casually. "See you." And before either of the Weasleys could react he was out of the door.
Ginny ran after him just in time to see him preparing to Disapparate from the end of the yard. He gave her a half-apologetic little shrug, then vanished.
"Your views of the afterlife are tiresomely trite," complained Snape, with a disparaging glance down at his white nightshirt and an irritable twitch of a feathery wing. "And I'm not even dead..."
"OK," Harry grinned, waving his hand at Snape. The wings vanished and the nightshirt was replaced by open-crotch panties, sheer black stockings and a basque. "That better?"
"This is how you'd like to see me?" Snape asked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
Harry blushed. He hated to admit it, but Snape looked disturbingly sexy.
"Int-er-esting," Snape said slowly. "Why don't you dress as I'd like to see you?" And the next minute Harry found himself wearing a Hogwarts tie, a silky gold thong, and nothing else.
"Hey!" he protested. "Whose dream is this, anyway?"
"Yours of course," Snape replied, looking at him hungrily. "But I like to think I have some... influence over you..." And he reached out a lazy hand and brushed his fingers lightly over Harry's thong. They lingered teasingly on the slippery ribbon of silk which barely covered the weeping head of Harry's cock. Then he swooped down, pushing the thong aside and taking Harry into his predatory mouth.
Harry woke up with a shout and damp pyjamas. He blushed hotly. He'd had wet dreams before – hell, who hadn't? – but with Severus Snape as the focus?! What was happening to him? Could George be right – had he gone queer for Snape? And could it possibly be true that Severus Snape was, after all, still alive?
In the kitchen the next morning, Harry finished the bacon and eggs Kreacher had cooked for him and pushed his plate and coffee mug aside. As George had done, he spread out the Daily Prophet on the table in front of him and began rereading their speculations about the 'Death Eater Who Loved'.
"Master is interested in Professor Snape?"
Harry looked up from the paper. Kreacher was regarding him shrewdly. "Uh, well, yeah – sort of – I'd like to know what happened to him, anyway," he said.
The house-elf put a rack full of toast in front of Harry and refilled his coffee mug. "Kreacher could go to Hogwarts and ask the house-elves what they know." he offered. "The house-elf's highest law is his master's bidding. And Master Harry has been kind to Kreacher. He gave him Master Regulus's locket –" and Kreacher squinted proudly down at his narrow chest where the locket hung. "Kreacher wants his master to be happy," he finished simply.
Harry felt a lump in his throat. He busied himself spreading butter and marmalade on his toast. "Uh – thanks, Kreacher," he muttered at last. "Yeah, you do that. Find out what happened to Snape's body."
Harry found it hard to settle to anything once Kreacher had gone. It was too much to hope that Snape was actually still alive... though the Prophet seemed to think so... but then, when had the Prophet ever got things right?... but Phineas Nigellus had said there was no portrait of Snape in the Headmaster's study... Harry groaned. Why should he care anyway? Snape hadn't cared for HIM, it had all been for his mother; Snape had admitted as much to Dumbledore when he flaunted his Patronus, the silver doe...
That doe, though... it had seemed so... so right, so familiar, somehow, when it had come to him in the Forest of Dean. Was it because that particular form of Patronus had once been his mother's? Or was it because through the doe he had sensed Snape's true feelings for him?
Harry didn't know what to believe, what to hope. All day he wandered restlessly through the house, his thoughts going obsessively round and round the same old track. When at last he heard the familiar crack! which announced Kreacher's return, he was almost afraid to ask what the little house-elf had discovered.
Kreacher's tale was rather convoluted. He'd gone first to the Hogwarts kitchens, where he learned all he could from the resident house-elves. It appeared that most of the Hogwarts staff were, or claimed to be, baffled by the disappearance of Snape's body from the Shrieking Shack.
"It definitely disappeared, then?" Harry interrupted.
Oh yes, all the house-elves had agreed on that point. Snape's body was nowhere to be found. Professor McGonagall was very distressed. The house-elf who cleaned her office told Kreacher that she blamed herself for not having more faith in Severus Snape, for not trusting Dumbledore's judgement. But she had nothing to do with the removal of his body; knew nothing about it. Hagrid, on the other hand...
"Hagrid!" Harry exclaimed. "Hagrid knows something? Did you find out what?"
Yes, Kreacher assured him; it had been difficult, as Hagrid normally had little contact with the Hogwarts house-elves; he preferred to do his own rough and ready cooking and cleaning. But one of the kitchen elves had mentioned that his brother, who worked at the Hog's Head, had said something about Hagrid and Professor Snape. Kreacher had gone there immediately...
"To the Hog's Head? Is Dumbledore's brother still the landlord? I didn't know he had any house-elves!" Harry wasn't sure why he kept interrupting. It was almost as if he was afraid of what Kreacher had to tell.
Kreacher was patient and picked up the threads of his story. Aberforth Dumbledore was indeed still landlord and sole barman of the Hog's Head. He employed a house-elf to help with the cleaning. (Remembering the state of the pub every time he'd been there, Harry found this hard to believe.)
Apparently Hagrid was in the habit of dropping into the pub every so often for a few drinks and a chat with Aberforth. On one of those occasions, he'd had a few too many gallons of mead and had let slip that he had been involved in Snape's disappearance from the Shrieking Shack. But then he'd clammed up and refused to say any more.
Harry grinned, picturing the scene; as so many times before, Hagrid would have given a guilty start, clapped his hand to his mouth and muttered "I shouldn't have said that!"
"Did you go and see Hagrid yourself?" he asked Kreacher.
Kreacher had wanted to, but it had proved impossible; Hagrid was abroad, visiting Madame Maxime. He had, however, learned one more thing. Hagrid had been seen in Hogsmeade, the night after Voldemort's defeat, heading for the Shrieking Shack. And he was accompanied by a Muggle youth, who up until then had been in the care of Dedalus Diggle. The bar-elves at the Three Broomsticks were responsible for this piece of information; apparently Diggle had brought the Muggle there at Hagrid's request.
"Dudley!" Harry exclaimed, surprised. Then he thought of his dreams, how insistent Snape had been that he visit his relations. He thought about Uncle Vernon. No way. He thought about Aunt Petunia, hesitated, and shook his head. Finally, he made up his mind.
"Kreacher," he said. "Can you bring Dudley Dursley here?"
Harry thought that Mrs Black would never stop screeching. Time and again he yanked the curtains across her portrait in the hall, only to have them fly open again to a crescendo of foul-mouthed abuse. It was as if the intrusion of a Muggle into her precious home had given her fresh powers of invective, more tireless even than in the days Tonks had kept tripping over the troll's foot umbrella stand beneath her.
"I'm sorry, Dudley," he said at last. "We'd better go down to the kitchen. She'll get tired eventually."
With the kitchen door firmly closed, the sound of Mrs Black's screams faded to a tolerable level. Harry was at last able to give his full attention to his cousin. It was the first time he'd seen him since all three Dursleys had left Privet Drive for a safe haven, shepherded by Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones. He eyed Dudley's jacket, no longer the brown leather he remembered, but cloth: dark green, with irregular areas of brown and khaki and the occasional black streak.
"Blimey, Big D," he said. "Not joined the army, have you?"
Dudley grinned proudly. "I'm going to."
Harry suppressed a shudder at the thought of his cousin in charge of a tank. "Er – right. Um, what does Uncle Vernon say?"
"Dad thinks it's a bad idea," said Dudley. "He wants me to go back to Smeltings. But that's just boring."
"Know what you mean," Harry said. "I dropped out of Hogwarts, too."
"I was up near that freaky school of yours the other day," Dudley said. He glanced round. The faint sound of Mrs Black's screams continued unabated from the hall upstairs. "This place is pretty freaky, too."
"It used to belong to Dark wizards," Harry said gloomily.
"Is that why I couldn't see it until that creepy little elf showed me your note?"
"Er – no – that was because it's still Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix – I had to invite you in," Harry said.
"And that thing in the hall –"
"The portrait? That's Sirius's mother –"
"No, not her, that ghost thing."
"Ah yes," Harry said, wondering how to explain. "Well, it's complicated..."
"Why did it ask if I was Severus Snape? I'm nothing like him," said Dudley.
Harry's attention sharpened. "You've seen him? So it's true? You helped Hagrid move him from the Shrieking Shack?" He grabbed his cousin's beefy arm. "Where's Snape now?"
Dudley looked confused. "At home, of course. Privet Drive."
Aunt Petunia greeted him with pursed lips and an anxious glance over her shoulder. Harry guessed she didn't want Uncle Vernon to know that he was there.
"I've come to... err, help, with Professor Snape," he said quietly. How silly that sounded! And what could he do, anyway? But Aunt Petunia unbent marginally.
"I'm glad somebody has!" she whispered vehemently. "It's all very well – a promise is a promise – but being ordered around by a portrait is getting more than I can stand! That Albus Dumbledore – I wish I'd never got mixed up with him!"
For the first time ever, Harry felt he had something in common with her. "Yes," he said sympathetically. "Old Dumbledore's good at getting people to do things, isn't he? Even after he's dead. Can I see his portrait, Aunt Petunia?"
"You can keep it," Aunt Petunia said bitterly, handing over a small, gold-framed oval. Harry looked in silence at the white-haired wizard, half-moon glasses askew on crooked nose, blue eyes piercing his; truly Dumbledore in miniature. He half-heard Aunt Petunia’s complaining undertone in the background: "... that Snape boy... trouble, from the moment I set eyes... wouldn’t listen... my Dudders... still in a coma... how much longer?..."
"Petunia." It was surprising how authoritative Dumbledore’s portrait-miniature-sized voice could still sound. "Petunia, you have done very well. Now it is Harry’s turn. We should not need to trespass on your hospitality for very much longer."
"But how -?" Harry asked.
"Just follow your heart, my boy," the old wizard said gently. "Shall we go upstairs?"
Harry went up to his old bedroom and stared at Snape's familiar face on the pillow, framed with curtains of greasy black hair. Apart from being even paler than usual, he might just have been sleeping. But apparently he had been like this ever since Dudley and Hagrid had carried him into the house.
On the bedside table was a strange mixture of Aunt Petunia's household remedies and lime-green potion bottles; Snape's wand lay innocuously among them. Harry picked up one of the potion bottles and examined it curiously.
"Since Arthur Weasley's misadventure with the snake, we made sure always to have the remedy on hand," Dumbledore said.
Harry gave a little snort of laughter. "I should have realised you'd have a plan for that, too. But why is he in a coma?"
The small face was pensive. "I don't really know. My theory – for what it's worth – is that everything depended for so long on Professor Snape's powers of Occlumency, on him giving absolutely nothing away. And I can only conjecture that now, he has retreated so far that no ordinary means can bring him back. I am sorry, my boy. A flaw in the plan –"
"There's always a fucking flaw in your plans!" Harry shouted furiously. He flung the window open and hurled Dumbledore's miniature as far as he could. It landed in an agapanthus bed. Harry thought he heard a creaking noise behind him and turned sharply, but Snape was as immobile as ever; he must have imagined it. He walked over and pulled down the bedclothes. Snape was dressed in a pair of Uncle Vernon's hideously striped pyjamas. With a muttered curse, Harry dragged off the pyjama jacket and ran his finger along the fading Dark Mark on Snape's forearm.
"Voldemort marked both of us for life," he murmured, raising his hand to the scar on his forehead. "Inside as well as out," he added, sadly. Snape remained unresponsive. Harry kissed him gently. Still nothing. What did I expect, he thought. This isn't a fucking fairy tale.
Angrily, he pulled down the pyjama bottoms. He felt a sharp stab of lust. He was sure that the Snape who came to him in his dreams was in there somewhere, trapped deep in his unresponsive body. But then, as always, he had doubts. Was this feeling, and his dreams about Snape, just because he was a teenager, always horny?
"It's me, Harry," he said urgently. "If you want me – if you can hear me – give me a sign...I dunno, raise an arm or something."
The next minute he broke into a startled cackle of laughter. Severus Snape's cock was rising from its nest of matted black hair, to point triumphantly at the ceiling.
Harry had no doubts left. Feverishly he unzipped his jeans. He manoeuvred Snape's flaccid legs and moved closer. His cock pressed urgently against Snape's opening. He reached down, fumbling to push himself inside. Then he paused. This wasn't going to work. Cursing under his breath he drew back and rummaged among the things on the bedside table. Ah, what was this little jar... An old joke, heard long ago and only half-understood at the time, rose to the surface of Harry's thoughts. What happened to the couple who couldn't tell the difference between Vaseline and putty? – their windows fell out. Grinning, Harry opened the jar, scooped out the contents in his fingers and eased them into Snape's arsehole. Snape lay motionless apart from his cock, which quivered as Harry thrust his lubricated fingers backwards and forwards, side to side.
Taking a deep breath, Harry slid down beside Snape, taking a fresh grip on his knee and bending his leg further out of the way. Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers from Snape’s arse and eased his cock inside. His slippery fingers glided up and down Snape's erection as his own cock slid home. He could feel Snape twitching and pulsing under his hand, belying the comatose state of the rest of his body. Harry was convinced that the Snape of his dreams was aware, though trapped deep inside, and responding to his attentions.
And then nothing mattered but this tight warmth, caressing him with every stroke, as he plunged and thrust and felt himself building towards ecstasy...
His eyes tight shut, he saw Severus Snape holding open his arms, welcoming him...
He heard a scream and knew it was himself as he came as he'd never come before... heard it echoed hoarsely, almost inaudibly, beneath him and knew it was Snape...
He collapsed, trembling, clutching Snape's now-limp cock in his sticky fist. Spunk dribbled down between his fingers onto Snape's belly. His own cock slid regretfully out of its haven in Snape's arse. They lay together quietly for a long moment, then Snape stirred and sat up.
He stared at Harry, his black eyes fathomless, then seized his wand from the bedside table and gestured violently towards the ceiling. Sudden light flooded in, turning the ceiling a ghastly green. Harry hurried over to the window and leaned out. The skull and serpent of the Dark Mark floated incongruously in the sky above Little Whinging. Harry gaped at it, uncomprehending. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
There were loud cracks! of people Apparating, the sound of a door banging, confused shouts and the clatter of feet on the stairs. The bedroom door burst open. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood on the threshold, his wand at the ready, taking in the situation. He turned quickly and called "It's all right, I can handle things in here. There's no danger. You two go outside and disperse the Mark; we don't want any more Muggles to see it."
When he was sure his companions had gone, Kingsley walked over to the bed and gestured with his wand. "Scourgify!" He slipped off his own cloak and wrapped it round Snape's shoulders. Then he turned to Harry. "Get dressed," he said curtly. Then, when Harry didn't move, "Get dressed! My Aurors will be back in a minute. Or do you want to be the subject of another Ministry inquiry?"
Guiltily, Harry struggled to drag up his jeans. "Kingsley – I was only –"
"I know what you were doing." Harry winced at the contempt in Shacklebolt's voice. "How long have you been keeping him here as your fuck toy?"
"I haven't! It's not like that!" In his distress, Harry clutched at Shacklebolt's arm but the Auror shrugged him off. Snape looked mutely from one to the other then raised his wand again. Dumbledore's portrait miniature came flying up from the flower bed where Harry had hurled it and in through the open window. It landed face down on the bed beside Snape. Slowly, thoughtfully, he turned it over.
Dumbledore's tiny face gazed earnestly up at them. "Kingsley – you are being unfair to our young friend – perhaps you will allow me to explain?"
Kingsley Shacklebolt looked at the miniature and gave a deep sigh. "I might have known you would still be meddling," he said. The green light reflected across the ceiling faded and was gone. "My Aurors will be back any minute. Talk quickly, Albus."
"Severus is understandably a little shocked at the moment, Kingsley, but he will recover – thanks to Harry. I would suggest you entrust him to the care of St Mungo's. And if you look in that cupboard over there you will find my Pensieve. Take the contents to St Mungo’s with you; I’m sure their excellent Healers will find a way to restore them to Professor Snape."
Kingsley stepped over to the cupboard, opened it and reached up to the shelf where the shallow stone basin stood.
"Just the memories, Kingsley, if you please." Dumbledore's tiny voice was insistent. "The Pensieve can be returned to Hogwarts in due course. Harry has need of it now." And as Harry stared, uncomprehending, he added quietly "Look in your former bedroom, my boy."
Kingsley had just finished transferring the memories to a flask when his colleagues walked in. As they prepared to leave, supporting Snape between them, Harry stood up, uncertain. "Can I come with him?"
"No," Kingsley said sternly. "You'll be sent for in due course." Harry sank back on the bed, his head in his hands. Kingsley picked up the portrait miniature and followed the others out of the room. As the door closed behind him Harry heard him say "You've got a lot of explaining to do, old man."
Harry sat on the bed for a long time after they'd gone. At last he got up, took the Pensieve from its shelf and carried it carefully downstairs. The living room door was shut, but he could hear the sound of Uncle Vernon laying down the law. He stooped to enter the cupboard under the stairs – strange to think he'd slept in here until he was nearly eleven. He stared around vaguely. Why had he come in here? It was so hard to concentrate...
He began aimlessly pulling things out of the cupboard... ironing board, vacuum cleaner, a pair of Wellington boots. Eventually, hidden right at the back of the cupboard, he found a little glass bottle containing a familiar silvery swirling substance. Harry tucked it into his jeans pocket and turned to leave. His cousin Dudley stood by the front door, a frown on his heavy features.
"You off, then?" he asked.
"Yeah," Harry said. "Good luck, Big D. The Army won't know what's hit 'em."
Dudley punched him on the shoulder. "You too. Got any plans?"
Harry gave a wry grin. "Dunno." He was sure his cherished dream of becoming an Auror had just gone down the toilet. No way would Kingsley Shacklebolt offer a job to a pervert who shagged defenceless coma victims. He shifted the Pensieve under his arm and held out his hand. "Bye, then. Take care."
Back at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Harry put the Pensieve on the kitchen table and poured in the contents of the little bottle. He stood irresolute for a moment, then, biting his lip, plunged in.
The scene was again the Headmaster's study at Hogwarts. Harry saw Snape, talking to Dumbledore's portrait behind his desk. He saw Dumbledore's face, full of concern. "But, Severus, you told me you did not care for the boy himself – that it was still all for Lily –"
And Snape, glaring at the portrait in silence, biting his thin lips. At last he said, in a grating voice, "I lied."
Dumbledore's voice was stern. "You must not allow your feelings for the boy to compromise our plan."
Snape's face twisted in fury. "YOUR plan!" Snatching up an inkstand from his desk, he hurled it at Dumbledore's portrait. "Fuck your sodding plan!"
Ink spattered across Dumbledore's half-moon glasses, trickled down his crooked nose. "Severus, calm yourself –"
Snape was ghastly white. "I love him," he whispered. "I can't bear to lose him, too." There was a long silence.
Finally, Dumbledore, quiet but implacable: "You must, Severus. You must bear it."
"YES!!!" Harry shouted, pumping his fist in the air as his feet thudded back onto the flagstones of the Grimmauld Place kitchen. He felt wonderful, as if he’d just led his team to victory in the Quidditch World Cup. Kreacher came into the kitchen to see what all the noise was about. Harry seized the startled house-elf, swung him round, then lifted him high in the air. "Thank you, Kreacher! Thank you!"
As soon as he was freed, Kreacher hustled over to his pots and pans, shaking his head. "Master Harry has been drinking," he muttered. "Kreacher will cook him a nice meal."
The euphoria Harry felt on leaving the Pensieve quickly gave way to more doubts. Why had Snape extracted that memory – because he hoped Harry would see it? Because he hoped Harry wouldn't see it? Because it was a mistake, something he wanted to forget?...
And how WAS Snape, anyway? Nobody was bothering to tell him. Did Kingsley Shacklebolt still look on him as an abuser? a pervert? Had he done more harm than good – should he have insisted on Snape going straight to St Mungo's, never mind Dumbledore's stupid plans...
It was the absence of any news of Snape which was the worse thing, he decided. It wasn't until the following evening that the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, which Harry had taken to carrying around the house with him, coughed meaningfully from its current position propped against the kitchen door.
"Ahem! I have a message for you, young man."
Harry jumped up so fast his chair fell with a clatter on the stone floor. "A message? From Dumbledore?"
The picture had shown nothing but background since Harry's return from Privet Drive; he had a shrewd idea that Nigellus had been visiting his portrait in the Headmaster's study at Hogwarts.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Phineas Nigellus said. "Why would he want to speak to you? No, the message is from Professor Dilys Derwent." He sighed theatrically. "And I must say, at my time of, er, life..." his voice subsided to a grumbling undertone, but Harry caught the words "... nothing more than an errand boy..."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to sound polite. "Professor Nigellus – sir – could you give me the message? Please?"
"Oh, very well. She says you are not to worry, that Professor Snape is being well looked after at St Mungo's and they have every hope of a full recovery."
That night, Harry slept well for the first time in days. But he didn't have any dreams, or if he did, he didn't remember them. Two days later a silver lynx twisted gracefully through the air and landed at his feet: Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep, unhurried voice summoned him to St Mungo's.
Harry left for the hospital at once: to Central London; through Purge & Dowse’s window; into St Mungo’s reception area. Full of apprehension, he queued up in front of the Enquiries desk. Glancing at the portrait of Dilys Derwent, former Healer and Hogwarts Headmistress, he saw her smile encouragingly. Heartened, Harry waited while the witch at the desk gave him instructions, then set off – through the double doors – along the corridor – up the stairs – along more corridors – until at last he stood in the doorway of Snape’s room.
He bit his lip. Which Snape was waiting for him – the sarcastic professor of his Hogwarts days, or the hot partner of his dreams? He took a deep breath, and looked across at the bed. Snape's impassive face gave him no clue. Harry was uncomfortably aware that his own face was giving all too much away. And not only his face...
"You know," Snape said slowly, fixing Harry with a merciless black glare, "when I was in the coma, I had the most... extraordinary... dreams..." He ran his tongue over his thin lips and deliberately looked Harry up and down, his glance lingering lazily on the prominent bulge in the front of the teenager's jeans. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smiled.
Harry's heart began to thump wildly as he met Snape's now unprecedentedly warm gaze. An answering warmth flooded him: everything was going to be all right, after all. He crossed the room, sat down on the bed and took Snape's hand.
"Oh?" he said. "Tell me ALL about them. Severus."