HP fic: He Plays at Hazard, chs. 1-3 [Harry/Severus, general]
Title: He Plays at Hazard chapter 1, "Laid Bare"; chapter 2, "Something Ventured"; chapter 3, "Hold Fast" Author: celandineb Fandom: HP Pairing: Harry/Severus Rating: general Summary: Sometimes the risk is worth the gain. Harry makes Snape an offer he hopes cannot be refused. Note: These three parts were originally written for various prompts in the 100quills challenge and are also posted in that series.
Laid Bare
The impending chance of death provokes Harry to speak to Snape in ways he might never have done.
The sigh seemed exaggerated, even for Snape. "And just why would I want to listen to your inane maunderings, Potter?"
"Did you have something better to do?" Harry gestured at the bare little room. "We still have eighteen hours to wait before the attack. If we do any magic, it'll be detected, and personally I can't sleep for that long, even if two blankets on a stone floor were less uncomfortable."
"Talking to you is not necessarily preferable to silence," Snape muttered. "Unlike yourself, I have plenty to think about to keep me occupied."
"Like what, potions recipes?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Snape glowered at him. "I've been trying to reformulate the Wolfsbane Potion to be more stable, so that it can be brewed in advance rather than every month. An improvement that I believe your friend Lupin might appreciate."
"Oh," said Harry, looking down. "I didn't realize..."
"No, you wouldn't have."
"You could talk about it with me," Harry offered.
"As if that could possibly help. Miss Granger, perhaps, but not you."
Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to stay calm. How did Snape always manage to make him feel small? "Even if I don't know nearly as much about the principles of potion-making as you do, discussing it might be useful," he said stubbornly.
"I would rather not." Snape sat on one of the two rickety wooden chair and closed his eyes. "If you must natter on to stave off your boredom, choose some other topic. Ideally something that might be of mutual interest."
Mutual interest? Snape couldn't possibly have guessed what Harry wanted to talk about, could he? And wasn't going to, not without feeling his way a bit first
"Er," said Harry, "er, why did you decide to do this?"
"Do what, precisely?"
"Come back." He waved his hands vaguely, not sure quite what he meant himself. "Keep helping the Order. After... after Dumbledore, you must have seen in the Prophet, or heard from someone who had, that you were identified as his killer."
"I trusted Albus to have left exonerating information about the orders he gave me, to Minerva if to no one else." Snape frowned. "I didn't think it would take so long for her to believe it."
"That was partly my fault," Harry admitted.
"So I have been given to understand." Opening his eyes, Snape glared at Harry. "Are you enjoying this discussion?"
"I want to know what your motives are," Harry said adamantly. Not that it really made any difference, but he was curious.
"It seems rather late for that, given that you will be relying on my help to destroy your enemy in less than a day." Snape raised his eyebrows. "I might also want to know yours."
"That's easy." Harry shrugged. "It's me or him, according to the prophecy. I don't like it but I've had to get used to the idea."
"But why work with me?" pressed Snape. "We have a long history of, shall we say, mutual dislike. You could have ensured that your partner tomorrow was Shacklebolt, or Moody, or any of a number of other people; you have enough prestige to have done that." For once he sounded more interested than contemptuous.
"I could say that you're the only member of the Order who's actually been inside the building, and knows the most about it, so you're the most... reliable."
"You could say that." Snape pounced on the conditional. "But you don't."
"No." Harry stopped pacing and sat on the other chair, turned slightly away from his companion.
"Why, then?" The dark voice was wary, not a tone Harry was accustomed to hearing from those lips. "Because you don't trust me, I suppose."
Harry laughed at that, a choked snort that he couldn't hold back, even for Snape's furious scowl. "Rather the opposite, actually." They could both die, he reminded himself. Which would be worse – to speak, and risk Snape not just loathing him but having something to hold over his head, should they both live; or to stay silent, and possibly never have the chance again?
"What do you mean? You've never believed that anything I did was for your good, or the Order's good. That has been evident for years."
"Professor." That was not right; Snape was no longer his teacher. To use his surname alone seemed equally wrong, somehow, and he definitely was unable to call him "Severus." There was only one alternative. Harry shook his head and began again, watching Snape sidelong. "Sir."
Snape's eyes widened.
"I was wrong," said Harry. "I misunderstood what you were doing, and why. I apologize."
"Trying to salve your conscience with a last confession?" The snapped words were as condescendingly daunting as anything Harry had ever heard from Snape, but he went on nonetheless.
"Maybe, but that's not all I wanted to say." He faltered at that point, shifting on the seat of the chair and clenching his hands in the folds of his robe.
After several minutes, Snape said, "Well?"
"If we both survive tomorrow... um. I'd like to make it up to you. How I've acted all this time. Anything that you want, from me going away and never darkening your door again, to... well, to putting myself into your hands. For whatever you choose to do with me." Harry risked a more direct glance at Snape, who looked disconcerted. "And I do mean anything," he added softly.
"That is not necessary." Snape's voice was stiff, and Harry could see his throat moving as he swallowed. "You don't want..."
"I do want," Harry knew that it was rude to cut across Snape like that, but he couldn't let the words be said. "Even Ron sees me as The Boy Who Lived, sometimes. You don't. There's no one I could trust more than the person who's seen all my secrets," he flinched and hurried past that tender subject, "who only thinks of me as Harry. Don't you understand?"
Snape was quiet. At last he said, "If we both are alive, this time tomorrow... you may make me that offer again, if you still mean it."
"I will." The promise was sweet on Harry's tongue. "I will."
Something Ventured
Harry promised to ask again.
He had been thinking about his promise in stray moments all morning as they fought their way in. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to make it; distraction was not something he needed, not when so many lives were at stake. But with Snape next to him, scowling with the effort of staving off the desperate curses of his former colleagues, Harry would have been distracted anyway.
Other members of the Order were supposed to have been breaking into the old manor from other entrances, but they hadn't yet encountered any of their allies when they reached the room where Voldemort waited. Harry was sure that his friends must be in the building, fighting the Death Eaters, because they had encountered too few for any other explanation. Unless some of the Death Eaters had fled altogether – possible. Not something he needed to think about now. Now he had to destroy his enemy, or be destroyed in turn.
"Do you think you can beat me, boy?" Voldemort taunted him. "You haven't the resolve to cast a killing curse. Dear Bellatrix told me of your feeble efforts." Harry drifted around the edge of the room, leaving Snape near the door.
"That's what we're here to find out, isn't it?" said Harry grimly. He drew out his wand, but made no attempt to curse Voldemort yet, only holding his gaze, waiting.
Voldemort came forward, his robes swirling around him as he pushed up his sleeves and sneered. "It will be sweet, very sweet, to at last complete what should have been accomplished twenty years ago. You were as foolish as your parents, to come here to challenge me." He raised his wand. "Avad..."
He never finished the phrase. Snape, disregarded, had circled behind his former master and slit his throat. Voldemort crumpled to the floor with a thud, his wand falling from his hand and rolling away.
"Surprising." Snape's voice was dry as he wiped his blade and toed at the corpse in its tangled robes. "I did not expect it to be this easy."
Harry nodded. "Neither did I. But I'm glad. I really didn't want to have to use one of the Unforgivables... although he was wrong. I could have, if I had had to. Thank you." He backed against the wall and sat down, weary after all the hours of anticipation and tension.
"The only thing is... you killed him. Not me. Which isn't what the prophecy said." Harry frowned.
"It would not have been possible for me to do so, had you not held his attention," Snape pointed out.
"Don't you want the credit for it?"
"Hardly," snorted Snape. "All I want is to be exonerated of any charges, and then left alone. Preferably for the rest of my life."
Looking at him, Harry believed it. Snape's always-sallow skin was papery, the circles under his eyes looking like enormous bruises, and he was gaunt to the point of emaciation. "All right," said Harry slowly. He pushed himself up to his knees. "Give me the knife."
Snape's expression was unreadable as he handed the blade to Harry and watched as he plunged it into Voldemort's motionless chest.
"There." His voice shook a little. "I can say truthfully that I stabbed Voldemort. Everyone knows that I was prophesied to kill him. They won't ask if you gave the first blow."
"Perhaps not." Snape sounded doubtful.
Harry crawled back to the wall and leaned against it. "Don't worry about it. I've had to deal with Rita Skeeter for ages now. I'll set Hermione on her if need be."
He was nonplused to hear Snape chuckle. "I would favor Miss Granger in that match."
"Me too." Harry sighed. "I suppose we should go tell everyone that we've won, shouldn't we?"
"I expect so."
"But there's something I have to tell you first. What I said last night..."
"Is forgotten," Snape cut him off. "You were far too apprehensive to know what you were saying."
"No." Harry sat upright and glared at him. "No. I meant it. I still mean it, now more than ever. Call it an overdeveloped sense of Gryffindor honor if you like, but it's not just that. For all the mistrust I've shown you, I will make amends – and it's your decision how I should make them. Tell me to leave you alone forever, and I'll do it. Ask for anything I own, and it's yours. You're the one person who knows me, inside and out, better than anyone, and even when I was rude or worse, you didn't change. Everything you did was to ensure that I would reach this day, just as Dumbledore planned."
"I stopped teaching you Occlumency," Snape reminded him. "Which I should not have done. You owe me nothing."
"It's not a question of owing. Don't you see, I want this?" Harry burst out. He went on more softly, "I want you. If that's not what you want, then tell me."
Snape opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that moment Ron's voice came through the doorway.
"Harry? Harry, are you there?"
"We're in here." Harry mustered up a smile as Ron came in, followed by Hermione, and a moment later Kingsley Shacklebolt and several other Order members; some of them staggering a bit, but it looked as though everyone had survived. "We're fine. Voldemort's dead." He jerked his thumb at the bloody corpse.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione cried, pulling him to his feet and hugging him, tears running down her dirt-streaked face. "Oh, you did it, I knew you could."
After that there was no chance to speak again to Snape, not for hours. The wizarding world exploded with joy. Harry endured the endless questions, congratulations, speeches from the Minister and everyone else who thought themselves important. He thought he'd have gone mad without Ron and Hermione sticking by him, when all he wanted was to hear Snape's answer. Not until long after midnight was he able to escape, to flee to his room in Grimmauld Place, searching for silence.
There was a note on the pillow, a single word scratched on it in spiky black ink.
Yes.
Hold Fast
Snape needs to be certain Harry means what he says.
It had been a week since Voldemort's demise, a week since Snape had left his terse response – Yes – on Harry's pillow, to say that he accepted Harry's apology and would allow him to make amends.
In that week Harry had laid eyes on the older man precisely once, when the Ministry had called all members of the Order of the Phoenix who had participated in the final attack to accept a formal thanks. Harry was told he would be given the Order of Merlin, First Class; the others would all receive the Order of Merlin, Second Class. He bit back his protest that Snape ought also to be granted the First Class honor. Although he had promised not to reveal who had been directly responsible for killing Voldemort, it shamed him to take credit that he didn't fully deserve. From across the room, Snape nodded almost imperceptibly when Harry flushed and stammered his thanks, and that kept him from speaking out.
But now, after a week of wild celebrations throughout wizarding Britain, things were dying down. The house in Grimmauld Place was quiet when Harry entered, careful not to disturb the portrait of Mrs. Black. He slipped along the hallway to the kitchen, where he knew there were a few Butterbeers left by the Weasley twins after an impromptu party two nights before. He had opened one and was taking a healthy gulp when a deep voice spoke from the doorway.
"Good evening, Mister Potter." Snape stepped into the room.
Harry choked and spluttered, setting the bottle down. "You're here," he stated the obvious. "Er. I'd started to think what you wanted was just to be left alone."
"I considered that possibility," said Snape. "It had a certain appeal. Upon further thought, however, I felt I should at least speak with you first." He indicated Harry's drink. "May I?"
"Oh, of course," Harry said hastily, grabbing a second Butterbeer and handing it to Snape. "D'you want to sit down?"
Snape nodded and waited with cool courtesy for Harry to lead the way into the next room. Harry sat on the worn purple-damasked sofa, hoping Snape would sit at the other end, but he chose an armchair a few feet away instead.
"I understand why you made this offer." Dark eyes bored into Harry's own as Snape drank.
Harry flushed; Snape's skill at Legilimency doubtless gave him more knowledge of Harry's motives than was comfortable.
"In part, at least. Your ideas of fair play and honor are as typically Gryffindor as I've ever seen. But I think you may come to regret this."
"I won't," blurted Harry. "I'm sure of that."
Snape raised a finger. "Don't interrupt, Potter." The way he growled Harry's name sent a shiver down Harry's spine and into his groin, and he nodded silently.
"You think that by submitting yourself to me you will expiate any offenses of the past, but I assure you that no matter what you do, your former misdeeds will continue to weigh on your conscience. There is no respite." The dim light of the lamps in the room exaggerated the lines around the corners of Snape's mouth and the sagging skin of his neck. "I could demand anything of you; you set no limits. One final time, I ask you: is this truly what you want?"
"It is." Harry swallowed. "I told you before. Especially now, almost everyone who looks at me will see me as not just the Boy Who Lived, but as the Chosen One, the Hero of the Wizarding World. Even Seamus, who shared a room with me for years, is treating me differently. But to you, I'm just Harry... and I need that. I need you. Do you want me to be plainer? Yes. You can ask anything of me, anything, and I'll do it; just treat me as Harry, a real person, someone who maybe is irritating to you, but not set apart and untouchable."
"Not untouchable." Snape's lip curled. "You give yourself away, Mister Potter. But what if I do not wish to touch you?"
The question was like a blow. He had been certain that Snape was like himself, preferring men. Now Harry realized that he really had no evidence of that; he had merely assumed it.
"Then you needn't." He was proud that his voice didn't shake. "If you'd rather that I keep away from you, I will. It's the least I can do." He met Snape's gaze. "Read my thoughts if you'd like and you'll know I'm telling the truth."
"As I have tried on several occasions to explain to you, Legilimency is not mind-reading." Snape made an exasperated sound.
"Sensing my emotions, then. Whatever. You know that I can't block you, and I'm offering you the chance to look freely." Harry's mind was churning, memories from school mixing with more recent thoughts and fancies, a tangle of feelings that even he could not sort out but which had drawn him to put himself in this vulnerable position. Snape might laugh, might walk out, might pity him...
He did none of these things, simply looking at Harry, his expression unreadable but intent. What he said next came as an utter surprise.
"Only if you do the same."
Harry's mouth dropped open. Snape couldn't mean that. But the other man nodded, so Harry thought back to the one time that he had found his way into Snape's memories, and tried to recapture it, focusing on Snape's face and pushing at his mind. It was far easier than he recalled, now that Snape was not attempting to shut him out, but the images flickered wildly.
"Oh!" As he tried to sort through what he was seeing, Harry recognized himself in Snape's thoughts, and felt a surge of emotion – compassion/resentment/pride/irritation/lust, all mixed together. This was how Snape felt about him, he understood, this confusion of feeling so similar to his own.
He blinked, overwhelmed, and suddenly Snape was next to him on the sofa. He smelt of bitter herbs and faintly of something that Harry could not quite place. Harry could see blue whiskers under the skin of his cheeks and chin. He reached to touch, needing to feel the roughness to anchor himself to reality once more, but Snape caught his wrist.
"What is it?" Harry asked.
"You..." Snape shut his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "I couldn't be sure, from what I saw. I am not the first, for you?"
Snape was frightened, Harry realized, though he couldn't see why. "No." He didn't elaborate, but Snape's jaw unclenched.
"Good." He sat back. "I came here tonight planning to refuse you. Oh, I was sure that you thought you meant what you said; and as a Gryffindor you would go through with it."
Harry waited when Snape stopped speaking. If Snape had planned to refuse him... did that mean he'd changed his mind, now?
"I still should, I suppose." The smile was bitter, self-mocking. "And I may come to regret this decision. But if I am the only one you trust to treat you simply as a person, rather than as a hero, well, you're the only one who thinks of me as something other than a traitor who has tried to redeem himself. And I can hardly deny the appeal of that."
Relief welled up inside him as Harry whispered, "I'm glad, sir." For the first time in months he felt unburdened by either obligation or achievement. He had no illusions that Snape would be any less prickly or sarcastic than he had ever been; he didn't want that. "Severus." This was enough.