Title: True Confession
Author: chiralove
Characters: Harry, Snape
Rating: R
Warnings: angst, religious themes
Themes/kinks chosen: confession and frottage
Word Count: 2090
Summary: Harry can't tell Snape what he's done.
Author's notes: The text in bold is quoted from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer (Church of England). Thanks to lavillanueva, twilightsorcery, and angela_snape for the beta!



Our manifold sins and wickedness, which we from time to time most grievously have committed…

Harry knows the words, says them with his mouth and not with his soul. They come from his lips like the dregs of bitter wine, dribbling down to the floor. He can't bear to let them linger.

On the other side of the curtain, he is there. Darker than any shadow, more silent than the shadows – he says nothing while Harry speaks, while words spill from his lips and fall in the silence. This is no true confession.

Saviour. Redeemer. The one who bore the weight of the cross. The Dursleys never believed, and though Harry went to church with them, he didn't believe. Before Snape, he never believed.

Redemption is the sum of many moments, the toil of a lifetime. Snape had sinned – once, many times, from time to time most grievously. Harry, who defeated death to rise again, had redeemed Snape and washed away his sins. He was a blank slate.

Harry still sees it when he closes his eyes – drops of blood on the dark wood floor. A smattering, a trail of tear-shaped drops, as though Snape had moved while he lay dying … and Harry had done nothing, nothing to stop the blood.

By thought, word and deed, against thy Divine Majesty…

One sin, one Stone, one balance. A life for a life and a soul for a soul. Harry counts the beads of the rosary with his fingers, letting the smooth wood slide past his skin. He had taken Snape's life and given him a new one.

Which was the greater sin?

The wafer is dry and the wine is bitter – Harry has tasted them both. This is his rebirth. This is Harry's penance. Thoughts, words and deeds, things that he had done and those that he had left undone…

He had left Snape to die, had let him bleed to death on the floor, a carcass gutted of life and memory. Harry had taken the memories, stolen them, made them his own – they were the only thing that he had of his mother, and that was where he had gone wrong. The memories were not his to keep.

This is where it ends, with Harry on his knees in the shadowy confessional and Snape on the other side of the curtain. They each have their place, their pace, their words to say – Harry reads his lines as an actor in a daze, fumbling and stuttering even when he knows his part.

He had played a part in this, finding Snape a place in the church. Harry gave him a new body, a new life, another chance to sin and repent. A new body. The words stick in his mouth when he thinks of Snape on the other side of the curtain.

One black robe traded for another – one life over and another waiting to be lived. Harry's fingers were stiff and clumsy when he unbuttoned Snape's robes, taking the body out of the casket and dressing it again. Life to life, from sin to sin – he touched Snape again, his fingers pressed against Snape's breastbone.

The new heartbeat was still weak, and Harry covered it with cloth and buttons, using robes to hold the man together, to make him Snape.

…Are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; the remembrance of them is grievous unto us…

The burden of sin is intolerable. The things that Harry has done to Snape, the man he has made and put behind the curtain – no, he will not think of it. The beads press into Harry's hand, hard enough to hurt, and he clenches his hands into fists. He did this.

Sinner, redeemer, saviour. Harry and Snape are linked together in a tangle of knots and sins, inextricably bound.

Harry reaches out, lets his hand brush against the curtain. This fabric is the only thing that separates him from Snape – this cloth, and the lies it took to put him on the other side. Inventing a past for the man, giving him false memories, installing him in the priesthood, giving him no choice … all lies and sins and duties, Harry's link with Snape. The burden is intolerable.

Harry had had no choice. Once he realized what he'd done, that he'd brought back an empty shell of Snape, that he had failed… He crumples the curtain in his fist and almost tears the barrier down.

He stops when he hears the priest suck in a sharp breath. He can't tear down the curtain – he can't. This comfort, this weekly confession, is left for Harry. Shadows and memories and Snape.

The memories were in Harry's pocket, the hard shape of the vial pressed against his skin. He was to give them back to Snape – but they were Harry's, the first real thing he'd had of his family. They were Harry's, and he had to have them.

Have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us, most merciful Father…

If there is no God, Harry has to ask forgiveness from the man he wronged. If Harry hadn't looked like his father, if Harry's father hadn't stolen Snape's love … if. The words, the maybes, the might-have-beens, they rise up in Harry's throat and press on him and choke him.

If he hadn't gone back to save Snape, if he hadn't used the Resurrection Stone, if he hadn't kept Snape's memories … if he hadn't found that only the priesthood would accept a man with no past, if he hadn't found Snape's church, if he hadn't slipped into the confessional here, if he hadn't touched him…

Harry had done it all. He lets the rosary fall, wooden beads hitting the floor with a clatter, his heart jumping a beat in the space of the silence after the beads fall. He did this. He left Snape for dead and brought him back to life. There is no God for Harry – no redemption for the redeemer – no solace for the sinner – no mercy for him.

The buttons weren't the hardest part, though Harry's fingers were stiff with the cold. Stripping Snape down to nothing – seeing him small and bare and white – that was harder. Snape was smaller than life without his billow and his stalk and his smirk. He was just a man.

Forgive us all that is past, and grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life…

This is not the end. Harry will rise from the confessional and let the priest touch him, Sunday next, with the wine in one hand and the wafer in the other. He will cross himself with water and light a candle for the dead.

He will not apologize to Snape or ask for forgiveness. Some spells are Unforgivable and some sins are unpardonable.

The rest of eternal sleep is disturbed. The life redeemed, resumed. The pardoned sins are remitted. Here in body but gone in spirit, Snape no longer exists. The priest's voice rings out in the confessional, and it sounds like Snape's voice, but he is not Snape. Snape would never forgive Harry for this.


Almighty God, our heavenly Father, who of his great mercy hath promised forgiveness of sins…

The priest sounds like Snape. The old disdain, dripping from every syllable – the old sneer, the tone and the inflection, a perfect mimicry of Snape. Harry kneels before him, and he sounds like Snape.

The curtain is pushed aside, and Harry's left staring up at him. At a man who looks like Snape.

This is it. This is Hell and this is Harry's penance, seeing the damage his hands have wrought. This is an empty shell of a man, an empty shell of Snape, a mockery. Harry trembles again, but grips the kneeler for support and holds himself still. He will endure.

Touching Snape. Touching Snape. The man's flesh was cold and stiff. He was a man like Harry – pale skin, dark hair. His eyes were closed, his lashes outlined against his skin. His cock was limp, lying there and nestled in black wiry curls. It was as though Snape slept – as if he only slept.

Harry touched him. Touched him to know that he was dead – that Harry had killed him. This was his sin.

To all them that with hearty repentance and true faith turn unto him…

"Look at me," Snape had said. "Look at me…"

Harry has his mother's eyes. He has the Hallows, the Stone and the Cloak and the Wand. He can do anything, but he cannot unmake this.

Harry doesn't flinch when Snape touches him, putting a finger under his chin and lifting his face, looking down into his eyes. He doesn't resist – Snape deserves more.

Repentance. Faith. Harry has neither, but he has the touch of Snape's fingers on his lips, the pressure of Snape's hands on his shoulders. Pushing him down or pulling him up – Harry doesn't care. He deserves this. He comes here for this.

Snape's hands were colder than Harry's. Dirt under the fingernails, calluses on the fingers. That's no way to be seen in your coffin, Petunia had said, and Harry kept his hands clean. Snape had had no warning – no chance to wash his hands – but Harry washed them, finger by finger, the flesh cold and stiff in his hands.

Have mercy upon you; pardon and deliver you from all your sins…

Snape is Harry's deliverance – any sign of forgiveness from him is mercy, no matter how small. No matter that this isn't Snape and that this priest can't forgive Harry. Harry doesn't resist when the priest presses him against the wall, pressing against him, hard against him.

This is Snape, and Harry owes him – owes him new memories for the stolen ones, a new life for the sacrificed one. Harry looks at Snape. He doesn't close his eyes, and he never will.

Snape parts Harry's legs with one thigh, rubbing against him. They fit together like cracked panes in a window, light streaming through them – Snape touches Harry's cock and makes him moan. Together, pressed together with only their robes separating them, only fabric separating flesh and blood and bone, this life that is and was and is to be…

Harry leans into Snape. Leans into each touch, lets each moan through his lips – they're as real as the words he said, as bitter as the wine. Snape never had this, never had a chance at this – Harry's father took it away from him. Harry took it away from him when he left Snape to die.

The first moment, the first flicker of an eyelash, the first breath – Harry watched Snape come to life, watched him breathe. He had touched this man, put his hands on Snape's flesh and buttoned his robes. He had brought him back to life.

The man opened his eyes – not Snape, not Snape, no penance for Harry's sins. Harry had failed.

Confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and bring you to everlasting life…

This is the life that Snape could have had. He could have touched someone, could have taken this for himself – he gave it up, sacrificed it for Harry, and Harry gave him this, this shallow half-life. Snape's a shadow of himself, but Harry lets the priest push him back down onto the kneeler.

He takes Snape's cock into his mouth, licks and sucks – holds him there. Snape is flesh and blood, alive and warm. He puts his hands on Harry's head, holds him in place and takes his mouth, going deeper and deeper. He uses Harry for his own pleasure and Harry leans into each touch. He holds Harry in place and it's not Snape, not Snape, but this is all Harry can do.

He begs for forgiveness with his hands and his mouth, his lips and his fingers. This is his true confession.

This is Snape's new life, and Harry doesn't flinch when Snape stiffens and comes in his mouth. He tastes bitter, but Harry drinks it all, never closing his eyes and never looking away. Snape deserves to see his eyes. Snape deserves more than that.

Fingers curling in Harry's hair, pulling so hard it hurts – Harry leans into the touch, into the pain. There is no forgiveness for what he has done, but when Snape looks down at him, when Snape says, "Next Sunday, Potter," with his old voice, his lips curling in a sneer – Harry can pretend. He pretends that all is well.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.