gin_tonic (gin_tonic) wrote in snape_after_dh, @ 2007-10-31 16:42:00 |
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Current mood: | busy |
Title: Brooms and Wine
Author: gin_tonic
Type: Fiction
Length: 2931 words
Pairings: Snape/Harry
Prompt: Phoenix Tears
Warnings: None
Series: No
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Years have passed and a lot has changed for Harry. Only one thing always stayed the same: His need to find out what happened to Snape.
When Harry goes to France to finish a job he finds more than he had reckoned.
Notes: Thanks to my beta angela_snape! You manage to spot even the tiny mistakes!
After the last battle Harry had grasped the first opportunity that offered itself to him to go back to the Shrieking Shack. He hadn't wanted to let Snape's body rot there, unloved, uncared for. Not after all that the man had done. But when he had entered the shack all that had been waiting for him had been a puddle of half-dried blood. At first he had tried everything to find out what had happened to Snape's body - who had taken him away - but when there had been no information forthcoming he had been forced to give up.
In the five years that had passed since then Harry had done everything to build up a new life. He had tried to continue what was left of his relationship with Ginny, but the year apart had left its traces. She didn't understand what it had been like on the run and that there were some things that he would only share with Ron and Hermione - if at all. And he didn't understand what it had been like being at Hogwarts or at the Burrow, fearing for the whole family and those that Ginny hadn't been able to contact.
Their relationship soon became functional, then died and Harry had been single again. And only a few months after the break-up, Harry had realised that he was gay. It had been an ongoing process, of course, but the key event had been a night in the clubs with him noticing a guy a bit too much for comfort and a blowjob that he had given. The need to feel a cock between his lips had been overwhelming and disturbing at the same time, yet he had caved in. It had been what people called an epiphany.
Harry hadn't come out immediately to his friends though; too many things needed to be understood and experienced and finding himself had been most important for the eighteen-years-old Harry.
He had had one-night-stands, but just couldn't or wouldn't bind himself to anyone. It was like there was a block deep inside him to prevent that.
But Harry wasn't unhappy. In fact he was too busy to be so. He had his friends to visit, his apprenticeship at Folwinkle's Magic Brooms, Muggle gay club parties to go to...
When Harry had finally come out to his friends things weren't as rosy anymore. A row, shouted insanities and insults and banging doors. It was not something Harry liked to remember. Things had been rough, but that was in the past now.
Harry entered a little hotel where he had reserved a room. As one of the finest broom makers in Europe (independent by now) he often had to travel to foreign countries and he was glad that this time he had only had to go as far as Provence and not to India again. Harry was supped to meet the 'Gordes Grenades' for a fitting of new brooms. It would take some time to carve and weave magic into the brooms that he had prepared for the whole team, especially since Quidditch players nowadays seemed to have very specific ideas about their brooms, and so Harry was prepared for a longer stay in the village.
Additionally, Harry had scheduled a meeting with one of the local broom wood producers. He had heard about the good quality of the wood and wanted to include it, if it lived up to his standards, into his collection of wood for the brooms he made.
The hotel was small and deserved the attribute "sweet" with its carved bows and pink-white decorations. An old lady, who was wearing something that was a combination between the traditional witch-hat and one of those Caribbean-costumes fruit hats, greeted him with a big smile.
"Bonjour," she said and Harry returned the greeting in his British-accented French.
"I booked a room on the name Potter." He continued in French. He didn't speak the language too well, but enough to get around and do his business. An ex-boyfriend/prolonged one-night-stand had taught him enough to get him interested in doing a bit of self-study at home and orders from overseas had done the rest.
Harry's room was nice, bright and comfy. The wooden floor was etched in white and there was a hint of pink and green in the colour scheme of the walls. Not really Harry's taste, as he preferred earthier colours, but still nice enough.
Breakfast was from seven to nine and dinner from six to eight - lunch was not provided. Which was just as well, seeing as Harry planned on being out anyway.
The first meeting with Monsieur Boullard, the broom wood producer, had been a success, but also very tiring. First of all they had visited the plantation (thankfully on brooms, because the area was huge) and the Boullard had invited Harry for lunch. And what a lunch it had been! Salad, soup, sorbet, main course, dessert and, of course, wine, wine, wine!
Had Harry not eaten as much as he had, he would have been completely smashed by the point he finally was on his way back to the hotel. But Harry had been well fed, could still walk and now looked forwards to sleeping off the booze in his bloodstream - if he ever found his way back to the hotel that was.
The streets looked all confusing to his eyes. He could have sworn that the hotel was two turns left and one right form Boullard's house, but apparently the hotel didn't think so. Instead of the hotel Harry found a house that was well tended, smallish and somehow extraordinary. Harry couldn't quite pinpoint it, but something about the house stroked him as familiar.
But Harry wasn't in the mood to investigate and turned around, seeing a dark, looming figure out of the corner of his eyes. He closed his lids briefly and dived into memories of that night.
Harry shook his head. If only, if only...
The next day, after coming back from a meet-up and first measuring of the Quidditch team, Harry found himself in front of the house again. He didn't know why he was there, especially since he never would have seen that dark, brooding dream of his had he been sober.
Yet Harry found himself with his fist raised in front of the door.
He was chasing ghosts. Going mad in his twenty-two year old days. Probably should take a holiday - a real one, not just a business trip like this one was - after finishing his work here. Harry shook his head and dropped his hand. Nothing but foolish fantasies.
Harry went to the house every day from then on, never daring to actually knock. Once in a while he caught a glimpse of that black figure that he had seen during that first night. It felt nice to imagine that it really was Snape that he was seeing there, and so he started to call the man 'Snape' in his head. He only wished he had the courage to knock.
But Harry knew that if he actually did so someone else would open the door and then his hope, his dream of seeing his own Snape again would burst like a bubble - and he wasn't quite ready to do this just yet. He didn't even know if he would ever be ready. The idea of returning to England one day with the thought that Snape was living in France, leading a nice and quiet life was good and comforting somehow.
Seeing Snape, even if it was only as a shadow through the windows or through a hedge with Harry acting like a peeping-Tom became a necessity to him. Sometimes he even went so far as stepping up to the door and nearly knocking, but in the end he always left before his hand had touched the wood. Sometimes he found himself hoping Snape would let him in, but then he told himself that actually standing in front of the man wouldn't nearly be as important, as being able to imagine that Snape wasn't dead.
As the days went on he became more and more obsessed with the house and Snape and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he knocked.
In the dead of night, when Harry laid exhausted in his bed right before he fell asleep, he questioned silently why he was feeling like this, why he was behaving like this. He couldn't find an answer, but knew that everything was good somehow when he could see Snape.
The brooms were half-finished - the beaters and the keeper were already test-flying the new models - and Harry had already signed with the wood-grower to be supplied with good broom-wood on order. Things were coming along nicely and yet Harry wasn't quite satisfied, which was how he found himself in front of Snape's little cottage on a nice, slightly warm Wednesday night. Steeling himself with his best and bravest Gryffindor attitude Harry strode forwards and knocked determinedly.
To be honest he had never expected the door to actually open, but this time the door suddenly opened and a voice that was practically dripping with a sneer said: "Are you going to stand there forever, Potter?!" Harry stared at the open door and the retreating back of the tall man with the long, black hair that he only dreamt of meeting again.
Harry blinked, started and then tentatively started moving. He walked past a half-closed door that seemed to lead to the kitchen and one that must lead to the guest bathroom, until he got to a living room that opened up the wonderful view of the garden.
There was tea waiting on the table and Snape - long-dead Snape - was sitting in an armchair, reading a book.
Harry couldn't help but stare again. He was clearly losing his mind.
Snape looked up, a slightly amused crinkle in his face and Harry realised that he must have said that aloud.
"I assure you, Potter, you are not. Now sit down before you faint on me, and have a cup of tea." Snape raised his wand - a new one, mahogany from what Harry could see, which explained why there hadn't been traces of Snape's magic - and summoned a fresh cup for Harry.
"What...?" Harry stopped and shook his head in failed understanding.
"What are you doing here?" Snape finished for him. "What happened? What tea is this?" Snape sipped at his tea and Harry found himself unable to respond. "Shouldn't you rather ask how? How did you survive? How did you come to be living in France? How did you stay undetected?" The living room was comfortable, Harry noticed and books were everywhere. He wondered if Snape had read all of them. "Well, Potter? Lost your inquisitive nature?"
"Why?" Harry finally wanted to know. "Why did you let me in?" Snape shrugged - a movement Harry had never before seen on him.
"I had enough of you coming by every day."
When the cup of tea was finished and Snape - God, Snape, alive and breathing right next to him and looking ... better - still hadn't looked up from his book Harry took it as the cue to leave. He got up and voiced his intent, hoping that Snape would show some reaction - and he did, by walking him to the door.
Standing in the doorway illuminated by the light from within the house and his back to the darkness Harry smiled at the former professor. Snape lifted an eyebrow at him and in response Harry threw his arms around the man.
"I missed you," He said into the folds of Snape's shirt and looked up. Hmm ... No disgust visible...
... Later Harry didn't know why he had done it, but at that very moment it had seemed to be a good idea to stand-up on his tip-toes and press a kiss to Snape's lips. He didn't regret it, though the whole thing could have been better.
Snape pushing him away with a scandalised shout hadn't been that much of a turn on, but it had just felt right for Harry. Maybe it was Snape's lips he had been seeking all this time.
The next day Harry returned with a bottle of Boullard's wine, just in case that Snape was angry with him. And maybe - just maybe - in hope of getting Snape a little bit drunk. Though the man had probably a Sobering Solution stashed away somewhere.
He had to wait about a minute before a disgruntled Snape opened the door.
"You're back," he snarled and walked back into the house. The door was left open though - a good sign, Harry thought - and Harry followed him inside.
"I brought wine!" he declared enthusiastically.
"The least you could do. Which?"
"Red wine from Monsieur Boullard." Snape nodded approvingly and took two wide red-wine glasses out of his cupboard.
They talked about a lot that night. About Provence, about Monsieur Boullard and his red wine, about the baguette and the Camembert that Snape had offered to Harry with the words 'Eat it or it will spoil.' And about Harry's brooms. They had avoided riskier topics.
Then, at an hour where Harry usually would have long been thrown out, he decided to use the good mood and ask the question that had been burning his soul for so long: "How did you survive?" he could have meant it metaphorically, referring to the time Snape had been in Voldemort's service, but Harry didn't. He just wanted a simple answer.
Snape sighed and sat his glass on the table.
"It was a potion, of course. I developed it in your sixth year when the Dark Lord's madness increased and when he became more volatile, even towards his own followers. Fawkes had been so kind to give me a couple of his tears - that's how I named it Phoenix Tears'"
"Phoenix Tears," Harry echoed. His thoughts raced back to the magnificent creature that he had encountered in Dumbledore's office years ago. Was there any better proof that Snape had really been on the Order's side? "I'm glad." Harry placed his warm hand on Snape's. It felt like victory when the man didn't pull away. "When you were gone, I -"
"Don't get mushy, Potter. I'm not nearly drunk enough for that." Snape sneered and refilled his glass again. His movements were slow and hypnotising; Harry just couldn't keep his eyes away. They wandered to Snape's lips and throat and he felt that weird tingling feeling again. "Empty," Snape said, indicating the bottle they had just emptied. He stood up. "I have some brandy in the kitchen." Watching Snape's retracting back for a couple of seconds Harry got up and followed him like an Imperioed lemming. He needed ... he needed...
He reached out and tugged at Snape's arm, making the man turn around.
"Snape," he rasped into the darkness of the hall and brought his lips to Snape's. They weren't particularly soft or full, but he knew he wanted to keep kissing him forever. When their lips parted he could still feel Snape's breath on his lips.
"Potter," Snape gulped. "You don't know -"
"I know," Harry whispered. "I know." And he closed the distance between them again. With a jerk Snape pulled him closer and pressed Harry against the wall. Harry opened his mouth to let Snape's tongue in, moaning with need.
His body was on fire, he couldn't breathe, and he needed to touch. Fumbling he managed to get his hands under Snape's shirt. A trail of hair ran down Snape's stomach and Harry wanted to follow it with his tongue, but Snape didn't let him move.
"Please," Harry whimpered and Snape pressed his groin against Harry's, their hard cocks rubbing against each other, separated only by the thin fabric of their trousers.
Snape plundered his mouth, reducing Harry to a hard, whimpering mess, while drawing his wand. A whispered incantation later Harry felt cool air against his arse and the quick and slick tip of a finger nudging his wanton hole.
"Merlin!" Snape's breath was hot against his skin and he couldn’t hold back the moans that escaped from his throat. Snape didn't bother teasing him, just pushed the finger into Harry's tight entrance and prepared him quickly.
When Snape pushed his cock into Harry he groaned, making the first real sound. Harry bit into his shoulder, passion and pain driving him and tried to impale himself further onto Snape.
"Slowly, slowly;" Snape whispered, but Harry shook his head.
"Need you!" Snape let go then and started fucking Harry in earnest. Deep, brutal thrusts that hit his prostate every single, fucking -
"Oh God!" Stars were dancing in front of his eyes and he needed - needed -
Snape pressed Harry's hands against the wall and growled, then pierced the skin on Harry's throat with his teeth, making him gasp.
Harry clamped his legs around Snape, making him go even deeper and Harry's world exploded with spectacular fireworks. A few pushes more and Snape gloriously followed.
"Did you find what you came looking for?" Snape asked him as they lazed on the couch later, their limbs tangled up with each other. Harry nodded, feeling finally at peace, and smiled.
"It was Orange Pekoe, by the way," Snape said quietly.
"Huh?" Harry didn't even bother to open his eyes, being as close to sleep as he was.
"The tea we were drinking."