Entry tags:

fic, rating: nc-17, snarry-a-thon09

Snarry-A-Thon FIC: An Awkward Customer
Title: An Awkward Customer
Author: anya_elizabeth
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~10,000
Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *EWE*
Prompt: Classic romantic-comedy plot -- Harry makes a bet with someone that he could seduce anyone if he put his mind to it, and that someone selected for him is Snape, naturally.
Summary: Snape can't figure out why Potter is hanging around his shop.
A/N: *cough* I might've played fast and loose with the prompt. The bunny that leapt from it was too good to ignore. Love as usual to E+E.

An Awkward Customer

Potter in an apothecary was like a gorilla in a ballet class. Ungraceful, confused, and extremely out of place.

Much like someone encountering a gorilla in their ballet class, it took Snape a moment to realise it was real. He was almost used to mirages of Potter; such a long time with nothing but him to live for, and every black head or dreadful pair of spectacles became a suicidal boy-who-lived, waiting for Snape to dive and take the curse.

He sometimes wondered if he'd still do it, just out of habit.

Potter was still stood in the aisle, illuminated by a single beam of afternoon sun. There was dust in his hair; it sparkled gold against the black. His glasses were wonky, and he was wearing a loose white shirt that could have done with a tailoring charm. It hung off him, light shining through it, and it was all wrong; it emphasised the delicacy of his wrists, the sharpness of his collarbone, the slim hands which were at this moment prodding at a box of dried intestines. Snape wondered if he even knew what he was so recklessly fingering. Or if he knew what a decent meal was.

Then he looked up, and Snape could have gone forever without having that green gaze pierce him again, Lily skewed through thick glass, and the mouth that was all Potter's curling into -

A smile. A bright, beautiful one, the one that Snape only ever snatched from the side. Well, that was different. He straightened up, and that was another thing that was wrong; Potter was taller than he remembered.

"Snape!" he said. "You scared me."

"Please cease prodding my lizard guts."

Potter blinked, then withdrew his hands.

"Oh! Sorry. How are you, sir?"

And of course Potter would call him sir now, when propriety dictated it should be the other way around.

"What do you want?" Snape snapped. Hardly his best shop-front manner, but Potter wouldn't know any different, or expect anything else.

"Oh," said Harry. "Right, yes. The ingredients for a roofing potion," he said, rustling with a piece of bedraggled parchment. "And to take you to dinner."

There was the gorilla again. This time, Snape was imagining things.

"Potter, it's customary to leave that to a builder," he said. "Or at least someone who isn't an imbecile."

"What?" said Potter, looking, for one glorious second, both embarrassed and mortally offended. "Oh, oh, right. It's a project. I'm fixing up Grimmauld so I can sell it." He grimaced. "And I'm not an imbecile. But you know that really."

A smiling, secret look through his lashes, and Snape scoffed.

"Fixing a house on top of Auror training? What a busy life you lead."

"I try," said Potter, and it hit that dark note that was the flip side of Potter, the one that Snape liked to pretend wasn't familiar. Stupid boy. What did he have to be unhappy about?

"Besides," he said, all brightness again, "It's really just extra practice."

"I can imagine," said Snape, who didn't actually have to. He'd been to the House of Black more than Potter knew.

"So, what do you say?" said Harry.

"I say that you ought to give me that list so I may fix whatever dreadful recipe you've been given," said Snape.

"Who says it's dreadful?"

"The Wizarding Guild of Builders have been distributing misinformation for a thousand years," said Snape, snatching the list from Potter's hands and going to the back for a quill. "It fools idiots all the time."

"You're lying," said Harry, trotting after him.

"I am not," said Snape, with insincere offence. He set his paperweight on Potter's list and surveyed its contents. Potter, on the other side of the desk, looked like he was about to be judged. In his white shirt, with those silly childish glasses, the whole scene was delightfully reminiscent of Hogwarts.

He repressed anything even remotely resembling a smile, and wordlessly turned his ink red.

"For a start, any first year should know that belladonna is not going to do anything on top of a house. Except possibly keep vermin off it, but only if they lick it. Which seems unlikely."

He scored a bright red line through it.

"And dragonfly legs? A little extravagant, don't you think? Especially since this is a potion made by the bucketload. However do you imagine roofers make their money?"

Another line. Potter shifted, looking annoyed.

"And dragon's scales I could understand, but eyes? Another frivolous expense."

He lifted his quill, but with swift reflexes, Potter rolled his eyes and swept the list away.

"You know, you should have just let me buy everything," he said, sticking his hands and the parchment in his pockets.

"It was a toss-up between that and making you feel a fool," said Snape, crossing his arms. "I thought being able to observe your reaction might be more entertaining."

Potter smiled.

"And it had the benefit of educating me," he said. "Thanks."

"An unfortunate side effect," said Snape, but he couldn't bring himself to mean it.

"I think I need go away and to do some research," said Harry, running a slim hand through his hair. Snape noticed that his forearms were covered in flecks of paint. "Unless you happen to have a decent recipe to hand?"

Potter obviously expected a scornful no, so Snape lifted his wand. Potter flinched.

"Accio 101 Home Maintenance Potions," he said. A book thudded its way out of his study and down the stairs. He unlatched the door and retrieved it.

Potter stared. Then that bright grin was there again, and some part of Snape suddenly felt irrationally glad he'd gone with making Potter feel stupid.

He flicked through the book until he found the recipe Potter would need. Snape had used this book frequently, making Spinner's End into something habitable. His notes were still in the margins.

"Do you do that to all your books?" said Harry.

"The ones that need it," said Snape. He laid a piece of parchment over the page, and tapped it once. The page bloomed with black ink, tracing out the patterns on the page below it.

"There," he said. "That should serve your purposes. If you can decipher it."

"I can decipher it," said Harry wryly, taking the page. He stared at it for a long time. He looked sad; Snape's skin crawled when he realised Potter was reminiscing about his book.

"Okay, I can do that," he said eventually. "I'm actually not that bad at Potions any more."

He looked up expectantly.

"It's self-serve," said Snape, and swept away to his back room. There was stocktaking to do. There was always stocktaking to do.

The bell rang a few minutes later, and Snape brushed the Doxy dust off his robes and strode back to the boy. He was first in a queue of three, now, and he was smiling brightly. Still. It was quite unsettling.

"You've not been waiting long?" he said, over Potter's head.

"No, no, Severus," said the woman behind Potter, one of his regulars. She was a round, middle-aged woman with a permanent titter, and she came in every week for her secret cosmetic potion ingredients. They had the effect of making her looking rather like a leathery clown, and she'd bought more than enough lacewings to make a million potions, but Severus wasn't going to complain about such a faithful customer.

He ran Potter's purchases up, scorning his choices as he went.

"Don't tell me you're on a budget, Potter," he said, curling his lip and sending some powdered borage back to the shelves. "There's fresh right next to it." He Summoned some.

"What's the difference?"

"Potter, I do not know what you were doing in my classes all those years, but it wasn't potions. Don't pain me with such unbelievably moronic questions."

It felt better than he remembered to see that flare of annoyance in those eyes. Though he'd never admit it, this might be the best day he'd had in a while.

"Why sell it, then?" he said. Snape had no trouble giving Potter a long, scathing look.

"I've already given you one answer for that," he said eventually. "I can give you an awful lot more, if you've developed a sudden interest in my trade."

"No, no," said Harry, looking delightfully flustered. "I mean, yes. I mean - I'm interested, you know."

"For Christ's sake, Potter, roots and buds are not the same thing. Behind you, on the left, top shelf."

Potter rolled his eyes and retrieved the acacia root. Snape, in a sudden moment of self-consciousness, noticed that his patrons were looking on with open mouths.

"Get back here, Potter, you're holding up respectable customers," he said.

Harry paused for a moment, slim body stretched out as he grasped at the roots, and laughed.

"Sorry," he said. "You know, if you'd helped me -"

"The world doesn't stop for you, Potter," said Snape tartly. Poor Mrs Englefield was looking quite distressed now. The man behind was looking so affronted that he might well leave, though, so Snape would have to rein himself in. Even if half the fun was the show.

Potter, to his infinite surprise, took it with more good humour than he'd ever seen.

"You can't make much money with an attitude like that," he said, turning around, knocking a jar with his elbow as he did so and, to Snape's overwhelming annoyance, catching it wandlessly before Snape could.

"It's not an attitude," said Snape. "It is a specific response to your presence."

Potter looked, for a second, a little dejected. Without even knowing why, Severus gave him the merest twist of lip.

Potter beamed again.

"So nice to know I'm special," he said, and curse it, with the fuss Snape was making, it was as though he was. Perhaps he should have gone down the icy politeness route after all.

But Potter was too stupid to resist.

He sneered, and rang up the rest of Potter's things. He dumped them in a paper bag and handed it to Potter. Potter grinned.

"Perhaps I'll come back next week and tell you how it goes."

"Do try not to slip off your roof and die a painful death," said Snape.

"You sound sarcastic," said Potter, reaching for the door, "But I know you mean it really."

Then he was gone, and Snape pulled his attention away from the tinkling of the doorbell with some effort. Mrs Englefield had gone blank.

"He likes to have someone to keep him grounded," supplied Snape, with his version of a smile.

"Oh!" said Mrs Englefield. "Oh, oh of course. I knew it would be something like that. The way you were treating him, so unlike you!"

"It makes him happy," said Snape, repressing his smirk with an effort that was almost painful.

"It must be so difficult, being mean to Harry Potter," said Mrs Englefield, patting his hand. "It's very good of you to be so selfless."

Snape had suddenly never liked any woman more.

"Three sickles, Ma'am," he said, not trusting himself to say any more. She tittered, patted his hand again, and bobbed out of the shop.

His other customer was more suspicious, but for once, Snape didn't mind.

* * * * *

Apparently, all that was needed to heal a lifetime feud was his death, his undeath, and three and a half years of separation. Potter was back the next week.

"Slug and Jigger's closed?" he said, though it pained him to speak those words.

"Trust you more," said Harry, with a smile as though he'd noticed. He wasn't in his white shirt today - instead, he was wearing a tight-fitting jumper in moss green. Snape realised with an uncomfortable jolt that Potter's slim fragility had been more of an illusion than he realised. Well, it would have been ridiculous if Potter had spent two years in Auror training and not toned at least a little.

The jumper had buttons at the neck. Apparently Potter had a tragic disorder that meant he couldn't reach any higher than his sternum, because they were undone, flashing more of Potter's neck and collarbone.

And Snape had now been looking too long.

"What do you want now?" he said irritably, fussing with the till.

"Ingredients for Doxy killer," said Potter. "And to take you out to dinner."

"Potter, you can buy it in bottles. Must you do everything awkwardly?"

"Would you buy it in a bottle?" said Potter, the ghost of frustration slipping over his features, but Snape wasn't going to dignify the other thing with an answer.

"I'm a Potions Master," said Snape. "You're a dimwit who can barely follow instructions."

"If I annoy you so very much, I can go to Slug and Jigger's. I'm sure they'll fall over themselves to help me."

"Don't even think about it," said Snape, coming out from behind the counter and swooping, inasmuch as he could swoop, down the tiny aisle of his shop. "If you go to those fawning idiots you'll never get out again. Your head will get stuck in the doorframe."

"I brought the recipe this time," said Harry, holding up a piece of parchment like a shield. Snape snatched it and examined it carefully, then turned on his heel and swept back to his counter. Potter was following him obediently again, he noticed, as he picked up his quill to make some scarlet revisions.

"Do you ever miss being a teacher?" said Harry, obviously only half-serious as he was smirking at the red-inked parchment.

"Don't be ridiculous. The times when anything sunk in to my students' thick skulls were far outnumbered by the times when I was met by massed mystification, or worse, a whole class full of children too busy memorising the favourite colours of their Quidditch team to pay any attention."

Harry laughed, apparently not in the slightest bit guilty.

"But surely it was all the better when they did get something?"

"Potter, what's the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Harry, and added, in a barely audible tone, "Try something not burned into my brain."

Snape had forgotten about asking Potter that. He'd asked it every year, in every house, to the child who looked most arrogant. It hadn't been Potter that year, not even remotely, but for once Snape hadn't even looked. It was only afterwards that he realised that every brat he'd singled out in every single year had been practice for Potter.

"Very well, then," said Snape, setting down his quill. "I'll even ask something you ought to know. What antidote would be best if you only had an hour to live?"

Something very serious flickered in Potter's face, something suddenly cold.

"Assuming that I've got at least half an hour's lucidity and that it's not incurable or specific, in which case I'm screwed unless I can identify exactly what it was, and assuming I have access to an apothecary, which seems unlikely unless my poisoner is really stupid and thinks I haven't been fed every poison under the sun in the name of education and can tell the taste, it'd have to be... remedium. That's a favourite question in the Auror test, by the way, only they like to poison you for real. With something that has heavy side-effects. And I'm looking forward to the practice exams for that one."

Potter stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned, back to normal in an instant.

"Six years of classes, and that is the most knowledge I have ever seen you display," said Snape, who felt strangely unnerved about it. All those years Albus spent trying to make Potter into a war machine, and now he was doing it all by himself.

"I worked for it," said Harry, looking up at him with the self-assurance of someone who really had. "They tried to offer me a job in the department after the war, with no NEWTs or anything. I asked what my duties would be and they just sort of waved their arms. They wanted me for the PR. So me and Hermione and Ron got together and studied for the NEWTs every day for three months, and we all got Os. They sat up and took notice after that." A sudden bashful grin. "Of course, Hermione probably didn't even need to study for that long. Sorry, I'm sure this is all stuff you desperately wanted to know."

"I scour Witch Weekly for such titbits every day," said Snape. Harry sniggered.

Then he looked up at him, still smiling and strangely open, and Severus couldn't bring himself to look away quite quick enough.

"Follow me," he said, swooping back into the aisle. "You're obviously incapable of choosing your own ingredients, so I'll do it for you."

Potter, with an odd look on his face, acquiesced. Snape lingered over a jar before choosing the more expensive option three times before Potter even rolled his eyes, and he listened with patience, even interest, to a description of each ingredient.

"And the beetle eyes are on the bottom shelf," said Snape, pointing to save himself a bad back. "Rounder, bigger ones work the best. Those are dung beetle, of course; don't accept anything else, there's no decent substitute. And for God's sake, don't get them confused with any other eyes. "

Potter gave him a very odd look, but Snape ignored it in favour of returning to his desk to add up Potter's purchases.

He glanced up, casually, and dropped his quill.

Potter was wearing stonewash jeans that now pulled taut as he bent over, hugging his slim hips, tight as a second skin over the perfect curve of his arse.

Christ.

"How's that?" said Potter, standing up and offering his handful.

"Quite adequate, I'm sure," said Snape, very quietly. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was going to get Potter to do that again. How utterly unfair, that Potter should have those shoulders and those eyes and the arse of the century to boot. Lily obviously had strong genes, because Potter Sr hadn't been half as blessed.

"What's the damage?"

My sanity. "Two Galleons and a knut."

Potter handed over the coins. Their fingers did not quite touch, which was a small mercy.

"Do come again," said Snape, hoping to inject as much disdain as possible into the tone. Potter just smiled.

"Bye, Professor," he said, and sauntered out the door.

"I'm not a Professor," muttered Snape, as the bell above his door tinkled once again.

* * * * *

Next Saturday, Potter wasn't there, but it was for the best, as it was unusually busy and Snape didn't think he'd be able to handle the distraction. He suspected Potter might have something to do with the increasing number of customers; a frustrating fact, as to resent it would be ridiculous.

Sunday was much more peaceful, and Snape spent the morning packing owl orders for Monday. Five minutes before he was going to flip the sign and call it a day, the bell tinkled.

Potter was in a too-big shirt again, and his terrible button disability must have struck him particularly hard that morning because Snape was finding it difficult to draw his eyes away. He had a splat of white paint on his glasses. He should have been ridiculous, but instead he was... strangely compelling.

"Why does it always smell funny in apothecaries?" he said, hands in pockets.

"That's a stupid question, Potter, and you know it," said Snape.

"Well, I do like to cheer you up," he said.

"So kind," said Snape, flicking dust off his sleeve. "What could you possibly need now?"

"A decent mould remover," said Harry. "And a dinner date with you."

"There is no shame in using newspaper ads, Potter. There are some perfectly reputable mail-order companies."

Potter looked as though he might be choking on something.

"Bring me the recipe," said Snape tiredly, holding out his hand.

"I, er, don't have one," he confessed. Snape rolled his eyes and accio'd his maintenance book.

"Even Mrs Englefield isn't so demanding. And you would not believe what she has requested." Snape shivered slightly, paused. "I ought to charge you for the parchment."

Potter looked up at him over his glasses, gauging his seriousness. Apparently, he found it lacking, because he smiled.

"Are you always in here?" he asked. "Because I have walked past this shop on the way to lunch every weekday for the past couple of years and I've never seen anyone else on the till. And this is the second weekend you've been here."

Snape had briefly considered hiring extra help. Once. When he realised how difficult it would be to fill the free time, he decided against it.

"What else would I be doing? I live here."

"What, in the shop?"

Snape rolled his eyes.

"Above it."

"I always wondered how you afforded it," he said. "The shop, I mean."

Snape didn't want to explain about Dumbledore's inheritance. He felt, perhaps irrationally, that invoking the past would be crossing a boundary they had so far been very careful not to cross. And, much as he hated to admit it, he didn't want to fight with Potter any more.

"Make sure you pick up fresh daisy root," he said, and handed Potter the copy of his potion. Harry looked at it thoughtfully, and wandered off to pick up his ingredients.

Snape watched, with shameful satisfaction, as he bent at the waist to scoop out some dragon scales. His shirt slid down his back, and of course it was smooth and toned and honey-gold, and the arse he'd been fantasising about every night this week was just as good as he remembered.

Then Potter got up, and vanished out of sight around the corner.

"You ought to hire someone," he called. Snape perched on his stool and pulled his ledger closer.

"I ought to set up anti-Potter jinxes," he muttered, audibly. Harry strolled back down the other aisle and dumped his things on Snape's counter.

"You don't think I could trouble you -"

"Every second of the day."

"Ha ha. But -"

"Whatever you want to ask, the answer is go away. I was about to close up."

"Ah, so you can come to lunch."

"Running a shop is not restricted to the opening hours." Bugger. He'd not meant to acknowledge anything other than business talk. Potter would think he was making progress. "Six sickles."

Frustration - and sadness? - flashed over Potter's face for a second before he smiled and passed his coins over.

"See you later, Snape," he said, and left, paper bag tucked under one arm.

Snape had the horrible feeling he might not mean it.

* * * * *

But Potter was nothing if not stubborn. Next week, he was back - carpet cleaning potions. Then a humane poison for the rats. Then grout restorer and mould remover for the bathrooms. By this point, Snape was willing to acknowledge that Potter might have an agenda other than shopping and winding him up. What precisely it was, Snape could only theorise.

He settled for simple observation for now. He noticed there was a pattern to the visits; Potter always came in on the weekend, and he always came in when it was quiet. Usually this meant Saturday afternoon, but occasionally there would be a busy day and Potter wouldn't show up until Sunday. Every week, Potter asked him to dinner, but when Snape ignored him he never pressed it. They talked about Potions instead, and the weather, and then slowly meandered towards other topics; Potter's training, running a shop, favourite books, favourite food, strangest customers.

He observed other patterns, too. The way Potter's eyes narrowed mid-debate; the curve of his throat, which always seemed to be casually on show. The way his shoulders moved beneath his shirt as he reached for the top shelves. The rhythm and timing of that hand through his hair, reminiscent of his father but so utterly different in intention that it was...endearing.

Those same patterns plagued him at night, flashes of colour in the dark. He was surprised how little difference it made to anything, except the slight curl of tension in his stomach at the sound of the bell above his door.

Potter came in one week while he was heading on his lunch break. He flatly refused to serve him until his sandwich was eaten. Potter shrugged, and said he'd wait. After watching the boy pace for five minutes, Snape found himself bringing Potter a cup of tea and a stool. They sat for an hour and talked about the Ministry deregulation of mind-altering potions. Potter thought it would do Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes a world of good.

Snape made faux-despairing noises, and wondered if he'd made a tactical error. Who knew what permission he'd unknowingly given, letting Potter hang around even once.

The next week, Potter strolled in at around three in the afternoon.

"What do you want now, Potter?" said Snape, as usually.

Potter stopped in front of the counter, looked thoughtfully at the till. Snape watched, tapping his foot.

"Sorry," said Potter eventually, looking up with a bright grin. "Can't think of an excuse. I'll settle for a date, though."

Snape, to his horror, found himself repressing a smile.

"If you're not buying anything," he said, "then you can make yourself useful."

Potter stuck his hands in his pockets. It was his default stance, as far as Snape could tell.

"Alright," he said.

Snape set him to work restocking the shelves. This had the added benefit of making Potter bend and stretch almost constantly. Snape watched, because there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn't. Potter didn't even look like his father any more.

Potter glanced up occasionally. Snape was careful to look blank, and return to his ledger.

It was perfectly acceptable to stare, because Potter was as picturesque as a statue. Snape had not had the luxury of watching something beautiful, not for a very long time. Most days he knew nothing but the shop, nothing but the dust and the worn wood and the pickled things in jars and the comforting scent of ingredients, sweet and cloying and rotten. Potter was an incongruity and yet not, in autumn colours and haloed by autumn light through the dusty window. It was by no means pure aesthetic admiration; Snape would not try to claim that. But here, in the warm afternoon, time hung like the dust. Nothing mattered, as long as he didn't break the spell.

The bell above the door jangled. Snape snapped out of his reverie with guilt and resentment.

Snape recognised the man who came in, a slightly batty-looking experimental potioneer who liked to order exotic - and ambiguously legal - ingredients. Snape sold them to him, partly because without a little recklessness he would go mad, but also because he knew the man was no villain. He did very stringent research on anyone who asked him for suspect items. He'd turned more than one suspicious person to the Aurors; as a method of keeping him free from interference, it had worked like a charm.

Snape wondered if his customer would be scared off by a trainee Auror stacking shelves behind him. An almost-pleasant frisson crawled up his spine at what would happen if Potter decided to doubt his morality now. Or perhaps this was what this was about, and the dinner thing was entirely misdirection.

It was the first good reason he could think of to accept the date. It would serve Potter right for being so confident Snape would refuse.

Not that he was even thinking about it.

"Good afternoon, Mr Greeves."

Greeves shot a long look at Potter, and shuffled up to the counter.

"New staff?" he said, eyes wide.

"Volunteer," said Snape, smirking.

"Sent by the Ministry?" he whispered, leaning pointy elbows on the counter.

"If he is, he hasn't let on," said Snape. "And I know Potter's poker face well enough."

"Should I come back later?"

Snape looked at Potter, then back to Greeves. He shook his head.

"I'll fetch your order, Mr Greeves."

He went into the back and retrieved the order - several rare flowers from the Amazon rainforest - from its hidden drawer. When he came back, Greeves was rhapsodizing about the high quality of the rattlesnake venom Potter was currently shelving.

"Twenty galleons, Sir," said Snape. Greeves dished out the money without even a grimace.

"I really think this is it, Snape m'boy," he said merrily, gathering the paper bag into his spindly arms. "I'll give you an update sometime next month."

"I look forward to it," said Snape.

"Excellent to meet you, Mr Potter," he said, and fairly skipped out of the shop.

Snape added a note to his ledger. When he looked up, Potter was staring at him.

"That wasn't just daisy root, was it?"

"No, it was not," said Snape. He met Potter's eyes, raised one eyebrow.

"What's he making?" said Potter, too quiet.

"I think what is he trying to make would be a more appropriate question."

"Alright," said Harry, folding his arms. "What is he trying to make?"

"A cure for lycanthropy," said Snape. "I very much doubt he will succeed, but in the meantime he has made a child-friendly slug killer, a potion that removes eyebrows and a remedy for PMT. The latter will make him rich, but only if he stops pursuing this fantasy long enough to give it a second thought."

Potter's cold expression vanished in an instant.

"I see," he said. Then he chuckled. "You don't half get some interesting customers."

Snape sighed. He felt he might have passed some test.

"It's both the pleasure and the torture of shopkeeping," he said. Potter gave him a funny, sideways glance, and an odd smile.

"I'm surprised you haven't hexed anyone," he said, and shoved another jar of venom onto a shelf.

"If you break any of those you will pay," he said, and returned to his ledger.

"A galleon a jar," agreed Potter peaceably, looking at the label.

Snape went to make them both a cup of tea. The look of shocked pleasure on Potter's face was almost enough to make it worth it.

* * * * *

The bell above the door rang five minutes before closing. It seemed uncharacteristic of Potter, so Snape was not expecting to look up and see the boy dripping rainwater all over his floor.

"I'm closing, Potter, and you know it," said Snape. "What do you want?"

"Well," he said, shaking his head and sending droplets all over the shelves as well. He was carrying two plastic bags, and Snape was beginning to feel suspicious. "I hadn't intended to be quite as wet as this -"

"- As you are clearly a squib and therefore completely incapable of umbrella charms -"

"- But I've brought you something. Well, us."

Snape shot a drying charm at Potter, before anything desiccated within three feet of him was ruined. Potter smiled, as though he'd done him a kindness. He advanced up the aisle, setting his bags down at the counter, and proceeded to sweep Snape's ledger and notes onto the floor. While Snape was still spluttering, he pulled out a square of white fabric and spread it out over the countertop. Another dive into his bags, and Potter produced two white plates. Snape began to realise where this was going.

"Potter," said Snape.

"You won't even acknowledge an invitation, so I thought maybe I would bring the dinner to you," said Potter, before Snape could say any more. "Don't worry, I flipped the sign. I can close the shutters too, if you like."

"Potter, I'm busy."

"No," he said. "No, you're not. And I'm not taking no for an answer. And you know you wouldn't usually kick me out - is there anything that will be changed by the application of dinner?"

"No," said Snape, though he thought his reticence was extremely justified. One of these days, Potter was going to push the wrong button, or Snape would push Potter, and everything would go back to how it was. This peace was artificial, a fragile balance of smiles and snark and the delicate avoidance of anything serious.

And Potter had an agenda. He was sure of it. He just didn't know what.

Potter was pulling out silver take-away dishes and setting them down between the two of them. Snape sighed, and fetched the second stool. Potter looked delighted at the sight of it.

Snape handed it to him and pulled the first take-away container towards himself. He dished it out in silence. Potter watched him, uncharacteristically silent.

"It's good," he said eventually, through his first mouthful. Snape gave him a long stare.

"Sorry," he said, chewing. Snape rolled his eyes.

"I suppose you think you're cute," he said eventually.

"I try," said Harry, looking up with wicked green eyes. Snape huffed to cover the unexpected zap of want.

"So," said Harry, "How has your day been?"

"Tedious. Tolerable."

"Ah," said Harry. "It's because I wasn't there."

"You're right," said Snape. "If you had been there it would have been intolerable."

"You don't mean it."

Snape found the doubt in Potter's face - amusing. Not cute. Not adorable, and certainly not endearing.

He smirked, ambiguously he hoped, but Potter seemed happy to take it well. He grinned, one of his wide repertoire of positive facial expressions that Snape was only just beginning to get accustomed to.

"How's the curry? I spent ages worrying about what you'd like. I must have looked a right prat wandering back and forth between menus."

"It's acceptable," said Snape. He was determined not to give an inch more than he already had, but Potter seemed prepared for that because he smiled again.

"Have I ever received an Acceptable from you before?"

"You still haven't," said Snape, allowing himself to smirk just a little. "The acceptable was for the food. Unless you asked to be let into the kitchen and cooked it yourself?"

"I might have. I have many hidden talents," said Potter, smirking.

"Very hidden," said Snape.

"I could show you," said Potter, with a new expression, one that sent a shiver down Snape's spine.

"Being the most ill-mannered brat in the world does not count as a talent."

Potter sighed and looked to his curry. Shot down, thought Snape with satisfaction, and then wondered why he was doing so. Snape had never had anyone so attractive be so flirtatious, and he could feel desire and temptation prickling at him, flaring every time Potter was audacious enough to make it seem possible. Who was he to question why?

But there was a why. A big, important why which Snape could not switch off. Why on earth was Potter doing this?

Of course, he could be misinterpreting. Repeatedly coming to his work, asking him on dates, giving him wicked looks... it could still be innocent. Potter assumed that his love for Lily had been romantic, after all. And last time Snape checked, Potter was engaged to the Weasley girl. Though there was no ring...

His darkest, most paranoid side wanted to suggest that it was an assignment. An Auror task. That Potter was thinking creatively, trying to get close to him to reveal any shady goings-on so that he could shine in the Ministry. But Potter was too... honourable, to do such a thing. And nobody could fake that level of tolerance, not when they'd been such enemies.

So there was something else. Something that he did not have enough information to deduce. Perhaps Potter was harbouring a guilt complex - or perhaps he simply didn't mind if his attempts to be friendly came off romantic, because the notion was so utterly preposterous.

Perhaps Severus was wasting his time analysing before he had collected all the data.

He returned to his food. Potter was giving him an odd look, but he didn't meet his eyes.

He set his fork down once he had finished, and looked expectantly at Potter. Potter was in shadow, the rainstorm and the sunset filling the shop with broody darkness. Snape flicked his wand behind him and lit a lamp. It smelled of burning dust.

Potter began to stack the empty silver cartons into a pile. He looked... melancholy. Snape watched.

"Well," he said, when the dishes were back in his bags and the tablecloth was folding itself neatly. "It was nice of you to tolerate me."

Snape had seen enough of Potter's smiles to know this one was forced. It did something strange and uncomfortable to Snape's stomach.

Potter gathered up his bags and began to walk up the aisle. Snape felt his fingers twitch with the almost irresistible urge to stop him.

"Potter," he said eventually, and Harry stopped. Turned around, whole face alight with hope.

"I can make coffee," he ground out, the hardest sentence he had ever said. Harry's grin was almost worth the hassle.

"That would be brilliant."

He returned to the counter. Snape stood for a second, willing his limbs to move, before snapping around and venturing into the back room for the kettle.

The back room was dark and cool and pungent, and it calmed him, like the creaking rhythm of his house. He poured out the hot water, stirred three times clockwise, and levitated both mugs out towards the shop. After a moment with closed eyes, he followed.

Potter had his hands wrapped around the cup, and he was smiling softly. The lamplight flickered on his face, a circle of gold too dim to light the rest of the room, and it felt strangely illicit to be here, even in his own shop. This was a place for daytime, for politeness and restraint, and now Potter was standing here with the light glinting off his ridiculous glasses, lips curving up into a smile too close, too intimate to be given to him.

Snape took a hot swallow of his coffee, uncomfortably hot but satisfying in its distraction. He groped for something to say that wouldn't break this.

"Apparently things do change with the application of dinner," said Potter, sitting down on his stool. "I'm sure it wasn't this hard to talk before."

Potter was too direct, too innocently matter-of-fact, as though he wasn't aware in the slightest of Snape's turmoil, or that there was even cause for it.

"This is good," he said quietly, when Snape didn't reply.

"It's instant, you philistine," said Snape. Harry grinned.

"Yeah, I know. But it's... nice to have. Maybe it's just the company."

"Your life must be very sheltered, if this is good company."

"You're tolerating me. Actually tolerating me. You're even being sort of nice. I wasn't expecting it, but when you didn't yell that first time..."

"Ah," said Snape. "I knew that was my mistake."

Potter laughed, and it was a relief, because he'd never thought Potter capable of recognising the subtle nuances of his deadpan voice.

A quiet pause.

"Do you still think about the war?"

Snape gave him a contemptuous look, hoping it would be enough to silence him. Potter just smiled.

"I know, stupid question. But you... act like none of it happened. And I try every day to do the same but I feel like it must be flashing in neon above my head how much I can't just let go. I was engaged, you know, and I wrecked it, because of the war - well, and some other things, which probably would have become a bit of a bigger deal in the future but I wasn't thinking like that then - but mostly it was because I couldn't relax, I couldn't get over anything and I couldn't cope with anyone else getting over it. It was my life, my entire life, and I was making Ginny miserable just because I couldn't tolerate her being happy, making progress, when I was so... destroyed. She was so bright and so normal... she made me feel alone."

"So this is why you're here," said Snape.

"No!" said Potter, too loud in this bubble of golden unreality. "No. Well. Maybe that was why I came in the first time. But I'm not... I'm not looking for you to help me. I know you probably can't."

He sighed, and Snape relaxed. If Potter wanted to pour his heart out in the dark, to Snape and a mug of coffee, Snape did not mind. It was an explanation, and a purpose, and it put him on surer ground.

"I behave as though I have forgotten in the hopes that the forgetting will follow. For the most part, it has worked."

"Except for when Gryffindor brats come around and harass you every week."

"They would be hexed out of the door if they even dared to do anything that annoyed me," said Snape. Harry smiled.

"I'm worried about the Aurors," he said. "I'm worried that it might not be helping. When they talk about constant vigilance and dark wizards and plans of attack, I think like - like I did when he was alive. And then I'm out of the class and everything is sunny and bright and it just seems wrong, because in my head he's still out there and I have to remind myself that he's dead and gone and that's not my life any more."

"Then give it all up and become a flower arranger," said Snape. "Or a Quidditch star. Or something else brainless and far removed from your so-called heroism."

"I can't do brainless," said Harry. "Despite what you think. And I can't... I can't just quit. It would be..."

"Who are you answering to, Potter? It may have been true once, but to think that the world gives a damn about what you do now is pure ego. I suggest you get over it."

Harry didn't seem to be angry. It was a surprise, but it was good, because Snape wasn't trying to wind him up.

"You're... probably right," he said, and smiled up at Snape. His eyes were green and wide, but they weren't Lily's; they were too dark, framed by black lashes and flecked with spots of darkness. They were Potter's, and Snape had now been looking into them for a long moment.

Potter sipped his coffee, still looking up at Snape. Snape clutched his mug, and gulped his down too quickly. The silence was no longer awkward.

Tension curled between them and knotted tight in his abdomen, hot and uncomfortably close to panic.

"Alright," said Harry, setting down his mostly-empty mug. "I really will leave you alone now. Until next week."

"Very well," he said, with a put-upon sigh.

Harry picked up his bags and made his way to the door, looking back to see if Snape was following. Snape did - only to lock the door behind him, he reasoned. Potter stopped abruptly in the doorway, making Snape nearly stumble; in the grey-darkness, he felt Potter lean closer, caught the glint of light off his glasses as he moved in -

Snape froze, just for a second, just long enough to feel Potter's breath on his lips. There was nothing he could say - no 'six sickles, please' to put Potter in his rightful place, no way to regain control, no way to defeat the temptation of that obscenely beautiful mouth...

Snape took a sharp step back, and opened the door. He was glad he could not see Potter's face in the dark. Potter backed away, turned to go, got a few steps out into the twilight -

Then he turned.

"Give me a good reason why not," he said, a whisper and a growl.

Snape was silent. Potter's eyes searched his face.

"You don't trust me," he said finally, as sure as if he'd used Legilimency.

"Not in this," said Snape coldly, and shut the door.

* * * * *

Snape stayed open late on Sunday, mostly in order to keep himself busy. The shop seemed to be getting ever more popular, what with Potter's regular patronage, and he stayed active all week. There was rarely a moment to think.

When he did think, he thought of Potter, but that was inevitable. What he didn't think - didn't allow himself to think - was that he might have been wrong to shut him out. Potter was deranged, or desperate, or cursed, or conducting an elaborate wind-up. He dreamt of James Potter's cruel laugh every night that week.

It was Saturday lunchtime when George Weasley strolled through the door, followed by the brother whose name Snape could never remember. Charlie, he thought. Snape, mid-way through serving another customer, attempted to watch them surreptitiously at the same time.

"Remind me why we're here again?" said the older brother.

"Because I want to know if it's as good as Slug and Jigger's," said George, a note of angelic innocence ringing alarm bells in Snape's head. If that brat tried any pranks -

"Oh," said Charlie significantly, lowering his voice but not enough. "Nothing to do with the bet, then?"

Snape gave the customer his change and shut the till door with a snap. If Weasley was planning anything, Snape would happily hex him senseless and string him upside down in the middle of Diagon Alley. If he called it a mere prank, George could never risk his prankster's honour by prosecuting.

"What are you expecting, a neon sign over his head? Or were you just going to walk up to him and say 'Excuse me, sir, but are you planning on getting busy with Harry Potter before the first of September?'"

"Shh!" said George. "Keep it down, will you? You'll ruin it!"

Charlie let out a choked laugh, but Snape couldn't hear it through the roaring in his own ears. Something horrible was clawing its way up his chest, something unnamed and foul and tasting of bile.

"Mind you," he heard George say, as if from far away. "Harry might thank us. He might prefer the forfeit!"

Snape sat down heavily on his stool, without expecting to. The clawing feeling was curling in on itself, churning into something familiar and painful.

"Alright, George, that's enough I think. Come on."

George and Charlie left, giving each other looks that seemed troubled, but Snape barely noticed.

He'd never been more - angry.

That was the feeling. And of course he was, because Potter had the audacity to think that Snape could be seduced by nothing more than a pretty face and a charming smile, no matter how vacuous, how egotistical, how utterly like his father he was. He'd never met a more loathsome person.

And if it hurt, if his chest ached as though he'd been running, well, that was only his own stupidity paining him. Because he'd not hexed the boy on sight. Because he'd let his guard down too much. Not all the way - and what a small mercy that was - but enough to let a Potter get the better of him. Again.

Except Potter hadn't, not yet. Potter had friends too thick to keep their mouths shut, and that was his undoing. He'd never get anything from Severus now. Although he almost deserved to get what he came for, to teach him to be careful what he bet on.

That idea stuck, took root in Snape's chest. Potter deserved to be punished, to be humiliated as much as Snape had been. And he was beautiful, undeniably beautiful... perhaps Snape should take what he wanted. Take it, then tell him that he knew. He could kick him out into the street, half-dressed and obviously shagged, shamed in front of everyone.

By the time Snape was closing up, the anger had turned to a festering, boiling ball in his stomach, and he didn't know if he could trust himself if he ever saw Potter again.

Then Potter was slipping in, the bell jangling - how dare he show his face? How could he, the soulless little brat? - and he was sauntering up the aisle, and Snape snapped before he'd even got to the counter.

With a deafening crash, the shutters closed, and Snape advanced upon Potter with single-minded purpose. Potter's eyes went wide, and Snape drove the wretched boy into the nearest shelf.

"I -" began Potter, but Snape shut him up with his mouth, a vicious, spiteful kiss of tongue and teeth. Potter was stiff, hands raising to claw at Snape's shoulders; then he moaned, the filthy little slut, and pressed his hips up. Potter's body was fiery hot, and his hands were digging into Snape's shoulders, and Potter was hard - and obviously Snape had read him completely wrong, because the boy was not bright and innocent, he was a little whore, a miniature Casanova. Would he do anything just for the challenge?

Snape wrapped a hand tight in Potter's shirt and dragged him to the counter. Potter's mouth was open, but Snape kissed him again before he could speak, inserting a solid thigh in between Potter's. Potter groaned, trying to writhe under Snape, but Snape pinned his hands. He ground his hips, rage and arousal blurring his vision like a drug, careless of the whimper in Potter's throat or the twitch of his hips or the hands clawing tight at his shoulders. Potter tried to pull away, to gasp for air; Snape bit down on his neck, and the gasping turned to groans.

"Suh-Severus, wait," said Potter. Snape stilled, hands still pressing Potter's into the counter. Was the boy going to quit now?

"I need to... I'm making a mistake," said Potter, though his restless hips seemed to disagree. Snape bit back a groan.

"Don't you think you should have thought of that," purred Snape, "Before you made any bets?"

Harry shook his head wildly, glasses smudged and askew. Snape snatched them off his face.

"No, no, it's not that, that's not true," said Potter, head and eyes wild and panicky.

"You lie to me, as well, Potter?" spat Snape, digging his nails into Potter's wrists, and Potter flinched and shook his head again.

"No! Well, yes... God, I've made such a big mistake..."

Snape became uncomfortably aware of his own breathing. It pressed him close against Potter.

He pushed himself away. Potter looked up at him with tormented eyes, too huge and too beautiful without his glasses.

"What George said..." he said. "In the shop... it wasn't true."

Snape stopped, frozen in a moment of mindless fury with no ability to comprehend. Potter ruffled his wild hair, wiped his bruised lips.

"I thought -" said Harry, swallowing thickly, "I thought that since you'd never believe I was being honest with you... maybe I could just let you hear what you'd want to hear," said Harry. "I thought maybe... you'd relax, with something horrible to think of me, and then you could yell like you always did and I could say it was the bet at first, but not any more. And at least if we were fighting, you might actually talk about something real, something important, you couldn't just change the subject. And then - then in my head, in the plan, you'd admit you wanted me, and you'd kiss me, and... and it sounds so stupid, like a fantasy, but I was trying to be Slytherin because doing it the Gryffindor way and coming in and getting worse than a refusal every single week for something as innocent and insignificant as dinner - it was destroying me."

The air hung still. Snape was surprised it was not a maelstrom, battering him to the ground.

"You expect me to believe," he said, harsh as cracking rock, "that you have genuinely been attempting to -"

"Not at the start," said Potter, looking bloodshot and miserable. "I wanted to - well, you probably had it pegged straight away. I wanted to reconcile, and I wanted someone to talk to about the war. It was selfish and self-absorbed and exactly what you'd expect. But you weren't - what I'd expected. You were polite to your customers and you didn't turn me out and you looked at me... God, like I might actually be something to look at. And I wanted to see you again, and then the week after that I really wanted to see you, until I realised I was living for the hour when I could be here again, flirting hopelessly and being insulted and hopelessly trying to get you to take me seriously."

"And that translates to... a serious romantic interest," said Snape, voice flat. He wasn't thinking. Wasn't feeling. Wouldn't know where to start.

"Not entirely," said Harry. "There was... everything else. The way you stare and the sarcasm and your hands and all the little things you did, little gestures that would have been nothing to somebody else but because it was you and I'm me, felt huge and wonderful. Like smirking at a joke or bothering to make me tea as well. I'm not... I'm not professing true love. I'm not asking for anything. I only ever wanted - to try."

"So making me believe -"

"I didn't think you'd care so much," said Harry, rapidly, panicked. "I thought you'd be happy to think ill of me. It's not like... it's hard to tell what you think of me. I wasn't even that sure that you fancied me, let alone that you actually liked me. It was a moment of madness, because I was sick of doing nothing and sick of being ignored, not even being able to talk about it, not being told why. And I knew that if I gave up I'd spend the rest of my life thinking about what could have been. But George and Charlie told me how you looked when you overheard and I decided I had to explain and hope that maybe you'd... understand. Because I realised pretty quickly that I'd rather come and ask you to dinner every week for a very long time than ruin it all and never get to ask again."

And there was feeling again, an ache in his chest, humiliation and pain and desperate want, as though all this time he'd been avoiding thought he'd actually been processing this. He knew he wouldn't have dared to think it consciously; he couldn't let himself think that Potter would want him, that anything so desirable could be so achievable. He didn't dare to think that there was hope in his long routine, that there was anything better than what he had. He didn't deserve better and he had more than he'd expected; hope led only to pain. But apparently his emotions had just ignored him, and felt hope anyway.

He'd realised that when he'd heard George speak and felt hope crushed, and he knew it now, because it battered down his fury and rose up in his chest. It was hand in hand with blind panic.

He had no idea what to do now.

"I'm -" began Harry. "I'm sorry. I think... I should just go."

Adrenaline told him to run, desire told him to catch Potter's arm, pride told him to sneer. Torn between equal forces, he did nothing.

Harry slid away, with sinewy grace that moments before had arched beneath him - God. Snape did not move, did not watch him go.

"Potter," he called, at the last minute, his throat resisting. He heard Potter pause behind him.

"See you next week."

* * * * *

All the thinking he'd avoided for the past few months seemed to catch up with him in that week. Every moment, every hour in Potter's company came to him as vividly as yesterday, recalling every bright green gaze with his new-found knowledge. Suspicion wanted to rear its head, whisper doubt in his ear - Snape served another smiling customer, and ignored it. Pride was a louder voice, calling out for vengeance for Potter making him a complete fool, but Severus restocked his shelves with intestines and eyes and wondered what use pride would be now. Besides, Potter would make a fool of himself a little more yet.

Want was the loudest one, a physical ache, persistent and niggling as toothache. He wanted Potter's brightness and his childish joy and his skin and his perfect arse. He wanted possession of a thing that should not have been his, however short-lived it would be. He'd be struck by it at random moments, at the smell of the tea or the sight of the stool in the back room. Several of his customers asked him if he was well.

Through Saturday, he was quite sure he was not. The bell shattered his nerves. Fear he'd never admit to wrapped tight round his heart, as lunchtime passed and there was still no Potter. Elaborate vengeance fantasies occurred to him, cut with what he'd do if Potter turned up that second.

He hoped he would have enough restraint to at least shut up the shop.

The bell rang at five minutes to six.

Potter was wearing a tight emerald t-shirt in Slytherin green, and the jeans that had driven Snape to such distraction. He looked fidgety and self-conscious, his hands in his pockets.

Then he looked up, and Severus met his eyes, and nothing would have prepared him for the fireburst of desire that followed.

Potter's lids lowered. The shutters dropped with a crack, and Snape was not sure which of them had done it because both of them were moving forward as though snapping back on elastic. In a second Potter's lips were on his and it was fulfilment but not, not nearly enough; he caught the boy's hips and pulled them tighter against him. Potter moaned into his mouth, a desperate, keening sound, and writhed as though he could get closer.

Snape pulled at Potter's t-shirt, unwilling to make it easier by moving away, barely willing to move his mouth long enough to throw it aside. Potter shivered and whimpered under Snape's hands, and he was smooth and hot and perfect but Snape didn't want to linger. He dragged Potter to the counter, pressing him against it, and Potter was scrabbling at the collar of Snape's robes. They got them off together, and Potter cursed under his breath at the shirt underneath.

Snape could barely endure this. He wanted to possess Potter, to punish him, to have him writhing under his hands and screaming for him. He battered Harry's hands away from his shirt, hands going instead to the button of his jeans. Harry moved his hips for better access, rubbing roughly at the front of Snape's trousers, and it was maddening and distracting and so far from enough. He wanted - he needed -

Potter rolled them both so that he was pressing Snape against the counter, and ground their hips close. Snape's mouth was open against Harry's, and when Harry groaned he thrust his tongue into the sound, devouring it. The buttons of his jeans were open and Snape worked a hand into the front of them, shivering with pleasure when Harry's back arched and locked. A rough pump of his hand, and Potter was groaning in his ear and thrusting forward, utterly wild.

This wasn't enough. In a wild haze, Severus could not think of a way to fuck Potter without breaking this contact, and he couldn't tolerate that. Potter helped, shoving his trousers and boxers down and starting on Snape's, groaning and twitching and fumbling when Snape moved his hand over Harry's balls. A press against his perineum made him buck forward, momentarily blinding Snape with the perfect pressure of his hips, and then somehow Snape's trousers were finally off. He brought one hand to Potter's perfect arse and brought their bare hips into contact.

Potter's eyes snapped open, pupils dilated, and his sharp exhalation ghosted against Snape's cheek. The maddening perfection of Potter's skin was unendurable, too good - he needed to fuck Potter now, before he spiralled wildly out of control.

Although he couldn't remember casting any spell, a jar of oil hit his palm. He bit down upon Harry's neck as he opened the jar blind, tortured by Potter's keening moans and restless hips. Potter tasted of salt and smelled of sex; it was addictive, and it let him focus enough to work a slick finger into him.

Potter's moans turned to a cry, and he bore down on the finger in utterly perfect wantonness. Snape didn't know how he would tolerate a second more, how he resisted plunging into Harry that very second; restraint pulled at his muscles, held him barely still.

Potter's mouth was meandering over his neck, open-mouthed and messy kisses mixed with moans. Snape twisted his head to meet one as he added a second finger, thrusting his tongue into Potter's mouth. Potter's whimper was choked and desperate.

Potter tore his mouth away, but only as far as his cheek.

"If you don't - right this second -" he growled, voice transformed. Snape understood, could do nothing but comply - he bent Potter over the counter, nearly unable to control himself at the picture it made. Applying more oil nearly undid everything; this wouldn't last long.

Potter was tight, unbearably tight, hot and slick and perfect, and he writhed with wild abandon underneath him. Snape, pulse thundering and chest aching and hips threatening to move of their own free will, tried to distract himself by clawing Potter's hips. Potter cried out, and of course he'd be as head-first and wild in this as in everything; of course he'd be a spectacularly enthusiastic lover. It sounded like he was begging; Snape could barely hear over the roaring in his ears. Too much, too much, and fuck, Potter was beautiful and obscene and intolerable and he was going to come messily all over Snape's counter.

He slid in the final fraction, and paused as long as he could bear. Potter seemed okay, but he was reckless and irresponsible and Snape didn't want -

His thought track was thrown by Harry writhing closer. Snape hoped it was a hint, because nothing would have held him back now.

He pulled back, and thrust hard. Harry whimpered. Snape wrapped a hand around his cock and pumped.

He'd never heard noises so obscene, and Potter instantly rocked his hips, thrusting forward and then pressing back. Snape's free hand dug into Potter's shoulders, lost now, and Potter met each thrust with a gasping moan. His hands clasped rhythmically at the desk, and Snape's nails dug into Potter's shoulders, and the hand that pumped Potter was moving on instinct alone as his pleasure rose to an unstoppable pitch. Then there was nothing but Harry's groans and the skin beneath his palms and the scent of sweat and spice, and sensation coalescing in his chest, his balls, his cock -

Then the world shattered, pulse by pulse, bright as electricity.

It took a long time before anything made sense again. For a while, he kept his eyes closed, feeling the warmth of Potter's skin and the worn texture of his counter beneath his palm. Then he pulled away, muttering cleaning charms, and wished they'd been in bed. It felt like he might sleep for an age.

He pulled up his trousers, and slumped onto his stool.

Potter arched, graceful and silly and obscene, and stretched out his hands.

"Wow," he said quietly.

"Yes," agreed Snape.

"Do you have a bed?"

"No."

Potter looked up at him sharply. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Alright," said Harry, smiling sheepishly. "Do you think we could move to it? I feel like I've run a marathon."

Snape nodded. He didn't know if his voice was capable of much.

"Finally," said Harry. "I might get to see more than just the front of the shop."

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"You've seen a lot more than most customers."

This, apparently, was riotously funny, because Potter broke into giggles. Half-nude, with steamed-up glasses and scored all over with livid red marks, he was utterly ridiculous and hopelessly perfect.

"Come on," he said, getting up to lead Potter into his home. He cast an impatient look back to see if Potter was following.

He was doing up his trousers. Seemingly as an afterthought, he folded up his glasses and tucked them in his back pocket. He looked older, and wicked, and thoroughly tempting.

He looked up at Snape.

"So," he said, raising an eyebrow almost as proficiently as Snape. "Does this mean you'll actually go on a date?"

Snape pretended, to himself and to Potter, that he was giving it some thought. There were plenty of reasons to refuse, after all; he doubted that Potter's fans would be thrilled to see them together, and Potter might well listen to them. Plus, Snape had no desire for press attention, and the whole notion of them having a relationship -

But he wanted this. At least a chance.

"I'll think about it."


-end-

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