Entry tags:

jin fenghuang, submissions, team postwar

TEAM POSTWAR ENTRY: Jin Fenghuang "52 Hours"

Original poster: snarrymod

Title: 52 Hours
Author: jin_fenghuang
Team: Postwar
Genre(s): Humour, Romance
Prompt: 'search and rescue'
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Drag mouse over space if you wish to know: * voyeurism, mention of off-screen het i.e. Ron/Lavender *
Word Count: 6800 +/-
A/N : Big thanks to bewarethesmirk for a great beta job and for her patience with the .doc format issues. sua_lay, cnary_crem_dght and skunkmage, I could not have done it without your support. Last but not least: Kisses to the lovely eruwen310780.
Disclaimer: They are not mine, I only supervise their playground.


Summary: Ron to the rescue. When Ron sees more than he ever wanted he decides that there can only be one explanation: Snape has to have done something to Harry. But what?





Ron wondered for the umpteenth time - as he glanced over his shoulder to see if she was following him again - what on earth, or better, how on earth Lavender had convinced him to bring her as his date. To an official Ministry function of all places. Stupid functions. When he first signed up to be an Auror, he had never envisioned that having a career would include dress robes.

God, he hated those, they itched. And no matter what Lavender said, they made him look like a tit. At least now he could afford to buy some that fit.

Patting the pockets of his dress robes for smokes he sighed. Besides, how many weeks - if ever - before his colleagues would let him live down 'Won Won'?

Leaning against the wall he lit up, inhaled deeply and smiled to himself. Given, those tits of hers are first class.

He had wandered off rather far from the festively lit halls. The earful he would get if she caught him smoking elicited a cringe. The corridor was dark; the occasional spelled window giving off faint silver moonshine. The walls creaked and sighed with age.

If one was afraid of the dark it would be eerie.

Ron squared his shoulders. I am a grown man, for crying out loud, he thought.

He took another deep drag of his cigarette. The end glowed red in the dark.

A movement in the shadows, a little further down the corridor, made him jump. Grown man, remember :Auror. Yes, I am an Auror.

Oh for crying out loud; it's Snape. Ron snorted. The age when Snape could scare him was past. Long past.

The familiar tall figure stood, nearly hidden in the dark, facing the wall. Probably sneaking a smoke himself, the great old bat. Ron chuckled.

The slight moan he heard urged him closer. Sheesh, Snape better not be hurling. Use the bathroom, mate. Some of the canapés had tasted a little off, though. Probably been binging on the shrimp.

Ron patted his stomach. After Hermione's cooking, nothing could mess with his digestion.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed a hand threading through Snape's lank, greasy hair. Ew, someone was snogging Snape - Snape! How drunk did you have to get to … Ron's line off thought was cut off as he watched in morbid fascination as that hand crept down to squeeze the Professor's arse.

Snape was getting some. That anyone would want to do that with Snape was disgusting. He shuddered.

No one is going to bloody believe me. He took a drag from his cigarette and sighed. Maybe if I get my hands on a Pensieve...

Shadows and moonlight were not kind to Snape's features as he threw his head back, barely suppressing a throaty moan. The hand had abandoned Snape's arse, but not before squeezing it roughly, to twine tightly with Snape's own hand, while the hooker - it had to be a hooker - planted nipping kisses on Snape's throat, behind his ear.

The hooker definitely had dark hair, but to Ron's disappointment, her face was still obscured by darkness. It had to be a hooker, no one else would…

As he entertained the thought of how much someone like Snape would have to pay - Ron estimated a rough 30 Galleons or more - button upon button of Snape's dress robes were undone, revealing pasty-pale skin. The hand sneaked down the front of Snape's gaping robe, tenderly ghosting over prominent ribs. Snape's skeletal fingers once more cradled the other person's head, fiercely, and desperately locking their lips together.

Ron barely made out a whispered, 'Now, here,' before Snape was spun around and pressed against the wall by the other man. Ron's brain barely had time to register that Snape was getting it on with a bloke, before he noticed something eerily familiar about the hooker kneeling before Snape. Too horrified to look away, Ron watched as the greasy bastard's trousers were unfastened in a hurry.

When Ron had thought that the last thing he ever wanted to see was a hooker deep-throating Snape, he was wrong.

Snape's knees gave ever so slightly, his hips rocking forward as he moaned in pleasure. There was lust in Harry's eyes when looked up to lock eyes with Snape. A guttural moan escaped Snape's bloodless lips. A pale hand cradled Harry's chin, the thumb brushing gently over moist, swollen lips, holding him steady to the task.

Ron fled. All he could do was not to scream.. The image of his best friend servicing the ugly bastard was nearly too much to bear. He hadn't even known Harry was gay.

He felt like hitting someone, preferably Snape.

Lavender found him later that night as he drowned the sordid and disgusting images in the punch bowl.

Considering her low cut dress gown and the heat of her kisses as she dragged him off to the ladies room, he thought to himself that she certainly had her merits.

At sunrise when she and Ron lay awake in his bed, their dress robes as entangled on the floor as their bodies, he vowed to find and reverse whatever sick love spell Snape had to have cast on his best friend.

For Harry to miss out on this was not fair. Not fair at all.

***

Ron woke when Lavender wiggled out of the bed to go to the bathroom. He admired her arse as she hunted for her robes on the floor.

"I will be in Sheffield next weekend. Aunt Clara's birthday. Are you sure you cannot come? You know how I loath to go alone?" She flashed her most winning smile.

Ron cringed on the inside. The last thing he needed was another hour with Lavender's family and their inevitable questions: when are you getting married; are you getting married; why are you not married yet; will you ever marry, you're not getting any younger! when are you getting married. Her family was…alright…in homeopathic doses - once a year.

Ron rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I have work to catch up on, Lav. Shacklebolt has been giving me grief all week about my filing."

God she looks hot when she pouts.

Lavender let herself be pulled back onto the bed. She took revenge by using him to warm her icy feet.

His thumb gently caressed her face. "How about I make it up to you… tonight? I can make my famous lasagne?"

She snuggled close, resting her head on his shoulder. "I would love that." She sighed contentedly, then giggled. "Ron… later!" She gently swatted his hands away from unbuttoning her robes. "I really have to go; Skeeter is waiting for my report of last night."

Ron yawned and stretched. "Half six at my place. Can you pick up some wine? You know I am pants at that."

She kissed him on the nose. "Half six it is."

Ron made a mental note - as he got out of bed and sniffed his socks for freshness, shrugging and putting them on anyway - to dress in Muggle clothing, so that he could stop at Tesco's and grab some frozen lasagne. Frozen dinners - he grinned to himself - were Muggle ingenuity at its best.

***

The day had started out so nice. An hour later he found himself sitting in Hermione's kitchen, wishing he had never left his bed.

"For the last bloody time, Hermione, I am not dating Lavender."

Ron took another sip of his coffee, frowned, then added more milk to the acidic brew. It curdled. His hands cradled the mug, elbows leaning on the wooden kitchen table.

"If you are not dating her, why, Ronald Weasley, did you take her to that function?"

Ron cringed when Hermione slammed the pan onto her stove. "Maybe I just didn't want to show up alone."

"Good God, Ron, you are sleeping with her again?"

"No, I am not -- bloody hell, I mean…what if I am?" Ron smirked. Getting head in the men's room did not count, did it?

She had turned back to the stove, furiously attacking innocently frying bacon with a wooden spatula. "You must know best…"

"You know, the bacon is already dead, no need killing it again!"

The stabbing continued with increased force. "If you don't like my cooking, have her make you breakfast then. Oh, I forgot, she doesn't do homely...or sane ..."

"For fuck's sake, what is your problem, Hermione?"

Forcefully adjusting the pan on the flame, she turned around pointing the spatula at him, making him yell in surprise and scoot back his chair to avoid the hot greasy droplets.

"Besides your inability to express yourself in anything other than profanity…" Hermione stood with her arms akimbo, her mouth in a thin frown of disapproval, "the fact that I am not willing to deal with another of your psychotic break-ups. Remember, Won Won, when you had to kip on my couch for a whole week, because 'someone' would not stop flooing you?" Hermione turned around again to stab at the bacon.

"Oh, whatever…"

Ron thought to himself that Lavender, at least, knew how to use her mouth for something more pleasant than chewing him a new one.

***

Hermione and Ron both turned when they heard a thump, and then someone cursing loudly.

"Your shoes in front of the floo again, Ronald?" Hermione commented waspishly.

Ignoring her he craned his neck. "You okay, mate?"

Harry walked into the kitchen, brushing soot from his sleeves.

"Grand, mate, no worries. Morning, Hermione." He pulled her into a hug. "Is that bacon I smell?"

She pored him coffee and shoved the mug into his hand. "Take a seat, will you?"

"Hermione's made her politically correct scrambled eggs, especially for you."

"Come on, mate, they don't look burned to me." Harry shot her a winning smile.

"Why don't you microwave us breakfast next time, Ronald?" Hermione filled plates with bacon, eggs and sausages, shoving one in front of Ron, after putting down Harry's and her own carefully.

"Smells amazing, Hermione," Harry said, wincing slightly as he sat down.

Ron turned green. Shoving his plate away he covered his face with his hands, unable to look Harry in the eye. "I am not hungry."

Hermione slammed her cup down hard, splattering coffee all over the table. "Ron? Are you laughing at me? You could just say, if you don't like my cooking!"

Ron slammed his fist on the table, causing another coffee volcano to erupt. "I. Am. Just. Not. Hungry!"

Harry patted his friend on the back, grinning. "He did not hook up with Lavender again, did he?"

Torn between amusement and worry, Harry turned towards his best mate.

"Ron, what is wrong?"

"The hell if I know! Or care!" Hermione's chair fell over with a bang as she stood up abruptly, slamming the door behind her.

***

The flames in the fireplace flared green.

Hermione looked up from the morning paper, put her coffee mug down and blinked. Twice. Ronald Weasley, wearing an orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt and a lime-green towel around his waist, fell out of the floo.

"Mngghmone."

"Morning, Ron. Nice shoes." Shaking her head, she smirked at his combat boots.

Ron walked over to the icebox and opened it. "Milk?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed one of the bottles and turned around, grinning.

Hermione grunted something unintelligible in agreement, turning her attention back to the article she had been reading.

"You know," Ron said, slouching against the kitchen counter, "I could really do with a coffee!"

"Is it noon already? It can talk!" Hermione looked at him over the folded down newspaper, smiling. "On the stove, Ron."

He helped himself to a mug and joined her at the table.

"Ron, stop stealing my paper."

"Oh, come on, just let me have page three."

"Ron, this is not The Sun."

Ron stuck out his tongue at her and pinched the sports section. "MtkingHarrytbrr," Ron announced happily, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth.

"Chew. Swallow. Talk."

Ron's intention to blow her a raspberry ended up with him spewing crumbs all over the table.

"Honestly, Ronald, that is disgusting. How old are we, again?"

"Twenty-one, mother." More crumbs showered the table.

"Ron…"

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: I am taking Harry to a pub tonight,"
Ron grinned, " He needs to get out more."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Are you trying to set him up with one of your workmates, again? It's not that secretary of Shacklebolt's, is it? I have been tempted to tell her that Harry is gay, just to get her to back off. She's been nagging me about him every time I see her. What's her name again … Catherine something. You know, blonde, wears too much make-up, ditzy."

Ron tried to hide his unease by reaching for the sugar-bowl, adding several spoonfuls to his coffee. "Really Hermione, do I look as if I have a death wish? Stop laughing, that was a rhetorical question. Do you remember Yoiko? Junior Auror, Japanese. Harry seemed to have a thing for black hair," Ron took a sip of coffee. "Remember him mooning over that Ravenclaw seeker, Cho? Quiet fit she was, too."

Hermione nodded, cradling her cub with a sad expression. "I still don't think that is a great idea. You should at least tell him first."

***

To say that the night out had gone well, would have been the understatement of the year.

If Harry had not been mad at him already for setting him up on a blind date unknowingly, the froufrou drink Yoiko had thrown in Ron's face would have amused Harry to no end. Stupid bint.

That he could hear Hermione in his head gloating: 'told you so, you should have asked him before you set him up on a blind date' did not help either.

Ron was at his wit's end. Finite Incantatem had not worked either. Whatever it was the bastard had done to Harry, it was bloody strong. But what?

He had to do something. Everyday that bastard got his disgusting hands on Harry was one day too much.

Ron nearly hit himself in the head. Was he an Auror or what?

***

He looked left and right, and left again, before he opened the gadget storeroom and snuck inside.

He had not felt this nervous since Harry and him had nearly been caught by Snape while sneaking around under Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

Ah, Snape. Stupid bugger. All his fault.

Self-righteous anger burned and consumed all doubts Ron might have had as he pocketed the surveillance kit.

***

Ron sat cross-legged on his couch, scratching his head in frustration. Bugger it; they had specialists for this stuff far a reason. Sighing, he Summoned another beer.

The manual was giving him a headache. The only thing that kept him going was his mantra of: 'Harry is my best mate; I am doing this for Harry.'

Two hours later, Ron thought that he had a decent idea on how to operate the bees. Apparently they came with a hive conscience. So, each one of the little buggers is connected to the globe-thingy. This I get.

Once one has transferred X amounts of bees onto a photo or portrait of choice, which then had to pass the wards of the place one wished to put under surveillance.

Put bees in picture, bring along past Harry's infamous 'wards of paranoia'. Ron smirked; the morning paper should do the trick.

Once the wards have been bypassed, the bees 'swarm' and hide in any picture available.

Using spell B34 the location of each bee can be adjusted to optimise transmission.

Yes, I get it. Bees spread, pictures can be changed.

Each bee reports live-stream from its picture to the hive-globe, where it would be store up to capacity.

Time limit, darn. It took Ron a minute to calculate the amount of hours and bees he needed. He settled for 52 hours, enough time to record the weekend, and for him to return the surveillance kit to the storeroom before they were missed. This wasn't worth losing his job over if caught.

***

Ron brushed his bad conscience away. He was doing this for Harry.

The bees were transferred easily enough from their hive-globe to the newspaper.

Choosing the 'Avalon Potions Research, Inc.' ad to hide his little snitches - it seemed fitting - Ron used his wand to place bee after bee into the photograph.

It really was a brilliant piece of magical engineering. He pondered for a moment where to hide the hive-globe that would store and replay the information. He needed somewhere safe - Lavender-proof to be precise - somewhere no one in their right mind would ever look.

Grinning, he took down the dusty box labelled 'Weasley Wizard Wheezes, mostly harmless' from his bedroom wardrobe. A big orange and lime sticker on the front proclaimed: BETA.

Taking off the lid, Ron placed the hive-globe inside, careful not to touch any of the more volatile items.

The 'Snape-in-the-Box' glared at him. Ron took him out of the carton.

Bloody hell, he totally had forgotten about this ingenious prototype.

Snape gently swayed back and forth. At four inches his sour scowl was … kind of adorable. Ron smirked. Giving the enormous nose a gentle push, he watched Snape rock violently on his spring.

"FIFTY points from Gryffindor! "DETENTION!" Ron shuddered.

Even the twins were not suicidal enough to try and sell this.

***

It was Sunday night before Ron had time to sit and go through the recordings.

Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, a notepad and pen handy, Ron started a random recording. The globe filled with static and a picture swam into focus.

***

The newspaper seemed to have been discarded on the floor. The angle was odd, tilted, from the ground, but the best that he could get. Bless Harry for reading in the loo.

Ron could see the claw footed tub and the door. He skimmed forward through the recording past their daily ablution.

Snape taking a dump; that was way too disturbing. Snape seemed to take a long time, though. Ron smirked. Constipated bastard, should eat more fibre. Maybe some dried prunes now and then, and he would have been less of a pain in the arse back in school. Less of a pain in his arse, too.

Ron shook his head and switched to another bee. WAY too disturbing.

The next recording that caught his attention was from a bee in the kitchen. Kitchen, Snape making tea. Good place, kitchens. No toilets.

He switched to normal speed and leaned closer.

***

Snape reached for the biscuit jar.

This would be funny. Ron scooted closer in expectation. He knew these kinds of jars, bloody orange monstrosities that they were. They had one at the Burrow. Remembering his experiences with it, he grinned. Oh, this would be beyond great. It would be bloody brilliant.

Snape tried to lift the lid of the pumpkin shaped jar. The leaves slapped his hand away. Snape growled.

The front of the jar, where the word 'biscuits' had been, now read: 'You have not had your dinner! No biscuit for you!'

"Of all the stupid, idiotic household charms!"

The jar read: 'Bad Language, no biscuit for you!'

"Why you little…"Snape had drawn his wand. "Petrificus totalus!"

The jar scooted out of the way.

Ron watched in fascination. Snape vs. Jar of DOOM. Priceless. He had to remember to thank Mum for giving it to Harry as a housewarming present. Not even the twins had been able to hex the jar into submission; not for lack of trying, though.

After a couple of minutes, Snape had the trembling jar backed into a corner.

Someone was laughing.

Snape twirled around in an impressive sweep of black robes. He looked vaguely guilty. "What?!"

"Vicious little bastard, isn't it!" Harry leaned casually against the doorframe, amusement written all over his face.

Snape scowled.

Ron snorted, suddenly reminded of a certain four-inch version.

"I only wanted a bloody a biscuit!"

"You two seemed to have a great time, maybe I will ask Mrs Weasley to give you one for Christmas."

"Weasley… I should have known. I want a biscuit."

Harry walked over to Snape, kissing him on the nose. "If my lover wants a biscuit," Harry opened the drawer next to them, taking out a pack of shortbread, "he will get a biscuit."

"That,"he pointed at the pumpkin-shaped, trembling jar, "is why I keep them here… chocolate or strawberry-shortbread?"

"I don't want one of those."

Harry eyed him suspiciously.

"I refuse to be bested by a piece of tacky crockery!"

"Okaaaay." He pulled Snape into a kiss. "Severus… can I trust you not to demolish the kitchen? I have to go meet the publisher. And …"

Snape buried his hand in Harry's hair, pulling him in for another kiss.

" …the jar is unbreakable; it will just repair itself if you smash it."

Snape harrumphed, kissing Harry once more. "And why would this be of interest to me…?"

"Because I know you…"

As soon as Harry had Apparated, Snape started to rummage under the sink for a hammer.

Tunelessly humming 'God Save the Queen,' Snape chose a saucer and placed it on the kitchen counter. Glaring at the porcelain pumpkin. "Watch. Learn."

He glared at the jar. With several well aimed hits he smashed the saucer into tiny pieces. "Reparo!"

He gave the jar his best Longbottom pants-wetting-stare.

"Death …" the hammer swung, hit, and once again, reduced the saucer into tiny shards.

"… will not end your suffering!" And again and again.

Ron shuddered at Snape's demonic glare.

After the fourth or the fifth destruction - Ron had lost count - the biscuit jar started to tremble.

Snape smirked at the porcelain pumpkin, menacingly swinging the hammer. "Your turn…"

Trembling hard, the jar cautiously lifted its lid. The inscription now read: 'Would Professor Snape like a biscuit, sir?

Ron sped up the recording in disgust. Fucking Death Eater. Probably got off on that. The bastard.

***

The bee recording was speeding by. Snape reading the Prophet, a cup of tea cooling forgotten next to him on the table. Snape leaving the room, entering the adjoined bathroom.

Ron switched bees. He could not take the chance of Snape screwing with, say, Harry's toothpaste.

The picture changed to Snape turning iron faucets over the bathtub. Ron smirked; George owed him five Galleons. Lucky me, to catch Snape at his bi-annual bath…

Ron watched in odd fascination as Snape draped a towel over the bathroom mirror before he undressed. There were faint scars on his back and forearms, their wide smoothness suggesting they once had been deep wounds.

He kind of looks like a peeled prawn, without his robes. Ron sniggered. Seems like the Death Eaters don't like to play nice. The company you keep. Bastard's gotta be glad that that's all he got.

Yet something of the shape of the scars seemed oddly familiar to Ron. He couldn't quiet put his finger on it. Snape folded his clothes neatly on the chair, and then sighed as his emaciated body slipped into the hot water.

There really was not much to recommend Snape. His ribs prominent under pale, nearly hairless skin, legs stick-like. His belly, to belie his sacking sagging arse and protruding ribs, had started to sag, forming a slight hairy pouch. The only thing ordinary seemed to be Snape's prick.

Ron did not hide his glee. Hah! Big noses my arse.

As Snape relaxed into the hot water his scars turned angry red under the heat.

Ron swallowed hard. He had seen these kinds of scars before. Werewolf claws had threaded a similar pattern into Bill's skin. Bill, whose nightmares still woke the whole house. Ron felt his face burn. Up to now he had always assumed that Snape's being an arse to Remus had been caused by generally, well, Snape being an arse. He had never imaged that Snape had gotten more than a scare from the infamous episode.

Trying to shake the creeping discomfort, Ron fast-forwarded again.

***

'I want to watch you,' Snape whispered.

Harry moaned, snuggling back against the pillows on the bed.

Ron turned away. It was not, after having lived in the same dorm room for seven years, something he hadn't accidentally seen or heard before.

No, what he wanted was to watch was Snape. His expression, his actions.

Snape sat stark and forbidding in his high-backed, leather chair. The fire roared behind him, outlining him in crimson and gold, making him look like something straight out of hell. Snape's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, yellowish fingernails digging into the upholstery. Harry's moans and groans of pleasure, his wriggling against the crisp sheets were amplified by Snape's eerie silence. Snape's eyes widened.

Ron switched pictures quick enough to catch Harry pinch his nipples. Arching into the searing of pleasure-pain. His cock hard and dark and leaking.

Flipping back to the bee capturing Snape, Ron noticed that Snape's top shirt-button had been undone.

So, not made out of stone after all, the pervert.

The moaning became louder, interlaced with passionate sighs. Snape's bottom lip had started to tremble, his breathing harsher. Ron watched a surprisingly pink tongue slip out, wetting parchment dry, cracked lips.

A small drop of sweat formed on Snape's pasty forehead, ran down his hollow cheeks to damp the impeccable starched, white shirt at his throat. Snape seemed to be losing it, moaning out whispered words between harsh breaths.

Ron cranked up the volume. The bastard better not be putting some kind of spell on Harry. But all Ron could make out, even with the volume at maximum level was, 'Oh god, Harry, yes, my Harry, please…'

Disappointed, Ron turned his attention back to his best friend. Disgustedly fascinated, Ron watched Harry sensually wet two of his fingers only to thrust them into his…

Ron changed the picture. This was not what he has wanted to see.

Snape, on the other hand, seemed to be slowly losing his façade of control. Rivers of sweat were running down his throat, his head tilted back, supported only by the high-backed chair. Snape's breathing was ragged, his eyes but slits; one hand had undone his zipper and sneaked into his trousers, stroking in rhythm to Harry's moans.

Harry's passionate, 'Severus,' echoed off the stone walls of his bedroom, dragging Snape over the edge with him in one desperate, painful groan. Snape's body arched and slacked.

Breathing hard for a few moments, he heaved himself to unsteady feet, staggering over to the bed.

Ron could see Harry's rather satisfied, saucy smile when Snape lay down beside him.

Once again, Ron was impressed by Harry's magical ability when Harry, with barely a wave of his hand, removed Snape's armour-like clothes into a neatly folded stack on the chair.

When Snape gathered Harry into his arms, Ron surprised himself by not feeling utterly revolted. His disgust seemed to have turned into something else. Something like understanding.

Not entirely comfortable with this development, Ron decided to call it a day and Accioed himself a butterbeer.

***

"The bill was nearly 50 Galleons, Harry." Snape slammed the door open with a vengeance.

"I told you it was my treat." The door shook on its hinges when Harry slammed it shut.

Ron wondered what the door had done to either of them.

"Your treat? What for, Harry? I do not need your charity. I happen to have a job. I can pay my share!"

"This isn't about fairness. It's a stupid bill, Severus. One bill."

Snape spun around, anger in his eyes. "FIFTY Galleons worth of stupidity."

Ron cringed. Fifty Galleons. Bloody hell, that was about a week's pay.

"Fine, next time we can go somewhere cheaper."

"Why? Are you saying that I cannot afford the 'Louis XIV', what do you think I am, some kind of charity case?"

"Sheesh, Severus, you sound like Ron, you know!"

"I most certainly do not!"

Ron agreed.

"This is stupid; it was only dinner, Severus."

"This is stupid? You get your will, and what I want is stupid. As always." Snape had thrown his cloak over the kitchen chair, face red with fury, arms akimbo.

"What? No!"

"Then what, dear Saviour, what is it you wanted? Showing off your wealth and fame?"

"You are being an arse; all I wanted was for us to have a good time."

"I don't need your money to have a good time"

Harry was leaning onto the table now, screaming: "Why does everything, every LITTLE thing, have to be such a struggle with you? This is SO NOT FUCKING WORTH IT! I am so SICK of this. SO fucking sick."

Snape blanched, drawing in on himself, his face drained of anger, of emotion. He turned around, walking away from the table, staring out into the night through the kitchen window. "Is that what you want? To end this?"

"You gotta be bloody kidding me! Of course , do you think I want this to go on forever?"

Snape stood rigidly, face ashen. He reached out for his coat, stepping towards the door. His shoulders trembled slightly, his voice barely above a whisper." I … I guess then this is…" he swallowed hard. "Good-bye."

"What?" Harry looked up in confusion, taking in the sudden change of emotion, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Severus? Wait!" He tentatively stepped closer to Snape.

"No no no no, I am an idiot. I didn't mean it that way." Harry gently touched Snape's rigid back. "I was talking about the bill, not us. Severus, please. This, us, you. Tis worth more than one small fight, a lot more."

Snape still had not turned around, but he seemed to relax a bit, his fingers interlacing with Harry's. "Harry. I … I… people never… this is … new. I don't know how to handle this. I have never been good at …."

Harry rested his head against Snape's bony back. "I know, Severus, I know. Me neither. But we can try."

Ron caught himself sympathising with Snape. He knew all too well how Harry's casual approach to money could grind. It was something Harry had never been able to get. Thinking back on the many times money had been an issue between him and Harry, on how growing up dirt poor had sucked arse - the stupid second hand robes, Harry getting one first-class broom after the other just for existing…the unfairness of it all… He sighed in frustration.

Sorry mate, but on this one, I have to side with the git.

***

Snape had been editing the manuscript on the veranda facing the garden. A blanket on his lap, guarding against the spring chill, his pen scratching comments into the suburban afternoon quiet. Every now and then Snape's eyes would wander into nothingness watching the clouds go by.

Ron snorted. He was kind of glad Harry had never asked him to read 'the thing.'

At least now Harry would get mad at Snape when he told him his writing, well … sucked. But then, Ron thought bitterly, if one was Harry Potter, what did that matter.

"Cuppa?" Harry snuggled up, handing Snape a steaming mug.

"Mmh."

"That bad?"

"There are a couple of things, but over all it is surprisingly entertaining."

"I am glad you find the trials of my childhood entertaining."

One arm sneaked around Harry drawing him close. "I find entertaining the adult version much more interesting."

Harry grinned and draped the blanket around the two of them. "The things I put up with…"

Snape put the book down, resting his head on Harry's.

God, his teeth are yellow. Ron shuddered at the thought of what his breath must be like. Yet Harry did not seem to mind at all. This was all so twisted. And wrong, so very wrong. Ron gagged. Hair that rancid has gotta smell bad. The idea of touching it, of Snape touching Harry made him nauseous.

Snape's hand slid down Harry's back. His lips caressed Harry's ear, mumbling words that made Harry blush and his breathing became ragged. "Naughty, Professor!"

A faint smile played across Snape's lips. He nipped Harry's ear.

"Do not call me 'professor' when I am doing 'this.'"

Harry squirmed in his seat. "You are evil!" Harry gasped, slightly rocking back and forth.

"Evil? Can this be evil?"

Harry moaned. "Oh, my God. Again."

"'My God' it is now…" Snape drew him into a heated kiss.

Harry nipped his lower lip. "Enough! Now!" He pulled away the blanket, desperately undoing Snape's trousers, wriggling them down a bit.

Harry toed off his trainers, Snape's fingers still up his arse. Need and desperation plain on his face.

Ron's brain blanked. He had known that they were doing something under there, but this. How can anyone want, or even enjoy that? Frozen in horrified fascination he continued to watch.

Snape's cock, freed from his pants, protruded hard and red from his trousers. Harry slipped free of Snape's fingers, only to straddle his lap, the head of Snape's cock teasing his entrance.

Snape grabbed Harry hips, pulling him down, slowly pushing into Harry's arse.

God, the fucker is balls deep in Harry. And from Harry's eager expression he seemed to be getting something out of it. The idea made Ron gag.

Harry arched his back, his head resting on Snape's shoulder, his hand grabbing hold of his hair, drawing him into an open-mouthed kiss. "God, Severus…" Harry's other hand was wrapped around his own leaking prick, counterpointing the hard rhythm of Snape's thrusts.

Snape's whispered, 'Harry,' nearly drowned in Harry's moans as he came.

Hot white come on his hand, trousers and porch. Snape's hips jerked once, twice, spilling deep into Harry's arse. His arms wrapped possessively around Harry's waist, both of them panting hard.

"That was… wow."

Ron waited for the scathing remark about Harry verbal skills, but it never came.

All Snape did was tighten his grip around Harry's waist and gently nuzzle Harry's sweaty neck.

***

For crying out loud, enough with the going at it like rabbits, alright.

Even Lav and I are not that bad. Well, maybe. He grinned, she was coming over tomorrow night for dinner and a shag.

***

Harry pushed the door open with his hips, carrying a large tray.

Plaid pyjama bottoms dangerously low on his hips, smacks of flour on his face and shirt.

"Scoot over, I made breakfast!"

"Oh yummy, you reheated Friday's take-out. What is it? Two days old chow mien with a side of chutney."

"Very funny. I made French toast. There is also scrambled eggs, cappuccino and some strawberries with yoghurt."

"Harry…"

"Aren't you glad to have me: your own personal naked gourmet chef?"

"Potter, your cooking skills extend to ordering take-out, besides … Dobby's dulcet voice carries."

Harry had the grace to blush.

Snape slid a hand under Harry's bathrobe. "Now, the naked part does sound appetizing…"

***

Ron stopped the recording before he had to watch them having another go at it.

Dobby had made the breakfast. Darn. That annoying elf was absolutely devoted to Harry. No way in hell would he spice Harry's food with a love potion. There went that theory. Bugger.

The eggs did look good, though.

Ron wondered if he could afford a house elf. Did that coffee have foamy milk on top? And French toast. Man he loved French toast.

Would all of Hermione's yelling be worth foamy coffee?

Damn those eggs looked good.

Ron got up and nuked himself some pizza.

He glared at the dishes. Damn his father and his Muggle obsession. Three darn microwaves. Three. But a dishwasher. No, sir.

He stretched his back; it popped. Frustration mingled with resignation. He had been watching the two of them for - he checked his watch - more than three hours and had found nothing. Less then nothing. Ron glared at the empty notepad, then sighed.

What did Shacklebolt always say? 'If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and swims in a pond, it probably is a duck'.

Harry the odd duck. Ron snorted. It fit. A very bad pun about Harry's obsession with Snitches came to mind and had Ron in giggles for at least a minute. Why Snape of all people was still beyond him, but Harry had seemed okay.

Ron checked the globe; there were only a few scenes left that he had not screened yet.

Deciding to get it over and done with, he chose a random one and started the recording again.

***

Snape had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace, his feet on a settee, a book propped on his chest. Even sleeping he looked tired.

The grandfather clock chimed.

Harry looked up from his work, rubbing tired eyes. Running a hand through his hair, his eyes wandered first to the clock, then to the couch. Careful not to make noise, he scooted his chair back, walking over to the fitfully sleeping Snape. Ron could see a tender smile forming on Harry's face. He gently removed the book, taking care to mark the page, placing it on the occasional table.

Snape seemed not to notice. Harry picked up the blanket that was draped over the leather armchair, tenderly tugging it around Snape, placing a soft kiss on his brow.

Snape opened drowsy, confused, trusting eyes. "Harry?

"Sleep, love. I am right here."

Ron paused the transmission. The sense that he was intruding stronger than ever. Maybe he couldn't understand, but then, it was not for him to understand anyway.

He felt like a total arse, but he guessed he deserved that.

He was about to call it a night when he noticed a recording with Harry looking beyond miserable, kneeling in front of the floo. He looked like he needed a hug, or a drink.

***

The fire flared floo green.

"Severus? Severus, you there?"

"Harry? Do you have any idea how late it is? This better be important, I have little shits to teach tomorrow morning."

"I told Hermione."

"Harry?"

"I told her… about us. Severus, can you please come through? Please?"

Ron's jaw hit the ground.

Harry had told Hermione first. Part of Ron felt slighted. A big part screamed: I am his best friend.

The flames flared and swallowed Snape's head only to spit out the whole staggering figure of the Potions Master. He barely managed to brush some of the soot of his robes before Harry attached himself to him like a limpet.

"I take it she didn't approve."

Harry nodded.

"Well, at least we are in no danger of Miss Granger knitting us socks - and I am using the term 'sock' in a very generous sense - any time soon. Count your blessings while you can."

"Severus, this is not funny." Harry scowled at a smirking Snape.

"I happen to disagree. Just wait till she starts making badges and starts handing out petitions for gay rights."

Ron giggled. Snape had pegged her down pretty good. Her infamous SPEW activism had carried on from second year all the way to the present and was more than a minor pain in the arse. She still tried to get him to wear those stupid badges to Ministry functions.

Then it hit him: Hermione did not approve. HERMIONE?! Miss Lost Cause. Miss Tolerant. And from Harry's reaction it must have gone really shitty.

Ron pondered that for a minute then his face lit up with a vicious smile. He could be the reasonable one for once. The adult.

This would be awesome! He just hoped Harry would tell him soon.

Not that he would rub it into Hermione's face. Well… maybe a little.

Ron punched the air. Life was good.


-END



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