HP fic: Made-Up Lullaby #43, Part 3 (REPOST)
3.
Harry closes his eyes, but he doesn't sleep.
He thinks about Snape and the baby - the sight of his hands cradling her, the way he talks to her when he thinks Harry isn't listening - and an almost sweet ache rises in him. He thinks about the jolt that shook through him when he saw Snape in his bed, the way his heart tried to beat itself inside out when he thought for a moment that something was going to happen. Something could have happened, is what he thinks.
He wishes something had.
Harry feels stunned, like he's been hit in the back of the head with a bludger and the pain hasn't yet filtered through the shock.
He rolls onto his stomach and tucks his hands under his chest, but he can't stop shaking. He presses his face into his pillow and imagines himself walking out into the sitting room and asking Snape to ... what? Harry can't even imagine.
But he can imagine Snape's response easily enough, and that keeps him in bed until morning.
:::
Snape is up and dressed in full robes when Harry and the baby make their way to the kitchen for breakfast.
"You're leaving?" Harry says, voice embarrassingly high-pitched and surprised. The realization that Snape could go at any time is like a fist in the gut.
Snape flinches, and the movement is so slight Harry almost misses it. "I have a meeting with my publisher that I shouldn't postpone," he says, his voice rough. He takes a sip of tea, clears his throat and gets up from his chair.
Harry can't stop himself from asking, even though he knows it's pathetic. He's pathetic. "When will you be back?"
"After lunch, I should think," Snape says, walking over until he's standing in front of Harry. He touches the baby's head and looks at Harry like he's going to say something, then purses his lips and turns to the floo. "Lock this behind me," he says, and then he's gone.
Harry stares at the fireplace until Jess starts to chew on his shoulder in desperation. He makes her a bottle and himself a bowl of cereal and then sits at the table and looks at the empty place that is already somehow Snape's and wonders why he never wants anything easy. He decides to save the analysis of his many deep-seated psychological issues for therapy and instead floo over to Grimmauld Place and take the baby for a walk.
:::
A couple of hours and a brisk tramp through Elthorne Park later, Harry is back at home with a plan. He puts Jessamine down for her nap, rouses a cranky Desmond from his, and sends him off with a note for his lawyer. Nicholas shows up at the flat within the hour and they have a long chat about the legalities of child custody in the wizarding world that leaves Harry confused and terrified and elated all at once.
He can't believe he's thinking about doing this, but he can't imagine doing anything else.
The only question is whether Snape feels the same way.
:::
Nicholas is just about to floo back to his office when Snape steps through the fireplace with a face like one of Shakespeare's tragedies - the one where everyone dies.
Harry jumps. "Severus! Hi. You're home early."
Snape looks at him, face creased suspiciously. "Am I?" he asks in a dangerously quiet voice, eyes darting toward Nicholas.
"Oh, sorry. Severus, this is Nicholas Rowell, my lawyer. Nicholas, this is Severus Snape."
"It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Snape. I hope you'll excuse me for dashing off. Harry, I'll send you those papers as soon as they've been drawn up, and you can owl me if you need anything at all," Nicholas says, throwing a handful of powder into the floo. "Law offices of Sterling, Noble & Crane, 22 Regent Street," he says clearly, and steps through.
"How was your meeting?" Harry says, looking at his hands.
"How was yours?" Snape replies, in the same soft, deadly tone.
"Oh, unexpected but fine. Just tying up some loose ends," Harry lies, still avoiding Snape's black look. "Did you have lunch? I could make toasted cheese sandwiches. Do you like lentil soup? I make brilliant lentil soup." He squeezes by Snape and into the kitchen without looking to see if he's being followed.
Harry takes the cutting board from beside the sink and collects an onion, a tin of diced tomatoes, and dried red lentils from the pantry. There's a bottle of chicken stock, some curry paste and a lemon in the fridge. He starts dicing the onion and tries to ignore the fact that he's breathless, heart mercilessly punching his ribs. He knows without looking over his shoulder that Snape is leaning against the island, arms crossed, face set in a scowl, but he's afraid that if he turns and looks his mouth will start running like a broken tap again and he isn't ready to explain things yet. Even if he were, Snape very likely isn't ready to hear it.
A chime sounds. The baby's awake.
"Would you mind getting her while I finish this?" he says.
There is no reply but Snape's quiet footsteps down the hall. Harry drizzles olive oil into a stockpot, adds the onions and turns on the flame. By the time Severus emerges with the baby, the soup is simmering on the hob and Harry's got the bread and cheese sliced.
"Did she need a clean nappy?" he asks.
"Of course. She is a horrid, smelly little beast," Severus says, tickling her round belly. "No wonder she was living in a skip." The baby clutches a handful of his hair and stares up at him with a delighted, drooly smile.
Harry can't help but laugh.
The knock at the door is so unexpected that for a moment Harry wonders what it is.
"Who could that be?" he wonders aloud.
Snape shrugs and tries to free his hair from the baby's clutches, to no avail. "Some variety of Weasley?"
"They all use the floo," Harry says over his shoulder, as he rushes through the sitting room to the front door. He pats himself down, looking for his wand. In the kitchen, Snape sighs heavily. Harry closes his eyes and visualizes his wand in the palm of his hand and feels it settle there. He raises it and cracks opens the door.
And blinks.
"Dudley?"
:::
"-back to France a year and a half ago for a holiday like, to visit my mate, Jean. I met him when we stayed there during your ... thing. Anyway, he took me to one of your big Cribbage matches, and France won, kicked the Swedes' arses, and they were all mad with excitement, drinking and celebrating and there were fireworks, bleeding brilliant fireworks, Harry, dragons and all, and I met this girl and," he shrugs one huge, muscular shoulder and points at the baby sitting on Severus' knee, "Bob's your uncle." He eyes Severus nervously and wedges himself more tightly against the arm of the sofa.
"But ... who was this girl?" Harry asks, staring at Dudley in shock and amazement.
"She was a witch." The last two words are barely a whisper.
"One with exceedingly poor judgment and hypermetropia," Snape says under his breath.
Harry frowns at him. "And what happened to her?"
"Well, I only saw her the once," Dudley says sheepishly. "And then a couple of weeks ago she shows up in Little Whinging with the baby and says..." he trails off. "Well, that's sort of the problem. I don't speak much French, do I? She shouted a lot and waved her arms around, shattered Mum's favourite vase and then put it back together with her wand thing, cried a bit, shouted some more, kissed the little one, handed her and her things over and legged it. Luckily Mum and Dad were in Majorca on holiday. Dad would have gone off his trolley."
"So she just ... abandoned her child?" Harry says in disbelief.
"I waited all day for her to come back," Dudley says, shaking his head and rubbing his hand over his by all appearances freshly shorn hair. "The baby cried for hours. I was close to tears myself a few times. So we got a train to London to see Piers - d'you remember Piers Polkiss?" he asks, as though Piers were one of Harry's old school friends and not someone who once came up with the brilliant idea of tying him up and emptying the inhabitants of Dudley's ant farm over his head.
Harry nods.
"Right, so we stayed at his for a few days. He's a banker, if you can believe it, doing very well, already married and sprogged up. He and his wife pitched in and helped me out while I sorted out what to do."
"And that was what, exactly?" Snape says, acidly. "Leave your daughter in a skip to be raised by rats?"
"What?" Dudley looks scandalized, an expression that sits very strangely on his usually inexpressive face.
"We found this baby in a rubbish skip in a filthy alley," Snape says in an eerily calm voice.
"That's not ..." Dudley scratches his head. "I mean, I was looking for Harry. I found out about that party-"
"How?" Harry blurts out. It's hardly his biggest concern, but he doesn't seem to be in charge of the things coming out of his mouth at the moment.
"I called Mrs. Figg to ask how to track you down, and she said she'd be surprised if I didn't find you there." Dudley looks quite proud of this bit of detective work.
Harry polishes his glasses on the hem of his shirt. "Go on."
"Right. So I went to the address she gave me, but it was abandoned, really creepy," he shudders and crosses his arms across his massive barrel chest.
"Anti-Muggle charms," Severus mutters.
"I walked around outside for ages but I didn't see anyone, just a few drunks from one of the pubs staggering home, until I came across the two of you in the alley," he hesitates, biting his lip into weird shapes, "you know."
Harry wrinkles his forehead. "What?"
"You were ... you know!" Dudley says, turning brick-red and avoiding Harry's eyes.
"Fighting?" Harry asks, face screwed up in bewilderment.
"Okay," Dudley says slowly, stretching the word out, affecting great interest in the two massive meathooks resting in his lap.
Harry turns to Snape and is taken aback by the horrified look on his face. "Severus-," he begins, but Snape just shakes his head and rubs his forehead like he's getting a headache. Not surprising. Harry turns back to Dudley. "So you saw us in the alley," he repeats.
"Right," Dudley says, "and it seemed pretty obvious I had arrived at a bad time, yeah? But the thing was, I'd already booked my train tickets, and I had to be at ATR Bassingbourn the next morning for basic training, so I wrote you a quick letter and left the baby where I knew you wouldn't be able to miss her."
"You joined the army?" Harry stares at Dudley, mouth hanging open like a proper idiot. He closes his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts and a horribly vivid image of Dudley in fatigues carrying a machine gun pops into his mind. His eyes fly open.
"Yeah, The Royal Regiment of Artillery." Dudley cracks his knuckles thunderously. "Look, Harry," he says, spreading his hands and showing his palms. "When we were kids, I was a bit cruel to you."
"Really?" Harry asks. It's a struggle to keep a straight face.
But Dudley's expression is as serious as Harry as ever seen it. "Yeah, I was an utter shit. But you saved my life. You saved all our lives. I'm not brave like you, Harry, so I couldn't understand it at first but I think I might be starting to. And when I thought hard about who would do right by this little scrap," he nods at the baby, asleep in Snape's arms with her bottle still in her mouth, "I thought of you."
Snape snorts dismissively, but it's by far the longest speech Harry's ever heard Dudley make, and he's actually a bit moved the sentiment. "Thank you, Dudley. That means a lot."
"And since your lot can't have kids," Dudley says, gesturing first at Harry and then at Snape with a rueful grin, "it's perfect, isn't it?"
Harry scratches his head. "Wizards can have kids, Dudley," he says, frowning.
Dudley's eyebrows shoot halfway up to his hairline. "Yeah, of course, but not ... not two wizards."
"Oh," Harry says. "Oh! You think that we're ... oh." He looks at Snape to find him glaring not just daggers at Dudley but his entire personal arsenal. "Dudley, Snape and I are n-." The protest turns to dust in his mouth. He licks his lips and struggles to find the words. "That's really thoughtful of you, Dudley. Thanks."
"So you'll keep her?" Dudley says, smiling widely.
"Yeah." Harry nods, but Snape's expressionless stare, which tells him more than any sneer or scowl ever could, fills him with cold dread. He's going to have to explain things. Today. "Yeah, I'll keep her."
:::
Harry closes and locks the door behind Dudley and collapses against it, resting his forehead against the wood. His mind is positively swirling. The whole situation is unbelievable. Impossible. It's all a bit overwhelming, which means tea, so he heads into the kitchen and puts on the kettle.
He piles a tray with the tea things and floats it into the sitting room. "I wasn't sure if you might want a sandwich, since we missed lunch."
Snape doesn't look up from his ... packing? His movements are jerky, just this side of violent, but his face is expressionless.
Harry sets the tray on the end table and clears his throat. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" Snape snaps.
Harry throws his hands in the air. "Fine. Why are you packing, you unbelievably stroppy git?"
Snape laughs humourlessly. "You must be an absolute terror in the interrogation room, Potter."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry asks, stirring milk into both teacups.
Snape looks at him, disbelief etched plainly on his features. "What's wrong with me?" he says, ripping a cover off one of his books with an overly enthusiastic stacking spell. "Fuck!"
"Okay, what's wrong with me then?" Harry asks, settling himself on the sofa and crossing his arms.
"How much time do you have?" Snape replies, shrinking the stack of books and putting it in his carryall.
Harry drops his head into his hands and groans. "You are such an arse."
"Then you should be happy I'm leaving," Snape says, closing and fastening his bag.
"Are you always this impossible when you miss lunch?"
The look in Snape's eyes makes Harry's hair stand on end and sends a frisson of true fear through him, the likes of which he hasn't felt in a very long time. So jokes are out then.
Snape takes a pinch of floo powder from the ceramic bowl on the mantle.
The sight of him standing there sends a sharp spike of panic through Harry. "Severus, you don't have to leave!" he says. "This doesn't change anything."
Snape clutches the handle of his bag tightly. "Potter, it changes everything."
Harry grips the edge of the settee to stop himself from lunging at the floo, blocking it with his own body. "You're just going to leave then? What about Jessamine?" he says. What about me? he thinks, but he cannot bring himself to say it.
"What about Jessamine, Potter? You're her uncle. You're her blood. And if your moronic cousin doesn't change whatever it is that passes for his mind, you'll soon be her father. But what am I to her? A stranger who once cared for her, nothing more than that," Snape says, with extraordinary bitterness, throwing powder into the fire.
Harry stands up and takes a step toward him. "You know that's not true, Severus."
Snape holds up a hand as though to ward Harry off and edges closer to the fireplace. "Don't complicate things unnecessarily, Potter. You should be delighted. Once again, you've come out of an impossible situation with a perfect resolution. Congratulations," he says, and disappears into the green flames.
In the bedroom, the baby wakes from her nap and starts to cry.
Up until very recently, Severus would have said that he was almost entirely content with his life. Yes, it presents certain frustrations - the usual irritations, compounded by his relatively recent fame - but overall he is not dissatisfied with his lot.
He has told himself this every day since he arrived home. You are content, he tells himself when he wakes, before he even opens his eyes, in the hope that it will stave off the deep melancholy that rolls over him even as the sun rises in the sky.
Actually, it has rained almost every day for a week, which suits Severus' mood very well, but apparently self-pity makes him poetic and prone to hyperbole.
Severus makes a point of luxuriating in his bed each morning. He tells himself he does this not because breakfasting alone is a hardship, but because his back is only now beginning to recover from a week on Potter's settee. He tells himself he enjoys his solitude, that he's too set in his ways to surrender it in exchange for companionship. That he is too old to forsake comfort for chance.
This is a lie, and not even a very convincing one, which is surprising considering that Severus has been perfecting the art of lying (to others and himself) all his life. It has always been safest for him to immerse himself in his fictions, to wrap them around himself, mind and body. What better protection? And it has been many years since this means of coping with life's difficulties has failed him.
It would seem there are limits to human invention after all.
:::
Severus wakes suddenly in the night and rises without thinking, shoving his feet into his slippers and crossing the room. When he realizes where he is, he stops short, clenching his hands into fists and pressing them into the doorframe. Oh, damn.
He sits on the edge of the bed. In the dark of night, the effort required to keep regret at arm's length is too great, so he lays back and lets it come. It fits like his oldest pair of dragonhide gloves - not precisely comfortable but exceedingly familiar. But, unlike every other action or inaction in his life that he regrets, Severus can do something about this one, so it's difficult to fully immerse himself in his brooding.
At times, Severus has wondered if Potter could find his own arse with both hands tied behind his back. He consoles himself by envisioning Potter at home alone with the Jessamine, struggling with her care and feeding, her moods and fussing, her desire be naked and stay up all night like a rowdy teenager, all on his own. She's a handful. Too much for one person. Severus wishes there were some way he could just slip into Potter's flat undetected to see what state things are in.
He sits bolt upright in bed and slaps himself on the forehead, happy there is not a soul around to observe that particular cliché. It's embarrassing how easy it is to occasionally forget one is a wizard.
The object of interest is in an old trunk at the foot of the bed in the spare room, as Severus knew it would be. He slips it on and heads for the floo.
:::
Severus had imagined that Potter's flat would be warded to the heavens. That there would be specific jinxes to keep him out. Instead, he breezes straight through and finds himself standing on the Turkish carpet in Potter's dark sitting room without expending any effort at all. It's a bit anticlimactic really.
All seems quiet, he thinks, standing stock still and straining his ears. But then, from down the hall, a faint cry that squeezes his heart in a not unpleasant way. He moves so that he is in a deeply shadowed recessed area to the right of the fireplace, where normal people might house a bookcase and Potter leans an expensive looking racing broom and some other piece of sporting equipment, a flat paddle-like bat. Severus shakes his head.
Potter shambles down the hall humming quietly, babe in arms, and goes into the kitchen. Severus waits. A moment later he emerges, bottle in hand, and settles himself on the settee, uncomfortably close by. Of course he's invisible in the cloak, but Severus knows better than anyone that a wizard attuned to his surroundings would still sense another presence. He takes in Potter's heavy eyes, his mussed beyond belief hair and wrinkled pyjamas, and concludes that he's safe.
The only sound in the room is the baby drawing on her bottle. Potter stares down at her and strokes her head tenderly, and Severus wonders if he too has the sensation that some nameless thirst of his own is quenched whenever he puts the bottle to her lips.
When she's through, Potter lifts her up and pats her back in smooth circles until the desired result is achieved. He tucks the baby back in the crook of his arm and starts to sing her to sleep.
Hush little baby, it's time to sleep
Snug in your bed, you won't make a peep
And if you wake before the dawn
I'll sing you another song.
"That one does rhyme," Potter whispers, as if arguing against some invisible audience.
"Ba," Jessamine says, looking up at Potter with her enormous baby blues and clutching the collar of his pyjama top.
"I know," Potter says, staring myopically at Severus' hiding spot. "I miss him too."
:::
Back at home, Severus paces around his flat and tries to decide what to do. Potter clearly knew he was there. Should he just go on as though nothing unusual has occurred? Or should he return in the morning and suffer the indignity of delivering an apology?
He pours himself a large brandy and makes himself comfortable in his armchair, but he cannot relax. The whole situation is obscene. That he should be worrying about what Potter thinks of him! It's unconscionable. Under no circumstances will he allow himself to be ruled by a reckless, irascible, stupid-haired prat.
After giving the matter some thought, and liberal application of brandy, Severus is willing to concede that Potter may indeed have developed a misguided romantic attachment. It's far from unimaginable given that he and Severus have recently shared a stressful, emotionally intense experience, in close quarters and relatively isolated. But in Severus', admittedly limited, experience, these kinds of infatuations invariably do not (cannot) last.
Even if Severus were interested - unlikely in the extreme, he reassures himself - a connection of any description between he and Potter could never, ever work, for this and a million other reasons. He refuses to subject himself to the inevitable torture of having a relationship sour, particularly this one, where more than his own pride, and heart, are at risk. It would be unfair in the extreme to allow Jessamine to become accustomed to his presence only to be abandoned yet again. He simply cannot allow it to happen.
He decides to send Potter an owl explaining everything tomorrow, when he's feeling more sober. And less honest.
:::
When Severus wakes in the morning, he is folded painfully in his chair with a headache like smashed glass and a feeling of foreboding deep in his aching bones. He opens his eyes cautiously.
Potter is standing in front of him shifting from foot to foot, like someone waiting for the Knight Bus. He draws a breath and parts his lips to speak, but Severus lifts one finger to forestall him.
"If you'll excuse me for a moment," he says, his voice a pained rasp.
Potter nods, and Severus heaves the great burden that is his body out of his chair and walks from the room with as much dignity as he can muster, which in this instance is negligible. He locks himself in the bathroom, downs a double dose of headache potion, and brushes his teeth with punishing force before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub with his head in his hands.
Hard to believe he's got himself into another bloody awful mess. Being compelled to admit his trespass to Potter in person is unpleasant in the extreme. But what is even worse, what is utterly unbearable, is the feeling that came over Severus when he opened his eyes to find Potter standing in his sitting room. The subtle shift that took place somewhere in his chest, squeezing hope and something else he doesn't care to name into his heart. The knowledge of his own idiocy fills him with deepest self-loathing. He makes a pained noise, halfway between a groan and a laugh, and struggles to his feet.
:::
Potter is leaning against the mantle biting his lip when Severus returns to the sitting room, washed and dressed. "Ron and Hermione are watching Jessamine for me," he says.
"I see," Severus says.
Potter stares at him, a peculiar expression on his face. "I know what you're going to say."
"Do you?" Severus asks. If so, he is the only one.
"Yes. You're going to say that the things I'm feeling aren't real. That I'm just ... infatuated, or whatever, because of what we've gone through together. You're going to say that it would never work between us. That we shouldn't even risk it, because of Jessamine," he says sadly, looking at his hands.
Severus inclines his head in agreement. "Exactly so," he says, lowering himself into his armchair with a sigh.
"Well," Potter say, biting his lip again and looking worried. "I think you're wrong."
"Why am I not surprised?" Severus asks.
"I think you're just afraid," Potter says.
"Potter," Severus cautions, voice low and hard. They've been down this road before and he does not care for a repeat journey.
Potter huffs out a breath and tugs at his own hair in frustration. "I knew you'd be a stubborn git about this."
"How astute of you."
"What are you really afraid of?" Potter asks, his tone a combination of belligerence and exasperation. He removes his robe and tosses it on the sofa before unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
Severus frowns. "What are you doing, Potter?"
"What does it look like, Snape?" he says, flicking open the button at his throat.
"It looks like you're about to make a fool of yourself," Severus says, rising from his chair and taking a step toward Potter in the hopes of putting an end to his charade before it goes too far.
Potter's shirt joins his robe on the sofa in short order and then he just stands there, hands hanging at his sides, expression uncertain. Severus shakes his head.
"Severus, it's just ... I ... I want you," he says, and the intensity in his eyes, the earnest throb in his voice, makes heat charge to Severus' face.
"Potter," he says.
"Harry," Potter says, in a stern tone.
"Harry," Severus sighs and shakes his head. "This is a terrible idea," he says, but even to himself it doesn't sound convincing, and when Potter thumbs open the buttons on his trousers and pushes them down (no pants, Severus' mind supplies helpfully), his prick goes suddenly, shockingly, hard.
Potter toes off his shoes and socks and kicks free of his trousers. Without his permission, Severus' gaze travels down Potter's naked, hungry-looking body, memorizing the curve of his shoulders, the pale porcelain of his chest, the pink nipples, the hard prick straining up toward the cup of his belly, his strong legs and neat-looking feet, walking toward Severus, crowding in between his own.
"Severus," Potter says, and without further preamble leans up and kisses him. His mouth is hot and wet, and Severus' hands reach for his hips and pull him close. They kiss and kiss and kiss, heady and fierce, and it is infinitely better than Severus imagined it would be. Potter whimpers against his lips and presses even closer, thrusting and trembling, rubbing a damp spot onto the front of Severus' trousers.
Potter pulls away suddenly, one hand on Severus' chest to hold him in place, and leans back on his heels, studying his face intently, lip between his teeth. He must find whatever he sees encouraging, because he immediately manhandles Severus into his armchair and drops to his knees in front of him, hands fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. When he finally gets the cursed buttons open, Potter lays one hot palm over Severus' prick, still covered by the thin material of his pants.
"All right?" he asks, his green eyes wide.
It's a little uncomfortable, to be exposed in this way, but Severus can only nod and let his eyes slide closed. And when Potter tugs at his trousers and pants, Severus obediently lifts his hips.
Severus experiences a sharp spike of panic when he is revealed, in his splendour, but when Potter slips his wet mouth over the head of Severus' prick, his eyes fly open and he suddenly ceases to care about anything but this: a gentle hand cupping his balls, a tongue stroking the underside of his cock, the press and pull of lips as Potter sucks him.
Potter's erection bumps eagerly against Severus shin, leaving a smear of wetness in its wake that feels odd and erotic, and his pulse trips frantically under Severus' fingers. He pushes Potter's disheveled hair out of his eyes and strokes his brow and the bones of his cheeks before resting his fingers on his lips. Potter smolders up at him from under his eyelashes and sucks harder, and Severus realizes, as his hips flex involuntarily, as his hands slide down to grip Potter's hard shoulders, that he has not felt this good in some time. Severus shudders and groans, thrusting up without warning and coming in hot pulses down Potter's throat.
Potter swallows once, and again and again, before he pulls away, eyes watering, chest heaving.
"Sorry," Severus gasps, when he is capable of speech, laying a trembling hand on the top of Potter's head.
"Don't be," Potter says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Severus bites down on the words that try to fight their way through his clenched teeth and instead hauls Potter into his lap, wincing at the catch and drag of Potter's cock against his own too-sensitive flesh, and pulls him into a clumsy kiss, lips sliding from Potter's open mouth down to his chin when he grinds against Severus with savage determination.
He pinches Potter's nipple hard to get his attention and then circles his prick with his thumb and first finger, stroking it slowly, contemplatively, staring into Potter's face. Potter groans and lifts his hips impatiently, arching and thrusting into Severus hand. His face and prick are a matching shade of red and his forehead is wrinkled in concentration as he tries to force Severus into a faster rhythm.
"Oh please, oh fuck," Potter says, writhing against him when Severus refuses to comply. He wraps a hand around the nape of Severus' neck and pulls him into a rough kiss. Their teeth knock together, and Potter's hips surge forward, his prick jabbing into Severus' belly in a way that should be painful, but Potter just rubs his stubbled cheek against Severus' jaw and cries out, voice cracking with what Severus hopes is pleasure.
Severus kisses him again, deep and hungry, nudging him back in his lap so he can work one hand under his arse, and Potter bites his tongue and bucks up, thrusting desperately into Severus' fist, every muscle in his body straining toward the inevitable. Severus is certain that he need only press the tip of one finger inside Potter's arse to push him over the edge.
He is correct. Potter's ejaculate hits him in the belly, where his shirt is rucked up, and in the chest, where it is not, but surprisingly Severus does not mind. It's hard to work up any indignation at all when Potter is plastered against him, panting, head tucked under his chin, knees pressed tight against Severus hips, arms around his shoulders.
"You're brilliant," Potter says, his voice muffled by the collar of Severus' shirt.
Severus' chest throbs and he has the sudden, overwhelming desire to say something, something that he will very likely live to regret. He stifles the impulse and presses a kiss against Potter's incredible hair. "I was wondering when you'd notice, Potter," he says tartly.
Potter laughs and unfolds himself from Severus' lap, tucking him back into his trousers and buttoning them carefully. "Are you coming?" He looks at Severus hopefully and holds out his hand.
And, for the second time in his thus far not entirely miserable life, Severus Snape decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He lets his lingering reservations fall away and clasps Potter's hand. "Apparently so," he says, and lets a grinning Potter pull him out of his chair.
Six months later
Severus and Potter lean against the island, waiting for the kettle to boil and listening intently to the happenings in the sitting room. Dursley is ostensibly watching Jessamine but Severus is less than satisfied with that arrangement, though he pretends otherwise for Potter's sake. He walks around the island and peers out at them. "Biscuits?" he asks, casually.
"Yes, please," the bottomless pit says, much to Severus' complete lack of surprise. He is sitting on the carpet in front of the fireplace, driving a maddeningly noisy motorized toy car in circles around Jessamine, who is chewing enthusiastically on the butt of a plastic machine gun.
Severus returns to the kitchen, sighing and rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to keep a burgeoning headache at bay. "That's all going in the rubbish as soon as he leaves."
"Of course," Potter agrees, filling a tray with milk and sugar and biscuits.
"Harry!" Dursley shouts, sounding extremely alarmed.
They both race into the sitting room.
"I think she needs a clean nappy," Dudley says, screwing up his face horribly.
Severus picks Jessamine up, holding her at arm's length. "Have you seen your owl lately, Potter?" he asks. "I think it might have crawled into the baby's diaper to die."
"Severus! You're going to give her a complex," Potter says, taking the baby out of his arms and kissing her on the head. "Oh, Jess," he winces. "That really is very, very bad. Let's get you changed, sweetheart."
When Potter disappears down the hall, Dursley suddenly looks very nervous. He lumbers to his feet and edges slowly away, as though Severus were a snake reared to strike. Severus smiles, filled with nostalgia for the days when he was universally feared. They stare at one another in a silence that it pleases Severus to imagine is very uncomfortable for Dursely until Harry sweeps back into the room and deposits the baby on the carpet before fetching the tea things.
Potter pours for everyone and hands the biscuits around. "So," he says, perching on the arm of Severus' chair. "What's new, Dudley?"
"I was talking to Mum the other day," he says, in between biscuits two and three. "She said she's been thinking of paying you lot a visit."
Jessamine shrieks and drops her digestive biscuit to the floor. Severus wholeheartedly appreciates the sentiment.
Potter sets his teacup in its saucer with a clatter and takes a deep, shaky breath. "Really?" he asks, face stricken.
"Yeah," Dursley says, returning his attention to the biscuit plate.
"We're moving," Severus says under his breath.
Potter nods and squeezes his shoulder. "Tomorrow."
The end.