Truce (Snarry)
Title: Truce
Author: Juwel (juweldom@yahoo.com, juwel at journalfen.net, juweldom on lj )
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Harry (post graduation)
Warnings: Elements of domination and submission, bdsm, HBP compliant, written pre-DH so no spoilers.
Story prompt: bdsm please
Archive: just ask.
Disclaimer: The characters in this fic are the property of J.K. Rowling and not mine, sadly. That doesn't seem to have stopped anyone from using them in truly sick and demented ways. No money is being made from this.
Summary: Forgiveness comes with a price.
Notes: Dedicated to Dee, Beth, Eve, and Noey, and all the other HP pervs out there on my list. The original posting was made in my lj over a year ago; now that my lj is friends only I’m reposting this here in my fic journal. Enjoy!
******
The halls of Hogwarts were quiet. Summer break.
Harry walked the halls, his boots echoing off the stone corridors, shivering as he felt the eyes of paintings watching him, listening to their murmurs--Harry Potter's back--the Vanquisher, the One Who Killed You Know Who. He ignored them, making his way up the stairs, riding one as it changed course midway, heading over to the professors' quarters. Most of the professors were off on holiday, going to wherever all of them went when Hogwarts was closed. Hagrid was probably off seeing his brother or Madame Maxime. But he knew one professor who would be here. He was counting on it.
Where else would Snape go, anyway? Dumbledore was dead. And now, so was Voldemort. It wasn't like Snape had a lot of friends to visit and hang out with. Harry felt a twinge in his chest. He needed to set things right. He'd been wrong about Severus, all the time.
He reached the door to Snape's chambers. There was a spell of No Entry on the door, but it was old; Harry brushed it aside with barely a flicker of expression on his face. Within himself, he felt . . . old. Too wise for his years, following the last showdown. He was wearing Auror robes; they'd made him head of the department after his triumph. His dream come true. And yet he felt empty inside.
He pushed the door open, and silently stepped inside.
There was an odd smell in the room, of something thick and herbal, and perhaps dead as well. Harry's nostrils flared, but he ignored the odor, glancing around the office strewn with papers--old exams, lab notes--but no Snape.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Harry saw that there was a door, half hidden behind a cabinet of potion components. Slowly, he walked forward, pushing open the door, and peering into the inner chamber, the bedroom, as it turned out, with a bed that looked like it hadn't been slept in for months. There he found Snape, sitting curled up in an old overstuffed chair, intent on something bubbling over a brazier on his vanity chest, stirring it with his left hand while he kept his right hand curled miserably to his chest. The mirror of the vanity reflected a haggard image, face lined with care and with trial, black hair falling limply into his face, his robes torn, bedraggled.
Snape suddenly noticed Harry's presence, hissing suddenly in surprise and ire as he locked gazes with the young man, black eyes still surprisingly full of fire. Harry gulped back a few emotions that wanted to leap to the surface. He still disliked the man. Still feared him. And . . . powers help him, still felt a quiver of . . . something else, every time the man looked at him.
"And what are you doing here, Potter?" Snape all but spat, tugging his robe over his ruined arm so that Harry couldn't see it. He already had an idea of the damage--it was somewhat similar to what had happened to Dumbledore's arm, handling the cursed horcrux. Upon Voldemorte's death, any of his followers who were still alive screamed out in agony, as the Death Mark on their arm burned away the flesh. No magical cures had yet been found for the disfigurement. Not surprisingly, most of them had hidden themselves away, away from other witches' eyes.
Harry looked away, aware that the pity was apparent in his eyes, knowing Snape hated to be pitied. To be weak. After all, wasn't that why the man was a Slytherin?
"I thought I might find you here." Harry's voice sounded older. Emotionless. Hollow. He had lost a great deal, good friends. All that, on top of the childhood Voldemort had long ago stolen from him.
"Come to gloat?"
God, all Harry wanted to do was punch Snape in the face, when he sneered like that. His fist clenched, wand shaking, but he made himself count to ten, putting his wand away. He swallowed and nodded towards the smelly mess bubbling in the cauldron. "Trying to find a cure?" How did he say that he'd never meant for this to happen, not when he'd found out how much Snape had sacrificed, how much he'd really done for the good side? But he already knew what Snape would say in response--he'd sneer and say he'd earned this 'reward' when he'd first allowed Voldemort to put the Mark on him in the first place.
Snape didn't answer him, but returned to stirring the pot, turning his back on Harry. Oh bugger; this wasn't going how he wanted it to go. He raked a hand through his hair. Took another daring step into the room. "I came to apologise."
Snape turned back around, glaring at him, lips pressed hard together. "Oh really? The Great Harry Potter has come to apologise? Seen the error of his ways?" If verbal vitriol could kill . . .
"Oh come off it! The war's over! I didn't know what side you were working for. I'm bloody half your age, I'm not my father, and it looked like you were aiding them! I'm sorry I tried to kill you!" Harry paced a few times, stopping when he nearly knocked over some knick knacks on a desk. He finally sat down on the bed. "You certainly didn't make it easy."
"That was the bloody point," Snape said with a growl, rising to his feet. He went over to put a lid on the cauldron, taking extra time with his off hand, a look of frustration on his face. Turning back to Harry, he raked his fingers through his greasy hair. "You're not as smart as your mother, Harry, which is a very good thing. If I hadn't been able to convince you, I hardly could have expected to convince him, now could I? The act had to be complete." He sniffed. "But Dumbledore told you. Didn't he. He said I could be trusted. But you apparently didn't trust him."
Harry swallowed guiltily. No, he hadn't, and it had almost cost them the war. He remembered visibly, the look on Snape's face, Harry's wand in his face, how close he'd come to uttering an Unforgivable Curse. "You protected me. All the while." He blinked back tears, forcing himself to look into Snape's face, even though he fully expected his words to be thrown back in his face, once again. "I owe you."
"Yesss," Snape hissed, taking a long-legged stride that put him face to face with Harry. "You owe me peace, and quiet, and privacy, inept lad. You owe me the respect that you've been denying me since you first walked into my classroom and the honesty that you've willfully withheld--and don't you deny it! All the times you threw your identity and your cozy special treatment with Dumbledore in my face, all the times you nearly ruined everything. Yes you bloody well do owe me. And you'll never be able to pay it."
Harry's eyes grew hooded, his expression, as Snape would probably describe, conniving. "I think there is a way. A way that would satisfy us both--and finally bring a truce." He sighed at the word--yes. He needed that. He needed to do this, both to ease his conscience, and the niggling thoughts that plagued him at night. He brought out his wand--and set it aside, out of reach, on the night table. Then he pulled his robes up over his head. Underneath, he wore only a black pair of trousers. Too hot for anything else in the summer. And he knew he'd filled out considerably in the last year and a half. Not a boy, any longer.
Harry watched with satisfaction as heat of a different kind filled Snape's eyes, before Snape blinked and threw him an angry look. "What are you doing? Are you insane?" The professor took a step back, wrapping his robes around him--to hide any evidence, Harry was sure this time. It had taken him this long to figure it out. What all those looks meant; the grabbing, the manhandling. Always more contact than was strictly necessary.
He stood up, following Snape, reaching out brashly to touch exactly that which would tell him if he were insane or not. Snape hissed and swatted his hand away, but not before he felt the hard lump under Snape's robes. Harry grinned in triumph.
"I want this finished between us--I want a truce! You want it, and I . . . I do too." It took tremendous courage to admit that to the man; not because he was a man--Harry had figured out that part of himself his senior year, after things had so quickly fizzled with Ginny--he loved her, he really did, but they really just had nothing physical between them at all. No girl had. And Ron, well--Ron and Hermione had been meant for each other since day one. Strange, but of all the people Harry had met at Hogwarts, the one who was most like him was the one he'd hated the most. Both he and Snape had suffered much when they were young. Both of them understood the price of power.
"I want no such thing!" Snape took another step back, bumping up against the oversized chair. He glanced over at the dresser, making sure that the potion brewing hadn't been disturbed in any way. "Leave, Potter. You've done more than enough damage to me."
Harry felt something close to panic. He couldn't let things end this way between them; not again. Not when it had taken so much courage just to come here and offer this. "I know the truth, Snape--about my mother. You and she were friends. But it wasn't her you were in love with." He pinned the professor with a hard stare. "It was my dad. You were in love with my dad--but he was cruel to you. That's why you hate me so much. That's who you see." He let his trousers drop, leaving him naked. "That's why you want me."
He could see the hatred in Snape's eyes, as the professor stared at him, not moving, his good hand raised in the air to where he had been reaching for the armrest of the chair, or perhaps for his wand which was lying on the table beside the chair. Heat, fire in his eyes . . . ahh, there it was. Lust. Snape swallowed hard. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
The next instant, Snape had his hands on Harry, pushing him back into the bed, mouth hot on his throat, sharp teeth grazing his skin, hands sliding down his body, over his chest, down his torso, his damaged hand moving back to squeeze his arse, the other grabbing at his cock like it was a snake ready to strike, with a vice-like grip. Harry groaned, legs going week, feeling the hunger inside give a lurch into something darker, sweet like chocolate, and ready to burst out of him.
"Should have kept that obnoxious mouth of yours shut, Potter," Snape ground out between kisses, pressing Harry back onto the bed, covering him with his body. He seemed to be having trouble deciding whether to greedily molest Harry or remove his own robes. With a final shove, he straightened, and began undressing, pinning Harry with his gaze instead.
Harry knew better than to move or speak, merely matching Snape's heated gaze with his own. He wasn't expecting anything gorgeous like Cedric or Krum, and truthfully Snape was thin, but surprisingly tough, wiry with sinew and muscle, his cock jutting out from a patch a dark hair. He wasn't allowed to look long; with his forearm, ruined hand curled into a fist, Snape captured Harry's arm, pressing it down against the mattress and pinning it there, while his good hand went back to stroking up and down his body, pinching cruelly, scratching, making Harry cry out over and over, cock twitching in need.
There was nothing sweet about it. Harry knew it would be that way. He'd craved it. He bit back, scratching, writhing underneath Snape, letting him know it was fine; he wanted to be used that way. No reason to be gentle with him; bloody hell, when had anyone? He'd been honed and battered by battle. He needed release.
Snape pushed two fingers into Harry's mouth, forced him to suck on them, before pushing them inside, roughly prepping him as the two kissed, nipping at each other's lips, little snarls, hot breaths between them. It hurt, but why shouldn't it hurt, Harry reasoned; it also felt bloody fucking good. He pushed back when he felt something blunt and hard trying to make entrance, leaning up to bite hard at Snape's shoulder, not surprised when that earned him a cuff to the cheek and a return bite at the juncture of throat and shoulder, as Snape thrust into him.
Pain lanced through him, from both places, and Harry arched back, loving it, feeling the release of something that had been tightly coiled inside him, for so long. Pain blurred into pleasure, or something perfectly balanced between the two, and he cried out, bucking up hard against Snape, feeling the sweat slick between their bodies, the driving force of Snape's member plunging deep over and over again.
Snape's hand found Harry's cock again, stroking, and from there it only took a few second before he was coming hard, vision graying out for a moment from the sheer intensity. Somewhere in the midst of his orgasm, he was aware of Snape coming as well, of his hot seed deep in his arse, of the man collapsing on top of him, panting. They both lay there for several minutes, unable to move. Nothing would ever be as intense again, he reckoned, clinging to Snape.
It was only after his arm started to fall asleep, and Harry fidgeted a little, that Snape finally let go, rolling off of him. Harry tried to meet his eyes, but Snape looked away, up at the ceiling, and then over towards the still bubbling pot of potion on the vanity. Harry ran his hand down Snape's arm, gently taking the shriveled hand in his own. Snape glanced back at him. There was something softer in his eyes--not love, no. But perhaps, Harry, hoped, the barest beginnings of forgiveness.
A truce, perhaps.
Harry leaned forward, touching their lips in just the barest ghost of a kiss. He said with his eyes what he could not say in words, what he must not say in words if Snape were to believe him.
Then he cleaned himself off, put on his robes, and quietly left.
Next time, if there was a next time, Snape would have to come to him.
--end--
Author: Juwel (juweldom@yahoo.com, juwel at journalfen.net, juweldom on lj )
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Harry (post graduation)
Warnings: Elements of domination and submission, bdsm, HBP compliant, written pre-DH so no spoilers.
Story prompt: bdsm please
Archive: just ask.
Disclaimer: The characters in this fic are the property of J.K. Rowling and not mine, sadly. That doesn't seem to have stopped anyone from using them in truly sick and demented ways. No money is being made from this.
Summary: Forgiveness comes with a price.
Notes: Dedicated to Dee, Beth, Eve, and Noey, and all the other HP pervs out there on my list. The original posting was made in my lj over a year ago; now that my lj is friends only I’m reposting this here in my fic journal. Enjoy!
******
The halls of Hogwarts were quiet. Summer break.
Harry walked the halls, his boots echoing off the stone corridors, shivering as he felt the eyes of paintings watching him, listening to their murmurs--Harry Potter's back--the Vanquisher, the One Who Killed You Know Who. He ignored them, making his way up the stairs, riding one as it changed course midway, heading over to the professors' quarters. Most of the professors were off on holiday, going to wherever all of them went when Hogwarts was closed. Hagrid was probably off seeing his brother or Madame Maxime. But he knew one professor who would be here. He was counting on it.
Where else would Snape go, anyway? Dumbledore was dead. And now, so was Voldemort. It wasn't like Snape had a lot of friends to visit and hang out with. Harry felt a twinge in his chest. He needed to set things right. He'd been wrong about Severus, all the time.
He reached the door to Snape's chambers. There was a spell of No Entry on the door, but it was old; Harry brushed it aside with barely a flicker of expression on his face. Within himself, he felt . . . old. Too wise for his years, following the last showdown. He was wearing Auror robes; they'd made him head of the department after his triumph. His dream come true. And yet he felt empty inside.
He pushed the door open, and silently stepped inside.
There was an odd smell in the room, of something thick and herbal, and perhaps dead as well. Harry's nostrils flared, but he ignored the odor, glancing around the office strewn with papers--old exams, lab notes--but no Snape.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Harry saw that there was a door, half hidden behind a cabinet of potion components. Slowly, he walked forward, pushing open the door, and peering into the inner chamber, the bedroom, as it turned out, with a bed that looked like it hadn't been slept in for months. There he found Snape, sitting curled up in an old overstuffed chair, intent on something bubbling over a brazier on his vanity chest, stirring it with his left hand while he kept his right hand curled miserably to his chest. The mirror of the vanity reflected a haggard image, face lined with care and with trial, black hair falling limply into his face, his robes torn, bedraggled.
Snape suddenly noticed Harry's presence, hissing suddenly in surprise and ire as he locked gazes with the young man, black eyes still surprisingly full of fire. Harry gulped back a few emotions that wanted to leap to the surface. He still disliked the man. Still feared him. And . . . powers help him, still felt a quiver of . . . something else, every time the man looked at him.
"And what are you doing here, Potter?" Snape all but spat, tugging his robe over his ruined arm so that Harry couldn't see it. He already had an idea of the damage--it was somewhat similar to what had happened to Dumbledore's arm, handling the cursed horcrux. Upon Voldemorte's death, any of his followers who were still alive screamed out in agony, as the Death Mark on their arm burned away the flesh. No magical cures had yet been found for the disfigurement. Not surprisingly, most of them had hidden themselves away, away from other witches' eyes.
Harry looked away, aware that the pity was apparent in his eyes, knowing Snape hated to be pitied. To be weak. After all, wasn't that why the man was a Slytherin?
"I thought I might find you here." Harry's voice sounded older. Emotionless. Hollow. He had lost a great deal, good friends. All that, on top of the childhood Voldemort had long ago stolen from him.
"Come to gloat?"
God, all Harry wanted to do was punch Snape in the face, when he sneered like that. His fist clenched, wand shaking, but he made himself count to ten, putting his wand away. He swallowed and nodded towards the smelly mess bubbling in the cauldron. "Trying to find a cure?" How did he say that he'd never meant for this to happen, not when he'd found out how much Snape had sacrificed, how much he'd really done for the good side? But he already knew what Snape would say in response--he'd sneer and say he'd earned this 'reward' when he'd first allowed Voldemort to put the Mark on him in the first place.
Snape didn't answer him, but returned to stirring the pot, turning his back on Harry. Oh bugger; this wasn't going how he wanted it to go. He raked a hand through his hair. Took another daring step into the room. "I came to apologise."
Snape turned back around, glaring at him, lips pressed hard together. "Oh really? The Great Harry Potter has come to apologise? Seen the error of his ways?" If verbal vitriol could kill . . .
"Oh come off it! The war's over! I didn't know what side you were working for. I'm bloody half your age, I'm not my father, and it looked like you were aiding them! I'm sorry I tried to kill you!" Harry paced a few times, stopping when he nearly knocked over some knick knacks on a desk. He finally sat down on the bed. "You certainly didn't make it easy."
"That was the bloody point," Snape said with a growl, rising to his feet. He went over to put a lid on the cauldron, taking extra time with his off hand, a look of frustration on his face. Turning back to Harry, he raked his fingers through his greasy hair. "You're not as smart as your mother, Harry, which is a very good thing. If I hadn't been able to convince you, I hardly could have expected to convince him, now could I? The act had to be complete." He sniffed. "But Dumbledore told you. Didn't he. He said I could be trusted. But you apparently didn't trust him."
Harry swallowed guiltily. No, he hadn't, and it had almost cost them the war. He remembered visibly, the look on Snape's face, Harry's wand in his face, how close he'd come to uttering an Unforgivable Curse. "You protected me. All the while." He blinked back tears, forcing himself to look into Snape's face, even though he fully expected his words to be thrown back in his face, once again. "I owe you."
"Yesss," Snape hissed, taking a long-legged stride that put him face to face with Harry. "You owe me peace, and quiet, and privacy, inept lad. You owe me the respect that you've been denying me since you first walked into my classroom and the honesty that you've willfully withheld--and don't you deny it! All the times you threw your identity and your cozy special treatment with Dumbledore in my face, all the times you nearly ruined everything. Yes you bloody well do owe me. And you'll never be able to pay it."
Harry's eyes grew hooded, his expression, as Snape would probably describe, conniving. "I think there is a way. A way that would satisfy us both--and finally bring a truce." He sighed at the word--yes. He needed that. He needed to do this, both to ease his conscience, and the niggling thoughts that plagued him at night. He brought out his wand--and set it aside, out of reach, on the night table. Then he pulled his robes up over his head. Underneath, he wore only a black pair of trousers. Too hot for anything else in the summer. And he knew he'd filled out considerably in the last year and a half. Not a boy, any longer.
Harry watched with satisfaction as heat of a different kind filled Snape's eyes, before Snape blinked and threw him an angry look. "What are you doing? Are you insane?" The professor took a step back, wrapping his robes around him--to hide any evidence, Harry was sure this time. It had taken him this long to figure it out. What all those looks meant; the grabbing, the manhandling. Always more contact than was strictly necessary.
He stood up, following Snape, reaching out brashly to touch exactly that which would tell him if he were insane or not. Snape hissed and swatted his hand away, but not before he felt the hard lump under Snape's robes. Harry grinned in triumph.
"I want this finished between us--I want a truce! You want it, and I . . . I do too." It took tremendous courage to admit that to the man; not because he was a man--Harry had figured out that part of himself his senior year, after things had so quickly fizzled with Ginny--he loved her, he really did, but they really just had nothing physical between them at all. No girl had. And Ron, well--Ron and Hermione had been meant for each other since day one. Strange, but of all the people Harry had met at Hogwarts, the one who was most like him was the one he'd hated the most. Both he and Snape had suffered much when they were young. Both of them understood the price of power.
"I want no such thing!" Snape took another step back, bumping up against the oversized chair. He glanced over at the dresser, making sure that the potion brewing hadn't been disturbed in any way. "Leave, Potter. You've done more than enough damage to me."
Harry felt something close to panic. He couldn't let things end this way between them; not again. Not when it had taken so much courage just to come here and offer this. "I know the truth, Snape--about my mother. You and she were friends. But it wasn't her you were in love with." He pinned the professor with a hard stare. "It was my dad. You were in love with my dad--but he was cruel to you. That's why you hate me so much. That's who you see." He let his trousers drop, leaving him naked. "That's why you want me."
He could see the hatred in Snape's eyes, as the professor stared at him, not moving, his good hand raised in the air to where he had been reaching for the armrest of the chair, or perhaps for his wand which was lying on the table beside the chair. Heat, fire in his eyes . . . ahh, there it was. Lust. Snape swallowed hard. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
The next instant, Snape had his hands on Harry, pushing him back into the bed, mouth hot on his throat, sharp teeth grazing his skin, hands sliding down his body, over his chest, down his torso, his damaged hand moving back to squeeze his arse, the other grabbing at his cock like it was a snake ready to strike, with a vice-like grip. Harry groaned, legs going week, feeling the hunger inside give a lurch into something darker, sweet like chocolate, and ready to burst out of him.
"Should have kept that obnoxious mouth of yours shut, Potter," Snape ground out between kisses, pressing Harry back onto the bed, covering him with his body. He seemed to be having trouble deciding whether to greedily molest Harry or remove his own robes. With a final shove, he straightened, and began undressing, pinning Harry with his gaze instead.
Harry knew better than to move or speak, merely matching Snape's heated gaze with his own. He wasn't expecting anything gorgeous like Cedric or Krum, and truthfully Snape was thin, but surprisingly tough, wiry with sinew and muscle, his cock jutting out from a patch a dark hair. He wasn't allowed to look long; with his forearm, ruined hand curled into a fist, Snape captured Harry's arm, pressing it down against the mattress and pinning it there, while his good hand went back to stroking up and down his body, pinching cruelly, scratching, making Harry cry out over and over, cock twitching in need.
There was nothing sweet about it. Harry knew it would be that way. He'd craved it. He bit back, scratching, writhing underneath Snape, letting him know it was fine; he wanted to be used that way. No reason to be gentle with him; bloody hell, when had anyone? He'd been honed and battered by battle. He needed release.
Snape pushed two fingers into Harry's mouth, forced him to suck on them, before pushing them inside, roughly prepping him as the two kissed, nipping at each other's lips, little snarls, hot breaths between them. It hurt, but why shouldn't it hurt, Harry reasoned; it also felt bloody fucking good. He pushed back when he felt something blunt and hard trying to make entrance, leaning up to bite hard at Snape's shoulder, not surprised when that earned him a cuff to the cheek and a return bite at the juncture of throat and shoulder, as Snape thrust into him.
Pain lanced through him, from both places, and Harry arched back, loving it, feeling the release of something that had been tightly coiled inside him, for so long. Pain blurred into pleasure, or something perfectly balanced between the two, and he cried out, bucking up hard against Snape, feeling the sweat slick between their bodies, the driving force of Snape's member plunging deep over and over again.
Snape's hand found Harry's cock again, stroking, and from there it only took a few second before he was coming hard, vision graying out for a moment from the sheer intensity. Somewhere in the midst of his orgasm, he was aware of Snape coming as well, of his hot seed deep in his arse, of the man collapsing on top of him, panting. They both lay there for several minutes, unable to move. Nothing would ever be as intense again, he reckoned, clinging to Snape.
It was only after his arm started to fall asleep, and Harry fidgeted a little, that Snape finally let go, rolling off of him. Harry tried to meet his eyes, but Snape looked away, up at the ceiling, and then over towards the still bubbling pot of potion on the vanity. Harry ran his hand down Snape's arm, gently taking the shriveled hand in his own. Snape glanced back at him. There was something softer in his eyes--not love, no. But perhaps, Harry, hoped, the barest beginnings of forgiveness.
A truce, perhaps.
Harry leaned forward, touching their lips in just the barest ghost of a kiss. He said with his eyes what he could not say in words, what he must not say in words if Snape were to believe him.
Then he cleaned himself off, put on his robes, and quietly left.
Next time, if there was a next time, Snape would have to come to him.
--end--